We were told it’s there until something happens to the land.
It’s Ireland, something happened to the land.
Since April “Do Not Attempt to Drive This Vehicle As It Has Been Clamped” got slapped all over it. I pictured a lad, wet to the job, ringing back to the office.
Dublin Port Company had stuck a camera on it for a week. Mike rang them from Hong Kong on his honeymoon. “The pink box? I can tell you about that.” Did they mind? Not a bit of it, delighted. The mystery solved and the head scratching abated.
Mike and Luke went sniffing around for a new limbo spot in the city. Rick knew a place and once it was art it was grand. Between death and the dogs. Course Luke loved it was nestled near a den. The 33th and the 48th and the 28th Itchen North and years after the 45th. The knots of recognition.
The gym was knocked, JCB tracks in the mud by the time they were ready for lowering. A different lad, same weirded out, moved it. The Corpo had just poured some immaculate tarmac down at the gate when they rolled in and mashed it. “Lads if you’re going in there go in there now.” The ground was hard inside and only getting softer winter bound. Shipwrecked boards cobbled together and over.
I missed the move, picking up the pieces in Mike’s Legoland later. So now it’s on wooded and rubbled land and people shadowed in the trees beyond. A 19 and you might snatch yourself a view. The codes are the same, they’re not any easier.