Observed (twice; once in a shop, and once on a sweet thing in Temple Bar) in three inch high block capitals on the front of a solid coloured T-shirt:
"WILL FUCK FOR COKE"

Last chance for Euro-goods kids...looks like I'll be back in the land of endless winter sooner than I expected. All orders should e-mailed. Legal, smuggle-able objects only please.

Not that I expected an answer, but apparently a man has, above all else, to plan properly, and allow life to take its course past that.
Enough of that though, because today marks a very special turning point in your intrepid correspondent's existence; Yes dear readers, tonight I made it home in Dublin without being lost in the slightest. While so drunk I could hardly walk, no less. Going back to the last time I was in this wonderful cobblestone maze, I had never made it home from an evening out without a guide or a cab...tonight though, I finally came into my own in the crowded knot of humanity that is Grafton Street.
More later, once the three televisions I'm seeing right now merge back into one.

What does a man have to do? What exactly does a man have to do?

If work refuses to provide decent chairs, thus fucking with my back, and if work further refuses to provide decent training, thus fucking with my stress level, can yoga, intended to repair the back and reduce the stress level, then be considered a work activity?