In an effort to comfort me in my terrible state (sick as can be, for those of you who wonder), the Guinness truck turned the corner and stopped ten feet from my window.
The truck was a MAC of considerable size and shape. The truck's trailer was the part that caught my eye.
Each side was painted sky blue, clouds floating liberally throughout.
And rising from the sky, a monstrous tap, labelled Guinness. Beside the tap sat the darkest glass of stout you've ever seen, with a blonde head to boot.
Now, I'm not plagued by methomania (an irresistible desire for intoxicating substances, again for those of you who wonder), but a pint of Guinness makes my day.
Any day.
I certainly enjoyed it when I sat quietly in the Brazen Head (the oldest pub in Dublin, some say), which was itself not at all quiet. The place was humming with jigs, reels, and the like.
And I enjoyed it on the edge of the world, hanging from the cliffs of Inish More.
And now that I think about it, Guinness simply reminds me of the place where it was born.
