'When did he say he was coming?'
'I think he said wednesday.'
'Which day were you talking to him?'
'Friday week. I ran into him in Kavanaghs.'
'I think it was Kavanaghs.'
'I doubt he'd be up this way on a Wednesday.'
'Yer man from kavanaghs?
No no, the other one.'
'Which one's that now?'
The butcher eyes them. 'What can I get you?'
'A pound of that stewing steak and a ring of black pudding please.'
'No, a bone for the dog if you have one.'
'I don't have one I'm afraid.'
He goes away to get their stuff.'
'He has bones all right.'
'Course he has, keeps 'em out the back. Sure how could he not have bones. Isn't this a butchers?'
'What were we talking about?'
I so wanted to tap them on the shoulder and say, 'Whether or not someone who may or may not have been in Kavanaghs will be able to attend something on some wednesday in the near future. Proceed.'
But I didn't and after a while they started talking and repeating each other again, but on a different topic.
I used to do that kind of shite back in the day when we all took E. Everyone would forget where a conversation started and they would look to me and I could-without fail- back track from one meandering subject to another until I reached the source. I could usually do this within eight or nine moves and once -after a Leftfield concert and two doves- I backtracked to the source through almost twenty different strands.
Very impressive when you consider none of us could tell if we were actually wearing glasses or not.