In the South Dublin suburb of Blackrock, James O’Donnell was considering one last nightcap before retiring and surrendering to a whiskey inspired slumber. He lifted his middle-aged frame from the chair, and deposited the book he’d been reading on the little table he kept close by. It formed a convenient receptacle for both book and whiskey glass, but not the bottle. He deliberately kept that on the far side of the room. In that way he resisted temptation for long enough to constitute what he considered to be a respectable period of abstinence. Not that he’d ever actually defined a ‘respectable’ period of abstinence. But whatever it was, he’d noticed it shortening recently. ‘James bloody Joyce, stream of consciousness rambling,’ he muttered, crossing the room. ‘Need to be lubricated just to keep up with it.’ He found the bottle and poured himself a generous measure. Then he sat down again and resumed his reading of Ulysses. This was his second attempt to get through the entire book without discarding it halfway.
