Saturday, March 25, 2006


I see the grotty ballon seller drinking his larger surrounded by the meanance of brightly coloured ballons. It is Saturday lunchtime and as is my way I take solice in a pint of bear in the Liffey. The balloon seller has dirty raggeed grey hair that needs to be scratched. He is old, yet to know that he is broken. The balloons are tied to a chair and they bobble close to the ceiling, gently floating in the rowdy
Saturday Liverpool afternoon.


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