Monday, August 25, 2008


I was walking towards my front door when the drink began to take hold.
My hands seemed big and loosely connected to the rest of my body, using them was difficult.
I tried to take out my keys, I would need the big one to undo the bolt. My fingers did not agree with my objectives; they fumbled and nearly dropped my keyring. Eventually I grabbed out my door key, ready to plunge into the door. Sadly upon further inspection the key was for the snub at the top of the door, making it useless until the bolt had been withdrawn.
After further fighting and scrabbling I found the key I needed and with it and the stub key stumbled into the house. I locked the door behind me with surprising ease and stumbled off towards the bathroom.

It had all started several hours before in an MG hot-hatch traveling from Glasthule to Dalkey.
I was with my comrade-at-arms, a scoundrel conman; and his friend, a queasy young fellow whose great passions were driving, making money and listening to some of the worst music ever recorded by human beings. He was lambasting our eardrums with a boot-full of expensive sound equipment and talking excitedly about his next business deal as he blasted through the quiet streets of empty towns, desperately trying to hit the speed limit between stops by accelerating dangerously.
"So I'll pick you guys up and we'll all go in together tonight, okay?" he screamed at us over a terrible dance remix of a mediocre one-hit-wonder.
'Going in' would mean going back to Dun Laoghaire, which was hosting 'The Festival of World Cultures' an annual event which had been slowly gaining momentum for the past few years until it turned into the riotous event of thronging crowds and banging drums that it is today. My first trip there had gleaned only two nuggets of information: 1. The little restaurant by the seafront should server mozzarella burgers all the time, and 2. I hate everyone.
My comrade, whose two greatest fears are walking and paying for anything (especially public transportation) wholeheartedly agreed with this proposal, but he insisted that he would need a few hours to nap before he could face the public. (In scoundreling the early bird gets the worm, and he had also spent most of the preceding night chasing that same worm.)
I saw this as an opportunity to both escape my accursed studies and observe and interact with the local fauna, and agreed.

At Ten O'Clock my peaceful neighborhood was rudely disturbed by the blasting horn of a blue MG, shivering with the recoil from it's speaker system, which were treating the surrounding houses to the 'Euphoria Cut' of The End.
I was in the bathroom polishing my shoes at the time and was quite startled by the ruckus. The thought that my neighborhood was experiencing its first gang shooting crossed my mind as I marched towards my front door. I gingerly opened the door to see my neighbor standing at her gate, glaring down the road towards the source of the disturbance. As I went to walk past her, I said my normal cheerful hello; she twitched and spun around.
'Hey Rory, you startled me'
'Sorry, whatcha doin'?'
'Just keepin' an eye on these' she said and waved a hand towards the car.
'Oh' I said and coolly walked past to squeeze my frame into the rear seat of the car.
I looked back as we tore away to see the look of vague discomfort on her face.