This week has been incredibly stressful at work. I’ve had a niggly injury which means I haven’t been able to run at lunchtime, which usually acts as a sure fire anxiety buster. Instead I’ve been largely chained to my desk, desperately trying to avoid the quagmire of office politics and gossip which have threatened to subsume me. Friday couldn’t come quick enough.
Hannah is at a youth club tonight in Larne, leaving Fionnuala, Rebecca and I with a couple of hours until we pick her up again. It wasn’t worth our while driving back home so we retired to the nearest fast food joint, a largely deserted Kentucky Fried Chicken. I wouldn’t normally frequent such eateries, but some days joy can only be found at the bottom of a bucket of fried chicken.
I discovered what a spork was. Genius! It’s up there with the moon landings and the wheel as far as I’m concerned. I also discovered they don’t serve Diet Coke (BOOOOOO!), only Pepsi Max. Meh. I reluctantly poured myself a glass after briefly considering smuggling a tin of DC in from the car. Even I have standards. I then explained to Rebecca who Colonel Saunders was. Sheesh! The youth of today.
Before too long the bucket was empty. ‘Do they only serve chicken in here?’ enquired Rebecca. ‘Yes,’ I replied wearily. ‘What about burgers?’ she persisted. ‘Yes. They’re called chicken burgers,’ I shot back in her direction. That shut her up for a while. There isn’t a lot to do in Larne I rapidly discovered, bar eat fried chicken. It’s a soulless place, with no apparent centre. Just lots of roundabouts.
It’s a town I don’t know, nor do I particularly want to know. There’s a standing joke that the only good thing to come out of Larne is the ferry to Scotland. At one point I found myself going the wrong way down a one way street, before almost accidentally boarding the outgoing boat. I don’t think Hannah would have been particularly impressed if we had phoned her from the other side of the Irish Sea.
We now have only 25 minutes to while away before the youth club ends. Thank God for blogging. Towns like Larne and my brain dead adventures around it have proven a writing lifeline and spared me the ultimate humiliation. Returning to KFC for seconds. A burger, possibly. One of the chicken ones. That Colonel knew a thing or two about product placement. 23 minutes….
Welcome to Larne. Abandon hope all ye who enter.
Where is your ‘Larne’?