Going out in Dublin

Two occurrences this week have reminded me why I like living (and going out) in Dublin. Saturday night Samantha and I went to an Italian restaurant we like. We were sitting at a table outside, pretending to be somewhere warm and Mediterranean. After dinner I rested my sore foot on a spare chair. The new waiter raised his eyebrows at that and I apologized in Italian (as one does) but didn't move my foot. Shortly after that, the charming manager swept by to serve people behind us. He made no comment on my informal leg rest but returned with a red cushion and placed it under my foot.
Yesterday afternoon after a walk in the park on my day off, I called into my local pub. The friendly barman asked what he could do for me and I told him I was out of cash. "We are just the friendly neighborhood bank it appears." I replied that I was going to purchase something as well and he said that was entirely up to me.
I ordered a 7up, got my cash, and sat at the bar reading the book Reading Lolita in Tehran (good book by the way). After a while, I left my book and soda on the bar to go to the restroom. When I returned I picked up my book. I gazed at the back cover, thinking that something looked different. I turned over the book to discover a cheesy book about quotes. Still being perplexed, I heard the barman and the barwoman giggling away. He had switched my book obviously. I got my book back and all order was restored.

Autumn boot camp

Columbo has been having a mini holiday of sorts these part few weeks. Working part-time, walking a lot around Dublin, meeting new people, trying to be sensible and sometimes failing… It all ends tomorrow.
Pops arrives in the early am and five or so weeks of responsibility starts immediately. Not that there won’t be enjoyable moments and slagging galore. However, Columbo’s late night adventures shall be curtailed. Work, straight home most evenings to make sure the bungalow is still standing (there will be war if Pops reads this), cocktail hour, supervision of the fire lighting, and then the cooking of proper food.
Columbo hasn’t had potatoes in the house for months. One large shopping delivery, check. Stockup of a few days’ worth of briquettes and wood from the kind coalman, Joseph, check. Warning the barman in the local that he is not to serve whiskey to Pops, check. He knows to inform Pops that “Columbo says we are out of whiskey.” G&Ts are permitted.
Columbo flagged the coalman down one day last week, and he inquired about the father. The two men chat regularly, given the amount of briquettes/coal Pops goes through during stays in Dublin. Essentially, most of the neighbors have been notified of Pops’s impending visit. A good few have met him over the years and like him.
One neighbor, Glenda the Good Witch, kidnapped Columbo yesterday evening on Columbo’s return home and poured quantities of wine in Columbo’s glass. It magically never emptied. When a strong G&T was presented despite repeated warnings that Columbo a) does not like G&T; b) was completely wrecked tired; and c) would not drink it, Columbo made good her escape after promising the Good Witch that she would send Pops down to drink G&Ts with her instead. (God help him. It was a desperate measure but one Columbo felt obliged to take… Sauve-qui-peut.)