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Found this one gal—*mimes tippin’ hat*—all red lipstick, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Got any dough?” she says, smirkin’. I’m like—*mumbles, pats pockets*—“Only bread dough!” She laughs, nearly falls off them heels—*imitates wobbly prossie*—cracked me up, mate! Felt all happy, like when I nail a sourdough. But then—*frowns, kicks air*—some drunk git yells at her, “You’re filth!” Made me mad—*grrr, shakes fist*—who’s he to judge? Ain’t his coffee plantation burnin’ down, like in *White Material*. “Everything’s falling apart!” Isabelle’d say—prossie’s life too, innit?

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By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. I hit up a local pub on Clanbrassil St. for a pint. I sit there, nursing my drink, and think about how wild the day was. Dundalk, man. It’s got its quirks, but it’s home. I love the chaos, the people, the stories. Even if a seagull tries to rob me.

Death Notice of Christine Newell (Dundalk, Louth)