Urges
Grandad August 14th, 2010
I have a terrible urge on me.
It is an urge, nay a hankering and a longing that would rival that of any heroin addict who hasn’t had a fix.
I want to be in France.
The problem though is that I don’t want to go to France; I just want to be there.
I want to be where the air is hot and dry. I want to be where mooching around in nothing but a pair of shorts is the norm. I want to spend my days drifting from village to village sampling the coffee, and the evenings supping wine out on the terrace.
The big problem is getting there.
It’s a long way, and it is fucking expensive.
Firstly it means I am hostage to the fortunes of Irish Ferries, who charge through the nose for the privilege of being fleeced in the mobile cash cow they call a ferry. Then it means at least one night in a hotel on the way down, and a shed load of driving. Not that I mind the driving – I don’t, but it a long way, and Herself begins to complain.
Then there is the problem of Sandy.
She doesn’t have a passport [yet], so that means leaving her either in a kennels, or at the mercy of my daughter. I’m sure my daughter doesn’t mind, but I know Sandy would prefer to be living with a couple of old codgers and not with an extremely lively family. Our Sandy likes the quiet life.
So I’m stuck here with my hankerings. Cork is a lovely place but the heat isn’t quite the same. It’s a humid heat, and I like a dry heat.
I wish the urge would go away.
Has anyone got any heroin?
Subscribe to audio
