I nipped across to Dublin for a couple of days, to appease the gentlemen of tax—the French gentlemen of tax, that is. Unfortunately, I managed to screw up my drinking plans. A miscommunication occurred. Ooops. Ah well.

If anyone wants a drink in Dublin, and doesn’t want yet more black–hearted stout, go to the Porterhouse in Temple Bar. The landlord loves a good bitter, and serves guest brews from other parts of the island. He even has Gouden Carolus, my local brew from Mechelen.

The city’s very friendly. You can stand at a bus stop and find yourself in a conversation. I like that. But I was right to leave. There’s only one Paris.

I’m punting my Dublin poems to the magazines, to some success from kindly positive editors. I’d like, within a year, to have them assembled in a collection.

That collection will have bail on the front cover.