Allow me to hold the door, sir

a trip to a Certain Scandinavian producer of Semi-Disposable Furniture

After our abandoned attempt to get to Belfast or bust on Wednesday of this week, we deja-vued all over again yesterday, me and my mother. This time, Dundalk slipped by dreamily, unlike our previous non-trip which had us studying the railside flora minutely out of the window for an HOUR and a HALF, while the mood of our companions lifted and plunged from giddy hysteria to despair in a perfect wave-like pattern. There was a man sitting near us, with his wife/partner/companion/who knows and their toddler son. He was wearing a shirt which had the following on the back: TAKING ALL OF IRELAND FOR JESUS with an image of a shamrock encompassing what was indeed the whole of the country. There was something vaguely threatening about it. I mean, I am all for Whatever Gets Your Through the Night, and why not, but what with the vaguely militaristic language (the taking of a country?) and the Republ*can overtones, and the religious zealotry, I think we are looking at a threefer.
People. Weird, them, sometimes.
The trip went well, though.
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I don't like the word BINGE, do you?
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I don't like the word GROUT, either.
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I remain, your word-fussy traveler,
Twangy

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