I finally get myself a light and my cigarette tastes like sweaty balls and cancer. But I persevere. Maybe the last few puffs will be more like old times. I thank the little old lady who provided the Bic lighter and she tootles off with a bashed-up tartan trolley-bag trailing behind her. Strangford looks kind of nice and all, but what the fuck are we meant to do here while we wait for the bus? The prick at the shitty wee ferry place laughed at me when I asked him to take us to Newcastle. It was a serious question, like. How are you supposed to know it only goes to one other town? The brown signs don't even mention it. Surely it'd make more sense to put that on the sign instead of a picture of a boat? The ferry doesn't even look like a real ship anyway. The deck's all flat and full of cars and the driver, or whatever you call the guy steering it, sits in some sort of tower. Fucking stupid, so it is. Conan seems to like the place, though. "I smell fish, Danny." "That's because we're close to the water." "No.
