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Dublin Burning · We were walk­ing home to the hotel—cold but no rain on Hallowe’en—and the city sound­ed like a war zone, fire­works rat­tling and bang­ing in ev­ery di­rec­tion, pink and green lights against the sky. Down one lit­tle al­ley the ex­plo­sions were par­tic­u­lar­ly in­tense and I saw a wall paint­ed in colour by leap­ing flames, and si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly firetrucks in­com­ing. “Let’s check this out” I told Lau­ren and with­out giv­ing her a chance to won­der if it was a good idea, head­ed down the al­ley in­to a dif­fer­ent Dublin ...
Dublin in a Rainstorm · Twenty-five minutes’ slog back to the ho­tel across down­town Dublin, the mist turned thick­er then to re­al rain, thank god for the Akubra but my good grey suit is drenched; the wool can take it but in my head is a loop of Sinéad O’Connor croon­ing Dublin in a rain­storm at the open­ing of Troy, that croon ex­plodes in that song and I saw her do it once live with just an acous­tic gui­tar, more pet­ri­fy­ing than the record (The Lion and the Co­bra), though she should have cred­it­ed Yeats’ No Se­cond Troy for the lines she stole. As for Dublin, it’s pret­ty nice; this note is just visitor’s im­pres­sions and a cou­ple of snap­s ...
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