Going Mobile
Back at my room. I felt gutted. Wanted to drink so ferociously I could taste whiskey in my mouth. My heart was a dead thing in my chest. Aloud I shouted Irish of my childhood, “An bronach mhor!”
It’s along the lines of, woe is me, but a more contemporary translation might be, “I’m fucked.”
Was I ever.
Circling fifty years of age, was I going to get another shot at love?
Dream on.
Out of left field came a thought: “Wouldn’t it be something to leave Galway sober?”
That got me up and swallowing a beta-b, murmuring, “I’ve things to do, I gotta prepare for departure.”
Nick Hornby had popularised lists. Well I could do an exit one. Needed to pack two white shirts, three jeans, one suit, some books, two videos. Then said, “Screw the suit.”
I could carry most in a shoulder ba
