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It was just the dog walker and me at Seapoint this morning.
And a lone swimmer.
So just two sane persons, and a dog, to enjoy the beautiful, cold, still, crisp morning.
After walking Luca to school, I headed for the Mistake Factory via the sea front. And took my time.
I made a 40 minute journey last an hour an 10 minutes.
It was beautiful.

I’ll walk Luca to school more often.
Now that I can walk. Again.

Had clocked just under 9 km by the time I read my first appallingly irritating email, and typed a reply which required all the willpower I could muster to sound professional.

For the walk back home in the evening, it was heavy fog and magic shadows.

These two walks almost made the big slice of Mistake Factory in between bearable.

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a splash of colour... quite literally, art, dublin, dun laoghaire, ireland, photography, seapoint, tourism, travel

All before work

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I forge ahead, on this rapidly diminishing walkway between sea and sky.

At the other end, the promised land, the Mistake Factory and its many delights.

I forge ahead, between sea and sky.

Wet and dizzy and excited.

I run to thee, sweet Mistake Factory.

a splash of colour... quite literally, art, dublin, dun laoghaire, ireland, photography, seapoint, tourism, travel

Tiderope walker

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I sometimes see her in the morning. The Dog Whisperer.
Who actually manages to get all four of them to walk together, at the same pace, with no excessive pulling, bickering, impetuous urine sprinkling or tangles in the leashes.

I have absolutely no idea how she does it.

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The magichienne

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Au revoir, Madame

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Evelyne.
She has been my boss for the last nine years.  A great boss. Not a micro-manager, but an enabler. And always available to back you up, when some corporate muscle was needed.
The reason why the Mistake Factory was bearable is the fact that I have a great team, and that I reported directly to a great manager.

Except that on 6 December, “Madame” became my ex-manager.

The higher echelons of the Mistake Factory decided that she would be a perfect fit for Operation Transformation (from employed to unemployed).

Six months down the line, a couple of cells in a spreadsheet will look not quite right. Alarm bells will be rung. Stakeholders will be summoned. Corporate hot air tanks will be readied for yet another deep dive. Black belts and kimonos will fill a conference room for some serious kaizen extravaganza of gourmet sandwiches and insipid ideas, hot coffee and cold logic.

People will wonder why those couple of cells in the spreadsheet do not look quite right. Not quite right at all.

They will by then have forgotten that Evelyne is gone. That she is no longer doing the nurturing that makes happy cells in a spreadsheet.

Carlos meanwhile is contemplating his impending colonoscopy (9 days to go)

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Minor poet, major can of spray paint…

All.
Of it.

The colours.

And the message. So profound, that it has to be copyrighted. Genius is in short supplies these days. And often gets copied. Without permission.
Permission. So crucial.

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Primary

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Photoshop? Photoshop my fluffy arse… Straight out of the can

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The last 46a to Dun Laoghaire

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Andrew would have loved his lunch breaks to be full of surprises.
It was therefore a pity that nothing ever happened.
He sat, ate his sandwiches, drank his coffee. And eventually left, returned to the office and his ledgers.
With a faint but deeply-rooted sense of growing void at the very chore of his being.

But it was unfair to say that nothing ever happened.

He once witnessed a particularly vicious fight between two magpies.
In August 2002.

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Adrenaline rush

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