I am in an Irish bar. A man plays Que Sera on the accordion.
Sam is working as a part time barman. He spends most of his time chatting up women. He tries to convince me that Guinness is £5.25 a pint. I tell him we aren’t in London. Our friends come in for a bit then leave. Sam leaves with them.
I am talking to a group of women. I demonstrate how to fix someone in a chair using the power of suggestion. Then I explain how we limit ourselves everyday with our own suggestions that we are not good enough, pretty enough or smart enough.
Peter the Postie comes in. I haven’t seen him in years. He still talks nonstop. He looks run down, and like he has been stabbed in the upper chest some time ago. Dried blood cakes his shirt.
He’s here to do some training. He keeps treading on my scarf and dripping blood on it.