“Why do you insist on acting like a tourist?”

Weary with frustration, she often tired of his social experiments.  Relaxing at the pub on a Saturday night, Flaithbertach believed it simpler to pose as an outsider than explain his tedious Irish name.

“Where in Ireland are you from?”


“No kidding, we have a Dartmouth here too, just across the harbour.”

At least the Irish sounding answer enjoyed the advantage of being true.  To seal the deal, he always drank Harp, even though his budget in truth obliged a Keith’s.  His conspicuous journal, he thought, gave the impression of someone recording experiences for friends ‘back home’.  To his chagrin, he was more often perceived as an undercover narc secretly taking notes, and not a good-looking grockle.  But to his credit, he never attempted a plausible accent.  He never once tried to order a hearty helping of colcannon.

“That’s it”, she conceded with a grin, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Gracious in defeat and despite a stubborn allergy concerning change, Flaithbertach ordered a pitcher of Keith’s, one glass.