I had to tell everyone in work today why I was excited.
Some of them vaguely remembered me talking about it once.
They're the clever ones.
Well they think they're clever.
They're not as clever as Fianna Fail.
I have that feeling again.
A sharp inhalation, painful.
The stiletto. Administered in the dark of an Irish pub at three in the morning.
A kind of gasp, and then an acceptance of the inevitability of it all.
Why am I never the one administering the stiletto?
This is the eternal question of my life.
I hope that Ray knows the answer to this one too.
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