Sunset boy

Luca and I when for a most invigorating postprandial walk on the west pier. 
Actually, invigorating is a bit of an understatement. It was shaggin freezing! Especially when put in the perspective of the previous day. The car thermometer said 8 degrees but it felt like 2 or 3 max, in a cutting north-easterly wind. 
We walked and talked fast, to try and stay warm. 
Before the walk there was some fun reminiscing. Mimi was discussing road kill and urban legends about restaurant that feature road kill on the menu. I told them about the time I jogged for 6 kilometres with a dead pheasant in my hand. I was at the time training for my second Dublin marathon and I usually had a long stretch along the bottom south of Phoenix park, between Chapelhizod and the Guinness brewery. I saw a beautiful pheasant cock taking off from the park, clearing the boundary wall and getting hit by the top windscreen of a speeding Dubin bus. The poor thing was killed instantly and landed 10 meters ahead of me on the footpath, in a shower of colourful feathers. The poor thing was also extremely appetising and I had plan for it that didn't involve featuring in a fox's feast. 
So I picked it up and started jogging back home with my dead pheasant. I did get some weird looks. And I didn't even have the lilac shorts any longer at that stage...