The Black Bishop

And as there are two black bishops on a chess board, I happened to photograph his twin brother just a few seconds later, who was inside the Gallery of Photography. A bit of a twilight zone moment. 
The following moment was not as much of the twilight kind as of the Armageddon type as I ventured into Temple Bar on a late Friday afternoon. The place where the Hens from Wolverhampton meet the Stags from  Burnley. 
And also the place where Soob and TallGirl (who, to my great surprise is not actually called TallGirl in real life, although she is tall, and chatty - in two languages - and about to embark on a great career in repairing people) had checked into the U2 hotel. Apparently Bono was taking their details at the check-in desk while the Edge and Larry Mullen Jr were taking their luggage to their room - or maybe I just dreamt that last bit. 

I was delighted to meet them in a burger place in the heart of Temple Bar surprisingly devoid of nuns with willy hats or inebriated lads dressed as super heroes with fake boobs. 
The following two hours just vanished in a whirlwind of conversation that managed to cram quite a variety of topics into such a short lapse of time. A random few included instruments for amputations and their relative merits, thieving of novel clauses in contracts that should be copyrighted, the criteria to measure obesity in dwarf rabbits, the French terms for car parts likely to fail in ageing motor vehicles, the prevention of indoors frostbite in February in the Tarn region, and at the other of the spectrum the allocation of shaded areas outdoors to suit all seasons. We also discussed the months of the year when it is relatively safe to eat oysters (all the months in French with the letter R in them - except February). 
Blipfoto is a magic place. It is very rare when you actually meet someone for the first time and are able to comfortably discuss projectile vomit within an hour. But Soob and I have actually known each other for over a decade now. And have seen our respective kids grow. Or heard of their growing. I opted (and forgot) to take a photograph of the moment. I also know that one does not mess with a GDPR lawyer and the right to their images. 
Thanks a million for the saucissons (plural!) Soob. They were dully sampled the moment I got back home. The one from Pierre Fabres especially has taken quite a hit, without the help of an amputation wire. 

Then it was off to a work social gathering in the Bank (an ingenious name for a pub/restaurant situated in an old bank). And the rest of the Procurement team had wasted no time in procuring liquid assets. The spirits were high, and knocked back at an alarming rate. I watched in fascinated horror, as I sipped on my two blue label Erdingers. It tastes surprisingly like beer, the weird thing though is that one would not ever consider consuming the same quantities as the alcoholic version. It must be some strange thing to do with chemistry or physics or biology, and nothing to do with addiction. 
I had great craic and overall the conversation was not as messy as I may have hinted earlier. It only started to deteriorate around the 10 PM mark (when All-Chat-Pat reached the 12 pints threshold). 
A good day.