Fake Irish Dancing and the Sorry Dog

I've taken to telling the good people of New Orleans that I'm Irish. I feel vaguely ashamed of this, but it's worth it, I think, for these cheers that erupt around the pub. Anything is better than the truth and those indifferent shrugs.

My Welshness is a big old duffel coat that I drop in a puddle outside the door of every bar. Inside, I take up fake Irish dancing. They love that, here in New Orleans; any kind of dancing. Watch me go, clacking my heels right through this crazy bar! My back is straight and my arms are down by my sides. I don't know what my legs are doing, but I have a face like a smacked arse, so that's alright. I wish now I'd paid more attention in the Irish dancing classes we'd had once in school. But instead I'd spent the entire lesson concentrating on pretending that the guest teacher — my mother — was of no relation at all.

Outside, my big Welsh coat is still sitting in the puddle, whimpering like a sorry dog. What?! Didn't you see how many drinks I was bought? We're running out of money, puppy, and I still want to get to Texas. Don't you want to come to Texas, you sorry dog?