Category Archives: Writing

In Jim Cashman’s, Tara-val, Andi is shopping…

She stirs, she rubs her eyes; her nose it itches, maybe.

She snorts, and shuffles, and settles back.

She’s a babe in wraps, encased as she is within the atmosphere of this Irish, this Cork pub.

She sleeps while the atmosphere resonates. I wonder if she dreams in Cork, the Corkonian lure fluttering at the veils of her subconscious.

The notion that she is among people, their chattering, the clink and clatter of dishes, the voice of the barman querying, and here the words fall torrential on this page racing from back to front to meet a centre…

And still she sleeps.

Szeretlek!

Jesus! Listen to this dreariness. The chatter of the boys on the gatt, the Eva Cassidy-esque sounds over the speakers, the bar sounds: glasses; spoons; a sweeper-scooper; a coffee spoon stirring; and the constant hiss of silenced television, the different channels flickering. Outside the shadows of people fall in, cars fizz past on damp tarmac; the shadows grow from wood red to purple in here, out there there’s only grey. It falls from the heavens too. A pub, a pub like this, any pub, is not a place to be alone, not unless you’re armed with a pen, a chronic drinking habit, insanity or an abundance of optimism. I have 3 of those 4.

Amen!

Budapest. Still trying my best to gather enough ,what to some surely must seem trivial, information concerning the running of this here website. Trouble is I started with a blank canvas and didn’t realise I needed paints. Well, here I am armed with a rudimentary knowledge worthy of legend and so onwards into the new. Thanks to my brother Pete for the help…!!!