Bash on regardless. That is the cry dear chap. Through the funerals of friends. Trampling the rose gardens of enemies. Bash on regardless. - J. P. Donleavy

Life getting like a merrygoround with people getting on and off and no one paying for the ride.

Having over the years abided by my little commandments. [...] Not to end up being the man folk show their children. To say don't grow up dilapidated like him.

Darcy Dancer crossing the frosty cobbles of the farmyard. Snorts and stampings in the stables. The whinnies of Molly and Petunia. Who smell me near. Luke mucking out. Forking up the big brown lumps of dung matted with yellow straw and shovelling it into his barrow. At least someone is working. But I suppose I shall have to spout a few hackneyed words to pass the time of day.
"Good morning to you sir. It's grand to see you up and about."
"Thank you Luke. It's a chilly draughty old morning."
"'Tis that sir."
"Gives one a mind to thank god for inventing fire."
"Ah now you've said it, sir. On these winter days you need the little bit of hell the Lord puts flaming in a grate."