You know my pain, my angst, that existential angst, you’ve heard me moan before and I’m so finished with it’s pained expression.
Bury these knees at a wounded creek; this is not a story of an old man and his knees.
Kids, sulky sweet soft boys and crinkly succulent girls. Peoples, other peoples, gorgeous dreaming individuals inhabiting, cohabiting with me.
There are big fuck off granite hills in the middle of the burren, hills who didn’t invite knees or me or my bike, those big fuck off granite hills are humbling. A bare naked joyless humbling, a stripped down “kop the fuck on to yourself” reminder of mortality. Corkscrew hill, fucking screw you and your painful ascension and cork screwness, and your abject lack of respect for middle-aged knees.
I’m angry, my anger simmers warm and searing at wherever it points and I point it everywhere.
But, and but again, stammer and stutter, Sam is back and so the fuck is Gimme. Heart Sings. Tinterweb lives.
And so, a lesson for forty nine year olds. Don’t, so don’t, do a hundred and thirty fucking miles into a Burren wind without preparation and with Omar’s lill school bag tightly strapped on your back.
Kop the fuck on.
There are Woohoos though,
For Shannon RFC
For my love
For Omar, Buzz and for Darla