Friday, January 16, 2009
They had been my reality. They could sleep outside all night with just a bedroll and a few flames from the fire. Well, in Ireland you could never do that. You'd have to have a tent or a caravan. The rain would never allow a fire to burn all night. There'd be no dry wood around anyway. And you'd get drowned if you tried to sleep outside. And we had no desert, no high plains—only wet fields and soggy cigarettes. Furthermore, we couldn't get beans like what they ate in America. The one's we got came from England with tomato sauce and sugar. I wanted the real stuff with pork, chiles and tortillas on the side. I had to wait another fifteen years.
Posted by A wandering vein at 3:52 AM