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About Cork

Now, *Moulin Rouge!*—oh, it gets me goin’! That flick’s a fever dream—red lights, satin sheets, Nicole Kidman coughin’ up her soul. “Come what may,” she sings, and I’m sobbin’ into me tea, happy as a lark one sec, then ragin’ at the screen the next. Why? Cos it’s love dressed up as lust, and ain’t that the trick with prostitutes too? You’re payin’ for a dance, a whisper, a “my heart is—oops, time’s up, mate.” Surprised me first time I clocked it—how it’s all theatre, really.

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After the rain chills out, we get back on the road. I’m feeling a bit more relaxed, and we cruise down by the harbor. The boats are bobbing, and I’m like, “See? This is what driving’s all about!” But then, he nearly misses a turn on Abbey Street. I’m yelling, “Turn! TURN!” and he’s like, “Where?!” I’m thinking, “Dude, are you blind?!”

Death Notice of Sylvia Collins (née Tackaberry) (Rathdrum, Wicklow)