Fuck, it's dirty out.
When I got off the bus at Dame St this morning I was distressed that I had, on leaving the house three- quarters of an hour previously, not grabbed my umbrella as I had thought but instead chosen to pick up a large navy-blue napkin on a stick. What use is a napkin on a stick in flood conditions, I hear you ask. None, I say. I made the best of it though, and barely noticed the increasing dampness of my right shoulder under the bent right-half corner of my umbrella. Scarecely a grimace marred my placid repose as bits of the broken frame of the thing stuck repeatedly into my head. And only the briefest glimmer of a frown flashed across my angelic features when the handle fell off into a gutter. You see, I am tranquil. I am at peace with the world. Most of all, I am absolutely GRAND about the fact that most people I know seem to be either going to see U2 this weekend or have turned down tickets to see U2 this weekend. This is utterly fine with me. I mean it. Totally fine.
Honestly though, the audacity of some people! My father, who is going Monday, had the cheek to ask me if could I put him and the girlfriend up for the night. "No probs, daddio", I replied, "You just fix me up with a wee ticket for the gig, and I'll boot the Burtenshaw kid right out of his room. Dad? Dad? Er...hello?"