Yesterday the contents of a tub of spiced split pea soup from the farmer's market leaked in my purse while I was walking Sam around town. (That's what I get for multi-tasking.)

While this happened unbeknownst to me, I noted two curious phenomena. One: all the old men of the town were out walking, either on their own, carrying small plastic bags, or with a dog, usually small and robust. One old man walked up a hill with a large cross slung over the shoulder, bearing a poster printed Jesus is the High King of Ireland. Two: there were people obviously new to the town, often spotted standing at crossroads, looking perplexed; they are never on their own, and speak what I think is Ukrainian.

Later I attended a wedding beside Lough Eske, watching the water shimmer and darken while chatting with the husband's cousins. The priest arrived late, taking his place at the top table with a sheepish look; when ABBA came on, he was the first person on the dance floor. Three of the husband's aunties told me, on separate occasions, that they had not recognised me, and a cousin kept exclaiming over how much I had changed. We returned home late, taking back roads into silky blackness, and later I dreamt about the pair of glasses that the husband had misplaced.

I dreamt that I dreamt that the glasses were in the glove compartment of the car, and spurred by this dream, I retrieved them. I also dreamt that they weren't in the glove compartment after all, and I felt foolish for relying on a dream to find them. My dreams went on and on like this, and so I got up early, instead of sleeping in as planned, and checked the glove compartment. Reader, the fucking glasses weren't there.

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