Belfast: The City of Broken Dreams

Pretending to sight-see

There was coffee, there was shopping, there was cider, there was food, there was an open fire, there was champagne, there was a shower without bystanders discussing my body, there was sleep, there were chick flicks. There were no children.

Not pictured: person with bad haircut

With hindsight, we did these things in the wrong order. Shopping first. I bought 14 pairs of tights from glorious Primark. I did not get a pair of feety PJs because Ruth and Sarah are no fun whatsoever. Let me repeat that: I did not buy the feety PJs I've been obsessing about for at least 15 months. Ruth is a very dignified person and as such I did not give her the hard sell. Friend Sarah, however, was teetering on the edge of feety PJ heaven. If only the shopping was preceded by this:


Friend Sarah does occasionally have good ideas, and Aspalls would fall in that category. Alas, had we partook and then shopped we would have spent the weekend in cow and tiger suits. The human brain cannot even cope with how euphoric this situation would have been. Instead:


I jest, obviously. Of course Sarah is still allowed in Belfast, and if not granted the keys to the city she at the very least deserves the keys to the Tayto Factory.

The weekend away: already a long distant memory.

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