among the immortals

These are the salad days.
That is to say, we're having salad for dinner every day.
The old chateau is a hive of activity.
The scents and sounds of August fill the evening air.
Nephews and nieces running around the place. MC Hamster, Paddy Pup and Robindranath Tagore, exuding an Edenic amity. And we've just been joined by a new guest, Squealy Squirrel.
He needs a better name but I think he's going to fit right in.
A hive of activity indeed.
The only thing we're missing is a few bees.
I think my feminist cousin Pauline intends to sort that out next week.
Some business venture she's hatched with Papa.
I don't know what effect that idea has on you bold readers, but it sure scares the hell out of me.
Anyhoo.
Drove to the city late.
Seeking anonymity among the crowds of August.
Flumped in the Starbucks cafe on Dame Street.
Two Dublin Horrors sitting at an adjoining table.
By Dublin Horrors, I mean the class of girls who catch your eye, and mutter "weirdo" loud enough for you to hear it, and then keeping trying to catch your eye again to prove some arcane point of their own devising.
It doesn't help that while I'm sitting with my coffee, I've been reading an eminently depressing collection of James Joyce short stories called Dubliners.
The particular story I'm reading right this moment is a cosmically morose thing about men who are single.
It's art okay.
But for crying out loud, Joyce, cheer up.
James Joyce and the Dublin Horrors seem to be in alliance against me.
They ain't got nuthin nice to say.
The ghost of Homer appears at my shoulder.
The great philosopher whose thinking underlies the entire western tradition of scientific discourse and method.
I wonder what Olympian wisdom he'll impart.
What great liberating insight will he bestow upon me from the Elyssian heights?
"Don't mind them Heelers," he murmurs. "They're just provincial pieces of s--t trying to project their unhappiness onto someone else."
"Joyce or the girls?" sez I.
"Yes," sez Homer and vanishes.
I'm telling you folks, I've got to stop listening to advice from imaginary neoclassical philosophers.
It can't be normal.
The two girls are trying to catch my eye again.
I groan inwardly.
Hmmm.
What would Bart do in these circumstances...