It's cold, she says, and it's damp

Macy didn't sign up for Ireland, she tells me, grumpily, lagging behind on Pearse Street. It's cold, she says, and it's damp. And where's all this supposed singing and dancing?

It is ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning, Macy. What did you expect; Riverdance? This isn't Austin. Here, I say, waiting for her to catch up. You can wear my coat. It looks better on her than it does on me. Funny how a big old fur coat looked really fucking cool in Texas but just seems kind of silly here in Dublin. I think about the antique spurs I found in Nashville. Wow. They are going to look really dumb.

I'm shacking up for a few days at Rosie's place with her and her flatmates. It's cosy at Rosie's; fairy lights and Irish accents and hot rum. But these people can't sit around entertaining me forever; they have jobs to keep and work to get done. Don't you know there's a recession going on? Yes, and today I have to get up at a reasonable hour and start 'rebuilding my career' etcetera. What would it take to go back and live in America, is all I can wonder, pressing my nose up against the window of the job centre.

Macy says gay marriage is legal in Maryland, which makes me snigger. I can see myself walking up to the authorities: I just had a lesbian wedding with my imaginary friend. I think you'll find I'm now entitled to a working visa!