James Joyce and lamb’s liver

The rain stops. Not really rain anyway, is it? Heavy fog? Light mist? Just something to keep the grass green and the skin pale. For one solid minute the sun creeps out from behind a dark cloud like a child from behind his mother’s skirt.

It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? says the humped over man strolling with his hands clasped behind his back as if for ballast. Likely fall over on his face if he didn’t. He smiles a toothless grin at me, nods with his head towards a dark bust, a sheen of verdigris wrapped like a shawl around the shoulders.

James Joyce. The man himself. The humped old man moves on, satisfied. Well, now. Here you are. Looking worried. Or perhaps perplexed. At why Dubliners should take such pride in you when they practically forced you out of Ireland? It is amusing, don’t you think? They love writers; they hate writers. Love them when they’re dead; detest them when they’re alive. No more so than you, Old Boy. Wait. That’s not true. Oscar Wilde had an even harder time of it. Put into prison. For sodomy of all things. Clever stupid man. There’s an inscription here: “Crossing Stephen’s, that is my green.”

Something from Ulysses, I should think. Must read that again. Slog through the first bit until you get to Molly Malone. The tart with the cart. She must be nearby as well.

Must be going though. Looking for a lovely spot of lamb’s liver. For breakfast. You should understand that. And a nice cup of tea. Hot. With milk. What was it Seamus said? The best grass is in Ireland so the best cows are in Ireland so the best cream is in Ireland. Sure it’s so.

Here’s the Shelbourne then. That will do nicely. Lovely place. Do they serve breakfast? I ask the lad at the front door? Indeed, he says. In the Lord Mayor’s Lounge. I like that. This is where Ireland’s constitution was drafted by Michael Collins and his associates. Not the Lord Mayor’s Lounge, of course. But one of the rooms upstairs. Wonder if they still use it as a room? Should be a museum, I’d think.

Feel a bit under-dressed as I’m led to a wing-backed chair near the fireplace. Not peat. But cheery. Have you lamb’s liver? No, sir. Pity. The Limerick ham, then. And two eggs. Poached. And a pot of tea. Black or something herbal, sir? Black. With milk, of course. Very good sir. And toast? Yes, please.

No lamb but lovely anyway. Fatigue starting to settle on my shoulders. Fire, even in August, seems comforting. Might just fall asleep in my big chair waiting for my tea and Limerick ham. Why not?