Ulysses
and hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City
Arms hotel table d’ hôte she called it. Soup, joint and sweet.
Never know whose thoughts you’re chewing. Then who’d
wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on
tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.
After all there’s a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of
things from the earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian
organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to
the animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there
at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their
skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering
bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers’ buckets wobbly lights.
Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody
bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches,
sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust.
Top and lashers going out. Don’t maul them pieces, young
one.
Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always
needed. Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary.
Famished ghosts.
Ah, I’m hungry.
He entered Davy Byrne’s. Moral pub. He doesn’t chat.
Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four.
Cashed a cheque for me once.
What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see
now. Shandygaff?
—Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.
—Hello, Flynn.
—How’s things?