I try my best to pull into one of the corners to avoid the surge of people while we wait for Sean to arrive.
“Do you want a vodka?” Ronan asked.
“I sure do.”
He knew the way I liked it, with an equal amount of orange thrown in as he took the few steps over to the bar to order.
A few moments later, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Instinctively, I know who it is.
“Hey Sean, you got here.”
He walked around in front of me.
“Indeed, that Ronan over there? Better tell him to order me a pint.”
With that, I was briefly alone again before they both came back.
These are the best of nights. Old friends and lively banter in a city I love.
After a few minutes, Sean pointed out that we should enter the gig area and get good seats. Always a good idea when one of the members of the group is in a wheelchair.
A tall dark-haired woman was checking the electronic tickets on people’s phones before stamping their wrists. She was at the narrow conjunction between the small bar area and the larger gig area where seats were already laid out in a much larger room with a higher area where comedians would enthrall their audiences.
However, I simply drove through.
Does she think like I do, that people in wheelchairs are invariably honest or is it that I don’t need to be stamped cause I stick out anyway?
Ah well, c’est la vie.
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