In Bewley's Oriental Cafe in Dublin, seated on red plush beneath the stained-glass windows, Oliver awaits an almond bun and a cup of coffee and considers his existence. Art gallery attendant and vintage car enthusiast, Oliver boorishly collects parking tickets and pursues Lily with less than ardent consistency.
achine until it shone like the coffee cylinder in the cafe. I have always associated polishing with fire-engines. I recall the night Lily set fire to the chimney, panicked, rang the fire-brigade and when they arrived asked them could they not have sent a smaller tender.
When work on the car was finished, I tapped a front tyre with my foot. If it had been a hedge I would have pulled a leaf off. I felt I needed to do something.
Percolation 14th May
I parked the car along St. Stephen's Green and walked down Grafton Street to the cafe thinking what a fine job Harry had done on the motor.
Breakfast over, I stepped out into the street again. It was raining. I was just in time to catch an umbrella in the face. I made it clear to the woman that I was of the opinion that all short people should have tall umbrellas. The incident gave rise to an impulse. I went back into the cafe and telephoned the gallery to say that I could not attend work this day owing to