My butcher is Mr. Whelan; he sells me fat orange slabs of salmon and slices of red steak that I sear blue.
My optometrist is Dr. Brennan; he says I don’t look 20 if I’m a day and has his secretary searching high and low for child-size sunglasses suitable for a 3o year-old kid.
My hairdresser is Angela; she tries not to look surprised when I ask for a cuppa with no milk.
My landlords are Laura and Jim; they recently kicked out two separate sets of flat renters for violating the noise agreement and changed my blown light bulb because I wasn’t tall enough to do it myself.
My tailor is Roddy; he says he can’t have my ripped coat back to me until next Wednesday on account of Good Thursday Drink and Good Friday and Saturday and Easter Sunday and Easter Monday ’cause the Big Man Upstairs might strike him down ’cause he’s just waiting for a reason, you know what I mean?
They’re starting to recognize me now at the pasty shoppe near school. I’m experimenting on this cold but sunny day and choose a chicken and veg, stuffed with white meat, potatoes, turnips, herbs, and a light cream sauce. I take it to St. Stephen’s Green and eat my lunch in the park while watching the swans and magpies and ducks and listening to the seagulls whoop overhead. When I’m finished with my pasty, I give the crumbs to the pigeons. It seems like the right thing to do.