My new friend meets me in a pub just off from Nottingham’s Old Market Square, where a large ferris wheel lights up the cold February night. She appears to have a more nervous energy about her than normal, and I only know half the story from our conversation on Twitter the previous day.
For the last few weeks, I’ve started to wonder if Britain has managed to go on some tectonic exchange programme with Siberia. To leave any building with central heating is to take your life into your own hands, and you can easily practice looking into the distance with a melancholic look, like a character from The Killing. Nottingham is beautiful on a clear day – whatever the season – but when it’s grey, it’s as dull as it gets.
Shuí mé taobh leis an bhfuinneog, ag fanacht chun an traein a fhágáil ó stáisiún Nottingham, agus chun an turas go Londain a thosnú. I ndiaidh cúpla lá liath scamallach, bhí tráthnóna na hoíche sin go breá; ó spéir ghorm, go spéir rua, nuair a d’éirigh sé níos dorcha, le nóiméad corcra le feiceáil sa chlapsholas. Continue reading “Ag Éalú na Cathrach”