Wait twenty five minutes for bus. Tea goes rapidly cold, but efforts to drink it whilst still warm are hampered by the fact that I am carrying three bags, all suspended from my arms, making raising hand with mug of tea to lips rather difficult, not to mention dangerous. Feel despondent.
Bus eventually arrives, and note with bitterness that while I have been standing at the stop all alone, five fellow passengers run up just before bus's appearance. Wonder if they have been hiding inside nearby Georgian mansions, peeping through the windows to see if bus is coming, and doubtless laughing at self stuck in drizzle and gazing miserably at unreachable tea mug.
Attain seat on bus, and feel better. Jounrey immediately made less pleasant by woman sitting two seats in front of me, who possesses both an extraordinarily loud voice and a bizarre mid-Atlantic accent. Can't figure out whether she is an American who has lived in Ireland for years, or, what is more likely, an Irish woman who thinks it's somehow cool to adopt a fake American accent. Woman talks at top volume on mobile phone for about 45 minutes. Much of her convrsation is devoted to her new house in the suburb of Shankhill, which, she admonishes the person on the other end of the phone, is not pronounced 'Shon -kill' (query: why would it be?). Become inreasonably irritated by woman and her house, and feel great relief when, at long last, Cabinteely is reached, and I leap from the bus, after a moment's conversation with bus driver re: tea mug (he approves). Trot round corner to the fancy housing estate where the Boy resides and decide to cut across large green adjoining the main road. Discover about three seconds after stepping across large green that it is almost entirely composed of mud following heavy rains. As it is almost pitch dark, I hadn't noticed this. Debate going backwards, but as I've already taken a few steps and it is much shorter, decide to press grimly onwards.
Other side of green reached, but lower limbs are unpleasantly bedecked in mud, and wish I'd just gone the long way. Arrive at Boy's house, and after affectionate greeting we descend to childish (but goodwilled) argument over who is going to go round to the Chinese takeaway. As I did it last time, the Boy goes round, and a feast ensues, followed by about two straight hours of extraordinarily bad television, accompanied by loud vocal mockery.
Evening ends with prolongued debate between self, Boy, and Boy's brother, over whether we feel any personal connection with the denizens of Northern Ireland. Consenus is that of course we should, having benefited from a decision (Partition) that left them in turmoil, but in actual fact none of us do at all, so we all go to bed feeling somewhat guilty.