What a week. Four funerals attended, done nothing but rain. But come Saturday week I don’t care if the sun does hide. For then strong-limbed young Bridget becomes my flame-headed Bride.
Oops, not Rams Island, not even Northern Ireland.
My take is set in Wicklow, just south of Dublin. Why? Cos I once knew a guy from there who lamented an entire summer school holiday (2 months, no less) of non-stop rain. He said that’s what Ireland’s so green.
Wrotten for What Pegman Saw