Dublin

I'm done in Dublin. Four days of poker reporting and a hotel intent on screwing up the room service. But I was free-rolling when it came to a hotel room, so what the hell if it took two days to find the hair dryer.

It'll be good to get out of here, to clear my head of work stress and get back to the misery of Streatham. that's where the real action is afterall, and whilst the Heineken slowly works its joy-riding way around my veins I can contemplate other things. Like National Novel Writing Month, which my good friend Barron, a Republican to the core, has persuaded me to join. 50,000 words in a month. Sometimes I have no idea.

But first it's back to the hotel with my girlfriend for roughly six hours of time flying fast before the airport and home. It's been an odd one. I had compliments from places I hadn't expected, but still felt my work was flat. But they'll be others. Bugger it. You should never expect to find magic in a place like this. the magic is getting out feeling fine.