Seated beneath a stained-glass window in a cafe in Dublin, a man ponders his existence while awaiting the arrival of his order, a cup of coffee and an almond bun. Meanwhile in this story, an art gallery employee who accumulates parking tickets, pursues a woman with little enthusiasm or regularity.
This note I am writing in addition to diary entries which have led me, at last, to embark on a course of action.
The first time I considered noting the nature of my existence was eight months ago while sitting in Bewley's Oriental Cafe in Grafton Street. I was reading the newspaper, an item I am well accustomed to. I had once read the Irish Times, front to back, in a crowded lift which had broken down. I did not cause any discomfort; not even a raised eyebrow.
Subsequently, I would not reveal the name of the establi...