Thursday, 9 November 2006


Just back from Donegal, had a great time. It is a beautiful place, and I could picture myself living there. Stone cottage, log fire, irish wolfhounds, a long coat to keep out the chill. I would suck on a clay pipe carved in the image of a mermaid and look to the horizon, squinting my eyes as the biting wind hits me, the expanse of the atlantic all encompassing. I would be a novelist, an eccentric outsider, but always willing to play chess with the local fishermen who would pat me on the back and insist on buying me a pint of Guinness. A rugged weather lined Heathcliffe type anti-hero, a bohemian artwank in every sense of the word. Then the friends we were staying with told me the nearest tesco was a 90 minute drive away.
Bollocks to that! Thinking ahead about my shopping? I can't do that! I would starve, as would my irish wolfhounds who would rip me to pieces in a fit of hunger. I got frightened about my premonition of impending death, plans to migrate cancelled, the north west coast of ireland is not for urban lazy fuckers like me.

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