I can’t remember the last time we talked about water restrictions in Ireland; well apart from the obsolete and dilapidated water pipes exploding here and there, water shortages due to dry and prolonged weather conditions are not that usual. A more common affair now in Brittany, my homeland getting drier, often mocked once by the Parisian clique for its long and often tempestuous rain spells but yet, they never forgot to pack their cute yellow raincoats. Ok, about that, let me be clear here: unless you are on a fishing boat, we do not wear yellow raincoats. We wear Cotten salopettes with shell jackets on top ( I have the whole uniform, I just don’t get to wear it that often), they are yellow, on a boat only, not to go to the market and pretending to be a local, it’s like a big giveaway, don’t do that! I suppose we get the same here this time of year, Aran jumpers and Donegal tweed caps… Well maybe in the more touristy parts of the Island, here in the midlands, we do not see much of that, and yesterday, as I was admiring in dismay the queue for the car wash, I thought the message didn’t quite sink in… Boglanders, you gotta love them!
I had a strange dream last night; I was in a Californian pub when Charles Bukowski invited me for a bite to eat in one of his favourite place. There, were musicians and dancers, a dark wooden environment, a bit like an old fashioned Irish joint I guess. We ordered some beers first, then my companion hailed the waitress – without asking me – for a chickpeas burger and a plate of tomato and garlic beans for himself… The entertainment of my psychedelic night experience was going well. Charles and I, or Hank Chinaski as he likes to portrait himself, were enjoying ourselves… Until I asked him, in our alcoholic fogginess, if it was OK to take a selfie… He didn’t mind, but I felt I had let myself down on that one! I was so ashamed with my move, that I woke up… Leaving my host to pay the bill. Man, I have to stop eating Parmigiano Reggiano in the evening!