The appealing dangle of An Daingean

A word or two from An Daingean has offered a momentary distraction from current affairs. "Hitch down, free gaff, hang out for a few days..." Open ended as it comes. A journey back to the Kingdom has slid curiosity across a razor edge with both bits falling in tandem. She exudes a magnetism with a delicious tang; coaxing, beckoning with hushed hooks...

Here scraped coins from the sock-draw, poured into pocket to jingle the step with, makes me feel like a rich man. Yet my nemesis is ever present. The corner store is King - one who holds to ransom this little village, dazzling all with searing flourecents, colourful flourishes of exciting signage... products priced for war shortage making my wallet weep.

I'm living off porridge breakfasts, tuna, cheese and onion toastie lunches and pasta bake nights. Lost track of the days I've frequented this particular fine restaurant with its incredible diversity. There's no complaints. I navigate this stagnanting bog of unemployment with a semi-complacent grim grin - it doesn't help having a vicious aquatic addiction. This quiet life by the sea woos like a geisha... no, hang on, what's the Irish equivalent? One of them anyway.

Ahh... but to Dingle...? An interesting proposition indeed.