I had to drop the metallers out to Ennis today to see their metallic mates playing another gig, and didn’t get a chance to spend a couple of hours in the Limerick market.
As I get older, I discover that I’m really a creature of habit, and if a Saturday passes without a visit to the market, I feel truly bereft, in a vague and indefinable way. Like Patrick Bateman, I’m filled with a nameless dread. I love the smell of rusty old chisels, fresh bread, honeycomb, gouda, camembert, stuffed mushrooms, coffee, garden gnomes, earth on carrots, antiques, crÃƒªpes, maple syrup and bicycles. I love to wander around. Maybe get some bagels from Theresa’s stall.
A dozen real free-range eggs from the charming Mrs Miller, who always has a kind word, and maybe even a pot of marmalade, home-made (three-fruit).
A bunch of carrots from the decent Polish guy at the corner because they’re real – not some chilled, food-miled crap from Lidl. Maybe a cracked old plate from Moira’s antique shop, if they’ll take money today and not gwan gwan gwan, I’ll get you again. Maybe a stroll up to Ruth and Bob, our Chicago cousins, for real cawfee in the Wild Onion.
I like to listen to the two Romanian musicians who play at the gate: violin and piano.
I like to buy flowers there in the summer.
When I’m finished buying bread from farmers and shovels from tinkers, I like to wander over to Nancy Blake’s pub. The fire will be lit and I can have a coffee with cream, settle into a corner with my newspaper and, when I’m sick of reading news, I can do my crossword and my sudoku, unmolested.
That’s my Saturday morning, normally, but not today. Today I had to drive two metallers out to Ennis to see their metallic mates playing another gig. On my way home, I passed the bridge at Durty Nelly’s, the very first place I ever threw up because of drink.