Herself ran out of cigarettes yesterday.
This p*ssed me off, because I don’t like her smoking cigarettes. I’m trying to persuade her to switch to the pipe.
Anyway she insisted I go down and buy her some. She can be quite persuasive, especially with that twelve inch kitchen knife in her hand.
So, despite the fact that I was nice and cosy and warm at last, I hauled myself out to the car. It was sleeting heavily, and the car was covered in half an inch of slush. This meant I couldn’t see where I was going. But that didn’t matter, as I knew the way anyway.
So I drove down. I got colder by the second and my feet were wet. I was not a happy bunny.
It was nice and warm in the tobacconist, so I stayed for a chat. There was a customer there who joined in. It transpired he was a tourist, though I should have guessed that from the strange accent.
He was from Iceland, and had come very early in the season, because he wanted to see the country when there were no crowds around. He said he was hiking because he wanted to see the real Ireland. He said he wanted to absorb the landscape in all it’s pristine beauty. Or words to that effect.
But then he made a big mistake. He asked for directions to Kilkenny. That’s like asking a neurological surgeon to describe the central nervous system.
I ask him if he wanted a lift, and he gladly accepted.
He is now absorbing the Irish landscape.
Or rather, the Irish landscape is absorbing him.
At the bottom of the landfill.