Well it is encore a beautiful day in Dublin. A bella Bloomsday at that. I have mowed two small lawns in Joycean manner, an up the hill down the hill bumpety arrangement with a strimmer that gave pause for consideration and went on for considerable duration without unpleasant consequences except the vow, once rich, there will be a lawnmower in this here Northside shed. I wrote racing news for much of the day. I cooked a rural egg in an urban pan and have just consumed 4 gluten free craftsman sausages with some perplexment as to whether they’d ever be cooked.

The Small Male has gone to Malahide Castle on a jaunty with his nimble Aunty who possesses extraordinary enthusiasm for learning yo-yo tricks. I hope to see Mary Mc’s mam in the vicinity of the Botanic Gardens who is without question Dublin’s finest. You could conclude we are having a splendid time. I think recession has shifted meteorology in these formerly drowned parts.

I still have yet to establish an acceptable coffee agreement in Cabra the dog and tattoo population are abundant. Tonight the house will shake with Green Day. Small male taking a dim view on many Irish matters, spreading his Vancouver is superior gospel, except in the area of swearing where he’s naturally made up with such abundant company.

Yesterday I purchased my 164th football (soccer). There has to be some reward for this provision, endless bloody provision of balls. Seemingly one can never have too many balls.