Jan and I had some business in Charlottetown yesterday. As we were waiting to cross the street I saw somebody I had not seen for a while. He was looking more well-dressed than I remember being usual for him; no doubt this was a result of him being very good at what he does and being promoted accordingly. We crossed the road against the light to chat for a minute. I told him he was looking good and asked him what he was up to.
“I’m livin’ the corporate fuckin’ dream.” was his response, spoken with deliberate deadpan clarity. I still think of the possibilities of corporate life and the steady paycheck (and so do many others). It is good to be reminded that the dream may not be all bunnies and unicorns.
I finally finished a bottle of Bushmills ten-year-old single-malt Irish whiskey that I carried back from a trip to Ireland that Jan and I took a while ago. I am not a particularly heavy drinker. Well, check that; I am indeed a drinker (a little) and according to dubious science I am indeed heavy, so I guess the previous statement is not strictly true. But around the ole household a bottle tends to last quite a while. The aforementioned Bushmills has lasted more than fifteen years.
When I had the bottle’s lifetime pointed out to me I realized how many people have taken a drink from that particular bottle (via a glass mind you), I had more than a touch of melancholy. A lot of good people (certainly as far as I am concerned) have bent an elbow holding a glass of that whiskey (including my father who reached for it rather than a more common Canadian variety beside it when he desired a base for his drink with ginger ale). Some of the melancholy likely came from the funeral scene in Waking Ned Devine which was playing as I finished my glass.
So, in keeping with he end of the movie and the history and heritage of the bottle, I toast the friends that shared it with me and the fond memories of those times, Sláinte.
