day among days

2pm Cafe Insomnia, Stephens Green.
A man as suggestible as me, has no place reading the Alan Clarke Diaries.
Memo to Self: I am not Alan Clarke.
The will is a monumental cock up.
I got the chateau but Cousin Rontgens has a right of residence.
So do I have it or not?
Can I sell it?
I suppose I could ask Rontgens for permission.
I met him this morning in the kitchen, engaging in some territorial pissing. We circled each other warily, like a couple of Conservative Party MPs, jockeying for the succession after Margaret.
The worst case scenario is if he resigns from the bank and spends all his time here mooning around filling the place with cigarette smoke and scruffs.
My analagies and unquiet tone are pure Alan Clarke.
Dublin surrealistic as all hell today.
Either that or I'm caffeinated to the gills and hallucinating again.
Saw sexy blonde school teacher from Kilcullen Secondary School in Hodges Figgis bookshop. She is a sextron. I went up to her and greeted her thusly: "Ah Miss Sexotron." These were my exact words. I didn't use her real name but chanced the admiring epithet. Only it wasn't her. All these blonde sexors look the same to me. The one in the bookshop goggled at my greeting. She did not keep the quizzicality from her regal features.
Later, this afternoon on Stephens Green, a hard faced Arab loomed out of the throng.
There seemed to be a moment of recognition.
He was one of the Black Jackets, my former persecutors.
For a moment I thought it might have been Amrasser himself, my old Bewleys nemesis.
There was no mercy in his eyes.
He looked like he fancied a shoulder jostle but the crowd swirled him away and the chance was lost.
He was older and more haggard, the Arab good looks dessicated by bitterness.
Time had been cruel.
In the Insomnia Cafe, the pretty Brazilian waitress cut me dead when I asked was there a special offer on the buns.
Clearly the bituminous bitch has reached her niveau d'excellence.
And clearly I must find another cafe.
Raging that I still bought the bun.
But I'd already handed her the money.
Ah. I'm Alan Clarking again.
*****
5pm Starbucks, Grafton Street.
The one thing I liked about Alan Clarke was what I call the quality of the genuine. He opposed abortion which might just mean he was a Christian. He referred to the Labour Party's pro abortion women as the "tricoteuses," referencing the ultimate hags of the French Revolution who sat beside the guillotine and cheered each beheading while continuing their knitting. Sheer brilliance. An old Catholic priest claimed he'd converted to the faith on his death bed. His wife insisted he did no such thing.
*****
7.40pm Starbucks, Dawson Street.
Idiotic Spanish couple sitting at separate tables, with a third empty table, separating their already separate ones. No lecher on earth could have figured out that the woman was accompanied. Hispanic cretins. The worst kind. The Muslims know how to deal with this sort of thing. Put the bitch in a burka and send the beardy little bollix outside to self detonate. Speaking of which, Miss Arabia (Amal she called herself) has quietly folded her tent and moved away. I will never see her again.  She engineered our ultimate parting through the simple expedient of being a collossal beyotch during our last two encounters. She kept it up until I finally called a halt. I won't know till Judgement Day whether she was a spy. I'm not even sure she was an Arab. Staging a falling out would of course be standard spycraft for getting rid of a mark if you are not actually going to kill him. Let him think he's ditching you. Make him never want to see you again, etc etc. Yes. She could have been a spy. But sometimes a beyotch is just a beyotch.
*****
7.70pm Still Dawson Street.
Rang Doctor Barn to tell him some of the lines from this diary. He said: "You're writing a bit like Alan Clarke." I said: "I know. It's because I'm reading him at the moment. I'm too suggestible. If I was reading the Hitler Diaries, I'd probably be out trying to take over the world or something."
*****
8.10pm Another Starbucks, Some Tiddly Little Side Street.
Room upstairs occupied by odious males unaccompanied by any females and consequently looking for trouble. I moved downstairs. Earlier saw two beggars outside Clarendon Street Church. They were arguing in the most civil tones. One said: "I've nowhere else to go." And the other answered: "Now you know that's no good to me Bob. This is my pitch." I was giving a ten spot to my travelling woman Maisie Baines who also has a pitch nearby. I whispered to her: "Are you safe from those two guys?" She grinned roguishly. Maisie has protection.
*****
10.30pm Topaz Garage, Naas Road.
Driving home tonight, a fire brigade going through the lights nearly creamed me at Newlands Cross. The guardian angel took over the car. Great screeching of brakes. I went on my way, sobered and soulful. Close enough to heaven. I suppose the Dublin fire brigade were heading out for a burgher and chips. One of their regular emergencies. To think what a near thing it was. I might right this moment be discussing literary style with Alan Clarke himself at a discreet Starbucks near the pearly gates. It was that close. Time enough for that. Life is sweet. I'm in no hurry to shuffle off any coils, mortal or otherwise. What was it the son of the Hebrew God said? Something like: "Many will ask where the kingdom of heaven is. Or when it is. Or what it is. But the kingdom of heaven does not admit of observation. For behold. The kingdom of heaven is among you." To me this means that when we love each other, or praise God for the creation, or see his beauty in people, creatures, or music, or nature, or the night sky, when we do this, we're already very very close to heaven wherever, whenever, whatever it is. Amal, forgive me. Fool Clarke. Fool, fool, fool. I mean Heelers. Fool Heelers. Fool, fool, fool. Why did you let her go?