Diary of an Online Dater

By Marian Wilder

How to survive a relationship breakdown without going fully insane ... even if you're halfway there already.
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Everything in Eamo Kennedy's life was perfect. He had the perfect partner, the perfect home, the perfect job ... or so he thought.
One morning, out of the blue, the ultimate bombshell explodes, and a devastated Eamo awakes to find the love of his life inexplicably packing her bags.
Now alone and completely at sea, Eamo attempts to salvage some sanity from the wreckage of his shattered life by signing up to a number of online dating sites, some more peculiar than others.
Assisted by Ed Berry, a dark and mysterious stranger who shows up at the oddest of moments to offer advice, Eamo soon comes to realize that his new life might have more to offer than he previously could have imagined.
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Author's Note:
'Diary of an Online Dater' is a biographical journey of self-discovery that deals with topics of an adult nature. It is NOT, however, presented as a work of erotic fiction.
M.W.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marian Wilder
• Release date: Feb 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463199190

Marian Wilder

Marian Wilder welcomes you to her world of erotic 'Damsel In Distress' novels and stories.Her subject material sometimes wanders towards the darker side of erotica, but if you enjoy a generous helping of bondage and erotic discipline with your fiction, then this is the place to be.Please check back often for new releases and updates.FACEBOOK here: https://www.facebook.com/marian.wilder1TWITTER here: @SpankingTalesGOODREADS here: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15270490.Marian_WilderMarian welcomes comments regarding her stories and novels (ONLY) at [e-mail]

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Diary of an Online Dater

Marian Wilder

(2nd Edition 2023. Edited by E.P.McKenna.)

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Thank you for understanding and respecting the hard work of the author.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, incidents, and places are fictitious. Any resemblances to persons or businesses are entirely coincidental.

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- 1 -

Unexpected Change is the joker in the pack. His main duty is to provide entertainment for the gods who observe our mundane lives from afar, and his powers of creativity appear limitless. He is a master of disguise: the silent hawk swooping on the unwary field-mouse; the heart attack victim in control of the runaway train. He prods the numbered balls into their slots, and watches in amusement as the new lottery winner drinks himself to death. Yes, Mr. Change has a sense of humour, and warped though it might seem at times, no one can claim that he is boring. He visits the individual as well as the crowd, casting his enchantment on all. From the elation of success to the frustration of failure, he is there, waiting in the shadows … a banana skin in times of triumph, a deadpan visitor at the graveside.

Hello Change. I wasn't really expecting you, to be honest.

"Nobody ever does, Eamo. Nobody ever does. That's why they call me Unexpected Change. If I were Subtle Change or Gradual Change, or even Small Change for that matter, it might be different, but I have a weakness for catching people on the hop. Hence the name."

Ah. Good point.

That's the spirit, Eamo! Now that that's out of the way, let us get down to the matter at hand, shall we?

Damn! I should have known that was coming.

"Ah yes. Hindsight. It can be a wonderful thing, can't it?"

Good old hindsight.

I should have done this, I should have done that, but we never do. Why? Because everything always seems perfectly okay at the time.

* * *

I don't like Mondays. The Boomtown Rats weren't overly fond of them either apparently, and they had a massive chart hit on their hands when they confirmed it. Seeing as my own aversion was clearly part of a huge general consensus, maybe I should have just skipped past that first Monday in July, and took up where I left off the following day.

There hadn't been anything unusual about the night before. Liz and I had kissed goodnight as always, confirmed our love for each other, rolled over and gone to sleep. Everything seemed perfectly fine, no indication whatsoever that my life was about to enter freefall.

I was awakened at about eight-thirty. The curtains had been drawn, and a watery sunlight now shone through the narrow bedroom window. I grunted, and tried to pull the bedcovers over my head, but Liz was very persistent.

'Eamo, we need to talk'

'Ok, ok, we'll talk in the morning.'

I opened one eye and squinted at her with the blurry vision of the half-awake. Something was wrong. Her face was strained, an unidentifiable look in her eyes.

'What's up?' I asked, feeling a touch of apprehension. 'Is everything ok?'

Her expression told me otherwise. I sat up in bed and swung my legs out from under the covers. That was when the rhinoceros that had been hiding in the wardrobe charged, catching me full in the belly with his horn.

'Eamo, there's no easy way of saying this. I'm going home. I can't do this any longer.'

I looked at her, waiting for the punchline, but there wasn't any sign of one. 'Sorry. Home? Do what any longer? What are you talking about, Liz?'

She looked at me sadly. 'You know things haven't been right between us for a long time. I know you can feel it. It wouldn't be fair on either of us if I was to stay in this relationship.'

I felt my limbs turn to jelly. This was news to me, and I was completely stunned. As far as I had been concerned, everything was perfectly fine. Liz had never previously mentioned feeling unhappy, so where was all this coming from? I glanced at the rhinoceros, but he just shrugged in a bewildered fashion and mumbled something about melodrama. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and, when I was quite sure, the questions spilled out by the dozen. This had to be some kind of prank—a prank in very bad taste—and I certainly wasn't seeing the funny side of it.

Liz told me she had tried on numerous occasions to get me to sit down with her and discuss the various issues that were causing her problems, but that I had more or less fobbed her off. She elaborated, stating that I had been placing her second best, acting as if she didn't exist, and that I had been ignoring her cries for help.

This is crazy stuff, I thought, as I asked her to explain what she had just said.

'You know very well what I'm talking about, Eamo,' she said, a little testily, as she turned towards the bedroom door.

God, I hate answers like that—everyone does—and I could feel a touch of anger creeping in to mingle with the shock. Before I could respond properly, she left the room and headed downstairs. My thoughts reeled as I watched her go. This couldn't be happening. This was my soulmate, for God sake. This was the person I’d been destined to spend the rest of my days with. What the hell was going on here?

I jumped up in panic and made to follow, then stopped to put my jeans on. I remember thinking there and then—even in the midst of such chaos—that modesty was such a stupid emotion: funny how the mind works. Then, with protocol satisfied, I stumbled my way down the stairs to the living room, where I will never forget what greeted me.

Bubble-wrap.

Everywhere.

A massive roll of meter wide bubble-wrap sat in the middle of the wooden floor, the kind that would normally see action in the dispatch department of a factory or retail outlet. It was opened, and great lumps had been torn from it. Here and there, ornaments, pictures, utensils and other bits and pieces were thoroughly enveloped, resembling a troop of miniature mummies. They stood on the mantelpiece, the sideboard, any place they could gain a foothold, and I was almost afraid to enter in case they advanced in a military attack against me.

Amazed, I noted that a sizable chunk of my life was carefully being prepared for transportation to God-Knows-Where. My mouth was moving, but no sounds were coming out. Probably just as well, given the thoughts that were going through my head.

This whole thing was definitely not a spur of the moment decision. This was something Liz had planned meticulously over a long period of time. Let's face it, a person doesn't jump out of bed in the middle of the night, run off into town, break into a stationery store—thus becoming the world's first notorious bubble-wrap thief—and then instantly set about making use of the loot. That big roll had to have been hiding somewhere around the house until the time was right for her to implement her plan, so how come I hadn’t seen it?

Yes, big happenings had been going on around me, but I had somehow managed to miss them all. Had I been burying my head in the sand? Had I seen the signs, yet chosen to ignore them? No. At least, I didn't think so. All of a sudden, a terrible thought struck me: the woman I had been sharing my life with must be one of the greatest actresses of all time. Jodie Foster, eat your bloody heart out!

'What the friggin' hell is going on here, Liz?'

I was seeing red; blubbering, bouncing between anger and panic, and I don't think anyone could have blamed me. How could our relationship have gone from perfect to pointless literally overnight? It simply wasn't possible. I was surely missing something.

'Come and sit down, and tell me what's wrong. This is bullshit. You know how much I love you. Come on, Liz. Tell me what's wrong.'

She remained silent for a moment, taping bubble-wrap tightly about the trunk of a ceramic elephant; a rather surreal image by all standards. I could see sorrow in her eyes, and something else that I couldn't quite identify. Was it determination? I wasn't sure.

'There's nothing more to talk about, Eamo. I tried to do this before and I couldn't find the strength, but this time I have to. This has been building up for months, and I have only been putting off the inevitable.'

I stared, shaking my head in denial. Nonsense, I thought.

'Surely you knew things weren't right?' she continued. 'I'm sorry.'

A cold realisation of the seriousness of the situation was sinking in. 'Please. We can sort this out if you just tell me what needs to be done.'

'It's too late, Eamo. We've been through it all before.'

I hadn’t realised it, but the tears were now flowing. I couldn't help it. What could I say that would sound rational? After all, how can you convince someone that a situation can change when you have no idea what it is that needs changing in the first place? What do I focus on? What's the action plan? How do I solve this?

We regularly experience stressful problems on our path through life. Some of these can be extremely complex, but we frequently find ways of overcoming them. Once we identify the cause, we can set about rectifying the situation itself, and our determination will usually carry us through. In other words, problems with actual solutions tend to focus us, and that makes them manageable. But there was nothing to focus on here, no obvious reason for what was happening, and therefore no visible solution. This was already out of my hands and I was powerless to do anything about it. Liz was judge, jury and executioner, and the sentence was not open to appeal. Her mind was made up: she was going home—all the way to Derry—and that was that.

My futile efforts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. It was Kitty, Liz's sister, accompanied by Noley, a guy who worked with her father. They had just turned up with her car and his van; clearly pre-arranged, evidently part of the great plan. Both were well versed and well informed, and their arrival was right on cue. Kitty came armed with a basket full of patronising sympathy and a hug for poor Eamo, who would definitely recover from this, someday meet the girl of his dreams, gain strength from the experience and be a better person for the experience in every way.

That's how Superman gained his powers, I thought; getting screwed over by crazy women. What a load of crap! The girl of my dreams was standing right in front of me with a bubble-wrapped elephant, for Christ sake! Cop yourself on, Kitty, you aren't going to win any Oscars with that performance.

Liz was hugged, tears flowed. Noley regarded me with a compassionate but awkward expression, not really knowing what to say. He settled for a sympathetic nod of the head that spelled out more than a thousand words could possibly manage. I half felt sorry for him as he started to pack the immaculately wrapped items into his van. All I could do was watch. I was going mad. Welcome to the Twilight Zone.

My work phone rang. It was a client looking for something to be picked up, but my courier business was having a compulsory day off today. I diverted my calls to a mate of mine who owned a large taxi, and who sometimes covered for me if I was unavailable. I needlessly told him I was suffering from some kind of plague, and wouldn't be out and about today. He was over the moon. How nice. One man's plague is another man's caviar, it seems.

The turmoil and insanity continued around me. Kitty was back in my face, telling me again how everything would be fine, and how sorry she was. She told me that she knew exactly how I was feeling, as something like this had once happened to her but that she had gotten over it in time, never imagining at the time she ever would. I studied her expression of what I perceived as false concern for a few seconds, told her to fuck off, catch a grip, and leave me to hell alone. Then, broken-heartedly, I looked past her at my beloved soulmate as she continued with her departure preparations. Tearfully and pointlessly, I pleaded some more but it was clear I was wasting my time. Nothing I could do or say, at least at that moment in time, was going to make any difference. In the end, I just gave up and wandered out in a cloud of misery. What else could I do?

I leaned against the bonnet of the van for a few minutes and tried to gather my thoughts, but a dampening breeze scattered them chaotically around the road. Should I go back inside and try some more? What were my chances? Slim to zero, I reckoned. At the very least, I would need a clearer head in order to process things further. Right now, I was in shock. I had just done fifteen rounds with that rhino, so the moment was definitely wrong. Frustrated, I slammed the key into the ignition, and drove away from the bubble-wrapped asylum that had once seemed so much like home.

My life, as I had known it, had just been ripped to pieces, and I had no clue as to why. Worse than that was the increasing notion that I might never see Liz again. What kind of future would that be? Certainly not one I wished to contemplate; she meant everything to me.

I now understood the true meaning of ‘feeling like crap’, and I felt nothing but sympathy for the smelly little bugger.

- 2 -

My clever van delivered me to the seaside nursing home where my mother resided. Given my state of mind, I probably wouldn’t have made it there under my own steam. Most people have a tendency to seek the comfort of a parent in times of trouble, and, even at forty-eight years of age, I was no different. It was just human nature. However, in hindsight—there’s that damn word again, by the way—I really should have thought things through properly before inflicting myself on others. I was overloading, crashing like a damaged hard-drive, and it would have made more sense to reset and reboot first.

Ma had been living there for the past three years, comfortable and well looked after in cosy surroundings by the professional and caring staff. Once a very independent and active lady, the unfortunate onset of dementia had taken its toll, and the very same independence she had once treasured had ultimately become a danger to her safety.

At that time, the comfy sitting room was pretty full as many of the more mobile residents were in for a mid-morning cup of tea and a read of the daily newspapers. My arrival was acknowledged with a cheerful wave or two, and a few ‘Howiya Eamos’. Ma was watching television from her favourite chair, and she greeted me as Tom, mistaking me as she often did for my father. I took it in my stride, well used to it by now.

'See them buggers on the television?' she said, pointing at the Teletubbies. 'I hate them. Every time you turn the bloody thing on, they’re on, and they’re nothing but a shower of feckers. All they ever do is sing stupid songs, and they can't even speak properly. They're not Irish, you know.'

Distracted and all as I might have been, I was inclined to agree with her on that one.

I kissed her cheek and sat wearily in the vacant armchair beside her, but she warned me excitedly not to become too comfortable. She was getting ready to go roller skating—which I figured was a brave feat for a lady in her mid-eighties with a bad leg—and I was coming too. Whatever chance there was of me joining her as me, there was none as Dad, who had caught the Heaven Bus twenty-seven years previous. The skating was apparently back up and running again at the Whitworth Hall in Drogheda—even though the rink itself had closed down decades ago—and all the gang were going. We were all meeting up in The Genoa Cafe on Shop Street for a coffee first, and it was going to be great fun.

'Can't beat The Genoa for coffee. Might get some chips too.'

Seemingly, one of the nurses had gone off to fetch Ma's skates about an hour ago and she hadn't come back yet. She mustn't have been able to find them. She must be blind, because the damn things were sitting in full view on the shelf beside the bed, and Ma had already explained this to her at least five times.

'These nurses; buck stupid! All foreigners, you know,' she said in an irate manner. 'They don't even know what you are saying half the time.'

Out of the blue, she laughed, poking me on the arm. 'I shouldn't be saying things like that. It's not right. So I was told anyway. They mightn't be as bright as us, but they are still human beings, you know.'

An elderly gentleman sitting nearby raised a bespectacled eye from behind his newspaper and tut-tutted. Ma shrugged, lifting her eyes skyward.

'See? It's not politically correct,' she whispered, in a fake posh tone.

I smiled. She was in the best of form today, and it was great to see it. I loved those moments. In fact, I prayed for them before every visit. It is not easy to watch someone you love struggling with such a cruel illness, and cheerful moments like these lifted the spirit greatly.

That was when it struck me that I was being extremely selfish. I shouldn't be here. Ma had enough to deal with without my current problems adding to her confusion. It didn't matter that I had no actual intention of telling her what had happened; the point was mothers have an inbuilt instinct that enables them to see through any mask. They don't have to be told when something is wrong; they can sense it.

The urge to unburden myself—to feel the warmth of a mother's concern—was suddenly and inexplicably overwhelming, but how could I do such a thing? What purpose would it serve? It would serve no purpose at all except to cause her anguish, and I couldn't allow such a thing to happen.

I bit my lip and adjusted the mask, searching for the right moment to leave without drawing attention. Thankfully, after a few more revelations—none of them founded in reality—her enthusiasm subsided a bit, and I seized the opportunity. I held her hand, telling her how special she was; how she still always managed to make things that little bit better. The light of vitality may have faded in her eyes, but she was still my mother, and nothing could change that.

I looked around for God, just to give him a good telling off, but he hadn't shown up for work today. I should have known.

A kind-faced nurse arrived with snacks, and I stood to say my goodbyes. I kissed Ma's cheek, telling her I would be back out to see her again as soon as I could, and turned to leave. I was just at the door, holding tightly to my churning emotions, when she called after me.

'Hey Eamon, how come Liz isn't with you today? Is she okay?'

I swallowed, turned with a painted smile, and answered, 'Yeah, she's fine, Ma. She's just a bit busy with work at the moment, but she'll be out next time.'

'Aww that's good,' she smiled. 'Tell her I love her loads, and that I missed her today. Make sure to hold on to her, Eamon, or I'll kick your backside for you. She's a good one, you know.'

I made a run for the van, and just made it before the floodgates opened.

* * *

My attention levels were non-existent on the trip home and, after a few near misses, I decided to pull over and take five. As it stood, I was an easy target for a zealous cop on the prowl for drunk drivers, and I didn't need the hassle of having to go through the whole rigmarole of why I was driving in such an erratic manner. I found a small tree-enclosed clearing between the road and the river and parked up.

Everything was grey and dreary in the persistent drizzle, matching my mood to a tee. I sat in the cab and gazed absentmindedly across the Boyne at a long container ship, docked at the port opposite. The routine sounds of work drifted across as people went about their business, oblivious to my circumstances. Life had no intention of stopping on my account.

Ignoring the elements, I left the van and wandered through mud to the river's edge. I was quickly soaked, but I hardly noticed. I needed to think. I was just as wise now as I had been three hours ago when Liz broke the news of her departure. I rubbed my forehead, squeezing my eyes closed, as the onset of a pressure headache began to manifest itself, and attempted to concentrate.

I wondered if she was still at home, packing our lives into Noley's van. It didn't matter anyway, because it was pointless going back there right then. We would not be able to speak privately with the others in attendance, and I would almost certainly end up begging and pleading again. I wouldn't be able to help it, and it would probably work against me. No, I would give her some time to get things sorted, and then call her on her mobile phone in the hope that reason would prevail.

I stood and gazed into the gloomy waters. My heart was breaking. I felt lonely as hell already. The adrenaline rush from the initial shock was subsiding, and my strength was fading by the second. With the tiredness came confusion, and it became increasingly difficult to stay focussed. In addition, the inescapable feeling of déjà vu was profoundly disorientating. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened to me, and I was beginning to believe I was cursed. I clenched my fists in frustration, knowing full well that past experience in the field, so to speak, would not necessarily make things any easier a second time around. Nevertheless, I found myself splashing around in a pool of memories, grasping for anything to help me stay afloat. Unfortunately, everything I reached for seemed drawn towards a whirlpool of negativity, and it sucked in all in its path.

Apart from the emotional rending, the sense of loss, I found myself recalling the legal and so-called practical stuff that tends to devour what is left of the heart when two people part. I had been there, and it wasn't pretty. My ex-wife, Mary, and my old buddy, Declan, had prepared well during their two-year invisible affair, and I was lucky to end up with the shirt on my back by the time they were finished. Let's face it; it is very hard to put up a decent fight when you are hit first by a sucker punch.

Surprisingly, I had somehow managed to hang on to the house, but my bank account had gained an echo in doing so. Declan's then partner, Shauna, suffered a similar fate to mine, and the other two well organized financial and legal wizards had ridden off into the sunset, rubbing their hands and patting their purses.

Fair enough; so Liz and I weren't actually married, but we might as well have been for all we shared. Not that anything like that would kick off again this time around. After all, Liz was my soulmate, was she not? No need to be worrying, was there? I staggered under another wallop of déjà vu.

Seagulls cried overhead, their sean-nós laments a background melody to the unfolding soap-opera.

Yes, I had managed to hang on to the house—that goddamn, shitty, cursed house—and it was in that very same house that Liz and I had set up home together. I never should have brought her there. It was an unlucky place, soaked in bad memories. I should, in fact, have let the damn place go when Mary left, sold up, took my share, and moved on. It wasn't as if there was anything particularly special about it. It was just a crappy two bedroom terraced house in a one-horse village, and through time it had become a haven for all my problems. If it managed to become a source of dispute this time around, the damn place could go to hell. I'd rather be homeless.

Without realising it, I was shuffling closer to the edge.

Liz and I had met about a year into my divorce proceedings, and she had been my rock. In no time at all, we had fallen deeply in love.

I commuted back and forth between Spire, the village on the outskirts of Drogheda where I live, and Derry, her hometown, residing in her apartment on weekends. I remembered those journeys fondly as if they were only yesterday; that rush to catch the north-bound Enterprise train at Drogheda station on Friday afternoons, then changing at Belfast Central for the rest of the trip. I looked forward to them right through the working week, knowing Liz would be there to meet me at the other end, and the visits were always filled with excitement and fun.

Within a year, she and her cats had moved from the North, and we shacked up together in my seemingly cursed house. Liz straight away appeared to lift the jinx. Home felt like home again, a place filled with love, laughter and hope. Life was perfect.

We worked unbelievably well as a couple. The idea of self-sufficiency appealed, so we had set up our own small enterprise; a clerical and administration service for local business people. Lucky for me I had kept my little delivery service running as part of the overall venture, because now the admin service would most likely have to be wound up. At least I wouldn't starve. The clerical stuff was Liz's baby. I didn't have the sufficient know-how to keep that side of things going. In that department, I had just been the grunt, but, at least I'd been a happy grunt.

Damn it; who cares. What was the point in fretting about the stupid business anyway? It was pointless. Who cares about money or work—or any goddamn thing for that matter—with Liz gone? To hell with this shit!

The mirrored image of the leaden sky, fragmented by the increasing downpour, was hypnotizing. So commanding, so strangely comforting; it offered succour at a time when the value of a hug could be weighed in carats. No more embraces. No more plans. No more future. No more love. No more soulmate. No more Liz.

Let go, Eamo. Who needs it? The hill is too steep. Let it fucking go. You're too tired. Time to get some rest. Better to go where bullshit can't reach you.

'Excuse me, Sir,' said a voice from behind me.

Holy shit! I nearly jumped out of my skin. In fact, I nearly jumped into the goddamn river, only just managing to save myself and no more. Good God, what had I been thinking of? The horror of the moment struck home, knocking the stuffing out of me. I had only been seconds away from a swim with the fishies. What would that have gained? It might have seemed ideal for a few moments there, but as a long-term plan? It had its downsides.

Yet, here I was; drenched to the skin, raindrops trickling down my face in competition with the tears that had decided to flow again. I was shaking uncontrollably, an absolute mess, and now I was hearing voices in my head on top of it all. Tell me again about those downsides? Brilliant, I thought. Exasperated, I went to return to the van.

'Pardon me, Sir. Didn't mean to startle you, but I was wondering if you could help me?'

I swore in fright. The voice was real—not just in my head after all—and I had just walked headlong into its owner. It belonged to a rather tall and sinewy individual who had seemingly strolled in from the road to the clearing. He was considerably better dressed for the inclement weather than me, wearing a long black leather coat that sank below his knees, and a top hat … unusual by today's dress standards. A bluish cloud hovered about him as he puffed on a hand-rolled cigarette, appearing to take great satisfaction from it. I couldn't quite pinpoint it, but there was something vaguely familiar about him. I wasn't sure if it was just the whole Clint Eastwood thing that he had going on or whether I had met him briefly somewhere through work or friends. His hat was tilted pretty low on his forehead, and he was wearing a pair of reflective sunglasses, so it was difficult enough to make out his features. Why he was wearing sunglasses on a day like this was beyond me, yet for some reason they didn't look completely out of place. One thing was for sure; he wasn't what you'd call conventional.

He tipped his hat in a friendly gesture of greeting, and then went on to ask me an extremely disjointed question: 'I was wondering if you could direct me to an establishment that sells ham?' he said, as serious as you like.

I gaped at him, not sure how to handle this, at the same time rummaging in my pocket for the van keys. A good escape plan is essential when confronted by a would-be nutcase, and I was measuring the distance to the relative safety of the cab. This character was probably as high as a kite. His happy mood could change in a blink of an eye. Whoever it was that said that life was never simple was the maestro of understatement. Just when you think you're full up on crazy, someone hands you another spoonful.

'Pardon?'

'Ham,' he said, smiling apologetically. 'I was looking to buy some ham.'

Yep, that's what I thought he had said okay. He wasn't messing about either. As far as he was concerned, it was a perfectly serious question. In his own head—or dimension, or wherever he was residing—he was genuinely expecting a serious answer. This was daft, but it would probably be safer to play along given my situation. I glanced around. Nobody for miles. A sign on the riverbank displayed the words, Arsehole of Nowhere. Not good. Also, this guy was darn big. I am not normally a coward, but I am not a complete gobshite either. A little bit of discretion goes a long way in circumstances like this. This clown could turn nasty if I said the wrong thing here. He could be carrying a knife, even a gun, and I suddenly decided I had no wish for my ghost to have to read of my demise in the local obituaries. Bit of a turnabout from five minutes earlier, granted.

'Sorry, I don't have any ham, I'm afraid,' I stammered.

'No, no -- I was just wondering if you could tell me where I might buy some. You look a bit distracted there, man. You okay?'

'Yes, I'm fine. Not a bother. All good.'

He regarded me closely. 'You sure? You don't look fine to me,' he said, shuffling from foot to foot.

Oh God! Don't tell me he's settling in for a chat, I thought. 'No, seriously, I'm fine, err, thank you,' I assured him, in as coherent a tone as I could manage. 'Genuinely. Thanks all the same.'

He didn't look particularly convinced, but I steered things around by giving him directions to Drogheda in the hope of getting rid of him. It was only a few miles up the road, and ham was in plentiful supply there. I even mentioned the names of a few supermarkets to add a bit of substance to the nonsense. He thanked me profusely, tipping his hat a few times in an over-exaggerated display of gratitude, declaring he would go and check out my advice.

Lucky escape there, I thought, but just as I began to congratulate myself on my magnificent acting talents, he paused, seemingly struggling with something. He turned back, sucking deeply on his smoke, and regarded me with an expression of unease.

'Listen man, I'm not convinced you’re telling