We all have our own troubles. Leo and Micheál are battling away in the cage for the title of Taoiseach and me, well, all I'm worried about is dressing up like Dolly Parton.
Back in 1997, 22 years ago, the women of Ireland lived five years and four months longer than the men. According to some, this was the golden age of men. We did very little housework, even though we died young.
The Man Who Knows Everything pulled an all-nighter. He said the last time he stayed up so late was on the first night of the honeymoon, back in the holy fifties, when that sort of carry-on was scarce, unless you were wearing the two rings.
I was thinking of ringing in sick this morning, even though there was nothing much wrong with me. I was a bit hoarse from roaring at a match but I'm not being paid to read the news. Seeing as writing is a silent occupation, I would never get away with it.
There are farmers and their mams and dads who are living in permanent dread of the new rural broadband project. They are terrified. The eldest sons of farmers are being ruthlessly targeted by the doxies.
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