10
At Heuston I lingered on the platform, hoping for a glimpse of her — well, of Margaret really — but they’d given me the slip. I hopped on a bus and it went straight to O’Connell Street.
What a dump.
Jesus, whatever we were doing in Galway, it had to be better than this. The once impressive street was cheap, dirty and depressing.
As I headed for the Royal Dublin, a middle-aged man stopped, whispered,
“Do you know where the Ann Summers s*x shop is?”
“What? … Are you kidding? How the f**k would I know?”
Thought, steady, you’ll have to get a grip.
The hotel had an impressive foyer and the receptionist was friendly, asked,
“Has Sir a reservation?”
I did.
And,
“Does Sir require smoking or non-smoking?”
Take a wild bloody guess.
My visit was slotted for 3 p.m. so I caught a cab,
