Nolan's ark.

I mumble.

If you know me, you know this. I have to repeat myself a lot in person, sometimes slowly, sometimes with gestures.  If the guy in Costa doesn't quite catch what size I want my coffee I tend to follow it up by saying 'large' once more while holding my hands out flat with one about ten inches above the other. The 'cardboard box' gesture. Try it.
Big fish, small fish, cardb-, there you go. That's my symbol for a large coffee. To go, please.
It's one of the reasons I don't like talking on the phone. A lot of people have difficulty understanding me on the phone. My deep tone and my south Monaghan accent together just don't travel down a phone line well. (Also, on the phone or in conversation in general I have to think of stuff to say on the fly. That's HARD. In a text, in an email or even here I have better control over what I say. This sentence alone was probably rewritten three or four times before you got to read tit.)
So, yes, I mumble.
This is leading to a story. You know it is. I'll try keep it short.
My first eye test of the day was a girl from down in England somewhere. She was nice, polite and almost inhumanly cheery for 9.10 on a Friday morning. I popped my head out of testing room door, addressed her by her name and invited her in got her eye test. I gestured towards the testing chair and told her to "rest yourself there". I know I said those exact words because I tell everyone I test to "rest yourself there". I like that phrase. I feel it puts folk at ease quicker. (Though maybe it doesn't. Maybe nobody understands that either, maybe all they hear is "Reshyurrshelfder" and somehow find the chair on their own.)
I then introduced myself. Again, this tends to go like clockwork. I said, word for word, "My name's Noel, I'm the optician here today" and, before I had a chance to continue, she was straight in with a compliment.
"Noah? That's a nice name!"
I smiled a little. This happens a lot. I've drank many a coffee from a Starbucks cup with "Noah" written on the side.
I smiled, apologised lightheartedly for my thick accent and repeated my name. To hammer it home I told her I was born near Christmas. (I was.)
She smiled and giggled.
"Ohhhh, Nolan? Sorry! Nolan, that's a much nicer name."
I didn't want to correct the poor girl twice. I'd be spending the next fifteen minutes telling her the little N on the bottom left was actually a H and I didn't want to crush her spirit altogether so I let it go. I smiled again and went on with the eye test.

Nolan Finegan, pleased to meet you.

You go, grandpa.

I laughed today. I laughed out loud. I couldn't help myself.
I was walking down Victoria Street, the curved street that leads down into the Grassmarket. You know it, it has a sandwich shop with a dead pig in the window and an antique book shop.
Yes, that street.
Anyway, up the street came an Aston Martin V12 Vantage, the kind of car James Bond had in Die Another Day. This one wasn't invisible, though it *was* a convertible and had its roof down. Bitter as I am, I began to imagine in my mind what kind of WANKER was driving the car. I imagined a a young Duke of someplace. I imagined a Spanish football player, maybe with a supermodel in the passenger seat. I imagined that fat man who won the Euromillions and still can't help the fact that his head looks like a thumb.
The driver was none of those.
Behind the wheel was the oldest man I've ever seen, surely in his 90s and barely big enough to look over the wheel. He squinted at the street ahead of him with eyes that were almost closed. His skeletal fingers were covered in gold rings and he wore the BIGGEST fur coat I've ever seen. It looked a bear was trying to swallow him.
I don't know where he was going. Maybe he was away to a fox hunt, or to buy the whole of Aberdeen. At his age, he may have been on his way to his own funeral. I couldn't help but laugh at the whole situation. Out loud.
But then I thought, fuck it, fair play to the old chap. You can't take it with you. Spend your money while you can. Blow it all on fur coats and gold rings and £150,000 cars. To hell with the grandkids, they can earn their own money.
You go, grandpa.