As I had forgotten to pack a lunch today, and given the massive queue at the sandwich-place-that’s-closest-to-work, I offered to go to McMeumeumeu to Carlos.
His face instantly lit up.
It has to be said that I very rarely condescend to eat consume quasi-food products in the place with the big yellow M (for ‘merde’) on the door.

The atmosphere soon took a turn for the worse though as Carlos reflected sadly on the unprecedented levels of violence impacting our world (I tried to explain to him that the levels of violence have been higher in the past – late 80s and early 90s spring to mind* – but that it wasn’t so close to home, so barely noticeable).

By the time he had finished his quarter pounder with cheese, there was little hope for humanity.

By the time he grabbed his diet coke, we were a doomed race.

When the long rattling slurp he produced through his straw reminded us both of the trumpets of the apocalypse, I was faced with a binary choice.

Either comfort him and try to lighten things up like any decent friend would.

Or whip my camera out from under the table and immortalise the sad slurping moment.

* Afri-what?!




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Happy(ish) Meal



Philippe (not his real name*) has taken to eating his dinner in the office.

The place is so effervescent at lunch time that he wants to recapture the buzz after a long day of hunting and crushing bugs.

This is his third day on the discounted fish fingers (40% off on Monday, Tesco Dun Laoghaire, unmissable).

His stock of chocolate Weetabix has sunk to a dangerously low level.
They were half price for a short while at the beginning of September. He bought 18 boxes.

We, the Gallic bargain hunters, are total suckers for a discount.

The day the local new age clinic does a 50% flash sale on the colonic irrigations, I’ll have to fight him out of the way to get to the counter first…

* Oops shite, it is his real name, too late to change that I guess.

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Social animal



I would totally like to believe that the bastard who designed the colour scheme for this packet of Camel will be made to wear a fuchsia hospital gown as he is wheeled to the operating theater for his lobectomy.

But the bastard will probably die at the age of 93.

From an orgasm.

Karma my fluffy arse…



a splash of colour... quite literally, art, cigarettes, cretins, death, dublin, essential parenting implements, hysterically happy, ireland, photography

Pretty in pink



To be totally honest, I didn’t hold high hopes for this paperback.
Picked it up from the shelf at lunchtime, not really knowing what to expect.

But WOW!

This is a page turner if I ever read one.

I just couldn’t put it down.

Rob really knows how to hold his readership in the palm of his hand, and take it on a journey of self discovery.

I drank in his every word.

I read somewhere that there is a sequel. I hope that’s it not just a rumour.
I have to have it. I can’t wait.

I want to read it NOW!

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Compulsive reading



















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Day tripper











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The Royal treatment



And why shouldn’t they?
It is so much nicer to be publicly in love, than to murder each other very publicly on the streets of Baghdad, Bali, Beirut, Bogota, Boston, Inverness, Kabul, Kinshasa, Paris, Sao Paulo and anywhere else that sees people compelled to kill each other. For religion, for money, for drugs, for fun.
Because it is easy.

Ok, maybe not Inverness. 

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Very publicly in love