The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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Through the brakes are a bit dodgy, my bike hits most of the gears and the tires are in good shape.my_trusty_bicycle.jpg You see it here leaning against a gate not far from Martello Tower. After having born my weight for several miles, it needed a rest. On my travels, I often encounter farm dogs, usually versions of sheep dogs, who are generally friendly. A few of them will yammer at me, but are not inclined to bite. There is a dog in town, Rex, who follows people everywhere. He has the bad habit of chasing the tires. Rex is pals with everyone and will walk with you from one end of the village to the other, just for company, even when it’s hailing and the gale-force winds are driving the cold rain in your face. I haven’t seen him for a few days and will enquire after him. I hope he’s okay. If he’s been hit, I wouldn’t be surprised to see his picture posted at the Spar, like they did for the old priest recently, with a date for his funeral.

February 7, 2008   Comments Off on Rex

Father Ted

I’ve seen more than one of the Limestone’s customers stomp off in disgust, so, after getting my pint yesterday, I suggested that a few of us had started calling the place “Fawlty Towers.” I was expecting a bit of a laugh, since the manager is heading to Bangkok at the end of March. Instead, he gave me a worried look and demanded to know who had been saying this. Naturally, I demurred. The truth was that I heard one of the customers practically screaming it as he grabbed his wife and ran to the exit the other day, after having waited fifteen minutes for service. You kind of need to be here to understand, but it’s like watching an episode of “Father Ted,” the Irish spoof on the clergy. Nothing can  get quite as gummed up and twisted around as a common scene of Irish life which suddenly goes all wrong. Everything seems to fall apart at once. Anyway, when I handed him my credit card at the end of the meal, he told me sheepishly that all the phone lines were dead and I needed to pay in cash. I smiled and handed him a fifty. He had the last laugh, though. When I got home and counted my change, I realized he had overcharged me by a few euro. Anyone know of a Spanish waiter named Manuel who’s looking for work in Ireland? Oh, by the way, would you please remind Steven to count his change, or at least get a bill, before leaving the premises.

February 7, 2008   1 Comment