Doing 125 on the motorway because I'm a fucking rebel, blasting my way back to Dublin town for a week of manly freedom, of beer and loud tv and waking up on the couch in the early hours. Building furniture in the yard and painting anything that's not quick fleet on its feet. That wednesday sun blistering, and I'm a big grinning shirtless techno fireball in aviators, sweating madly into the seat, all the way home.
Hardly in the door with the first one cracked, a textie blips into my buzz: "Twas sad when you left us, Rosie kept saying Dad? Dad? Dad?". Ah me poor beleaguered heart, is there no end to it? I'm too old now to be suffering new emotions. I see wee Ro now standing in her cot, bawling her little eyes out and it's fucking hilarious. It's so positive and dramatic and goddamn funny that I'm in serious danger of hugging the cat. Poor fucking cat gets it from all sides.
A small army of silent beer bottles stand watch in the quiet house, I watch kung-fu zombie movies in me jocks.
