the day after

Wandering around Dublin.
Bright clear sun.
My heart at ease.
I feel like a great healing has descended upon my spirit.
I haven't an enemy in the world.
As I emerge from the loo at the Stephen's Green Centre a sudden mischievous impulse takes me.
I know I shouldn't.
But.
I am walking past the grinning Muslim toilet attendant, the one whose favourite hobby is triggering the No Smoking alarm when I'm ensconced in cubicle nine.
Today in passing him I cannot restrain myself from remarking aloud in a relaxed laconic drawl: "Well, we got him."
This is not sane behaviour even by my usual standards of nuttiness.
I don't look back.
The ghost of Dorothy Parker appears at my side.
"James," she says, "there are easier ways to commit suicide."
On Grafton Street I stroll close to a group of Black Jacket Muslims.
They are a part of the Al Qaeda street gang franchise that's been extending its influence throughout the city for the past ten years.
"We got him," I remark aloud in a relaxed laconic drawl.
I keep walking.
Outside Hickeys Pharmacy the Muslim security guard is putting down the shutters.
"We got him," I remark in my by now famous loud relaxed laconic drawl.
The shutters slam vehemently into the ground.
I keep walking.
There are Muslims preening at a table outside the Starbucks on Dawson Street.
As I enter the cafe I remark loudly, relaxedly and laconicly: "We got him."
And I mean it to sting.