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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Then I hit up the Tralee Bay Wetlands. It’s a beautiful spot, but I was feelin’ a bit off. I mean, who wouldn’t? I’m tryin’ to enjoy nature, and there’s this group of tourists blabbin’ away. They’re all like, “Oh, look at the birds!” But they’re so loud, I can’t even hear the birds! I’m like, “Shhh, you’re scaring them away!” But they just kept yappin’. Ugh.

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