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About Swords

So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

Nobody is coming soon

Fast forward a bit. I’m on my way to work, cruising down Sandymount Road. The sun’s shining, and I’m feeling good. But then, BAM! Traffic. Like, what’s the deal? It’s a Tuesday, not a Friday! I’m stuck behind this old lady in a tiny car. She’s going 20 in a 50 zone. I’m losing it. I’m like, “C’mon, lady! We got places to be!”

Stellar Victorian family home in Sandymount hits market for €3.25m