Moving On

I've just moved house and it's more wonderful than I can ever have imagined. Already the din of the nightly sins of Botanic have begun to erode in my mind, only to be replaced by the chirruping of the birds in Ormeau Park.

I've already tried to get in with the Ormeau attitute. I've stopped hissing at tramps. I've not seen a single piece of human faeces or one hypodermic syringe yet and I've yet to batter any coked up teens at 4 in morning. If I ride my bike on the promenade-like roads here I have enough space to manoeuvre around BMW owners who seem to think I like the gritty taste of asphalt. I felt so whimsical yesterday I went and bought an ice cream and stood on the street corner in the sun for a while without worrying that some scally might be stealing the oil from my boiler back at the homestead.

Perhaps I'm infatuated, perhaps the cracks in the veeneer of the Ormeau shall appear, but for now, all is well.