“you what?” says i
“i hate morphine” says alan again. “the man of the law. he always say the lane you are not in moves faster. Morphie is such a jerk for being right.”
traffic was moving very slow as our trek back to Cork began early that morning. We were set to be in Dublin by noon, however the que for the motorway was out to prove our scheduling wrong. nevertheless we were kept occupied with discussions of the difficulties of learning new languages and being misunderstood when using words like fork, sheet and beach.
“i have to write this down”
“why? are you writing a book?”
“not that i know of. and i am just writing it down because i think it is funny. do you mind if i write it down?”
“i don't give two sheets. do what you like”
“i won't be able to write that down though.”
“sure you can. only do not tell your maman it was me.”
we got back into cork about half an hour late for my shift at the Shel (by the way i am back working at the Shel part time) which wasn't a problem. As Alan sped along the motorway I said there wasn't any sense in getting a ticket he wasn't going to pay because "it wasn't like i was late for a wedding or an exam, it was only work and work would be there regardless of how many cars we passed". The patrons had much to raz me for when i got there, but a few cleverly passed quips about cutting them off had them in stitches and moved the conversation quickly to an overview of my road trip and finnaly settle on the weather.
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