Dirty old town.

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The thing about this town that bugs me most and could persuade me to return to live in the big city is this: there are no cafes where one can sit quietly and read while enjoying good coffee. For one thing, no cafe here makes coffee that comes anywhere close to acceptable. It’s invariably undrinkable. The other problem is that the only people who go into cafes here are groups of friends who meet to chitter on about nothing at high volume, and this often descends to inter-table exchanges because in Larne everyone knows everyone else, apart from me who knows no-one. And they all start to close at about 3 in the afternoon because everyone has to go home to get the potatoes peeled for their 5 o’clock meal. I really should have retired to Paris. But to lighten the mood I offer this precious piece of poesie: The fun starts when the sun farts and I realise with my real eyes that I’ve been made a fool of by a French tart called Luce.