She walks with tiny steps, which are designed to make her look as if she is floating. This only works if she wears long flowing skirts, but she only has rags now, the stained and ripped remnants of once fine garments. So her gait looks stumbling, as if her feet are tied together. Perhaps she’ll fall.

He walk, the dress, so much more about her speak of so much forgotten hope, of crushed dreams and dreadful sorrow. Her eyes are shrunken, the dark rings beneath look deflated, as if someone let out all the air. She has cried so much that the wrinkles of her cheeks have formed craggy little riverlettes leading salt water away from her bloodshot darting little eyes.

But there is still strength there too. Again its her walk that gives it away. She’d get further if she opened her legs, a little, but continues her chaste little march.

So is this why you love her, her ever defiant strength, that despite so much she still stumbles on?

You are wrong. This is not strength, its is cowardice and weakness. If she was brave she would lie down and accept her life. She would stop taking baby steps and walk. She’s holding herself back, trying to do nothing, desperate to do something, always moving in a parody of movement, in tiny baby steps, as if her feet are tied together, but designed to make her look as if she’s floating.

Dublin has a burgeoning café scene, with enough choice for anyone to find somewhere to feel at home in, and after all, what is a café but home with someone else making the sandwiches? Other than your ma. From the bohemian chic of Café Irie and Gruel, to the commercialism and luxury(-ish) of Starbucks and Butlers Chocolate Café, the full spectrum of Dublin’s cafés are united by one central characteristic: they are all cripplingly expensive.

Anyway, for all you lovely people with more money than sense here’s Jackdaw Fool’s guide to Dublin’s cafés.

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Nazi ducks attacked the swan and killed it. Dark red blood stained its white feathers, and its black eyes misted grey. They were no end of trouble, the ducks, and when the parish council said they’d pay five pounds for every Nazi duck killed Mr Greenwitch got a greedy look across his fat face. He set off down to the pool where the river slowed and the ducks were known to hangout, with a shot gun and a big bag to put his enemies in. The next day he was found floating face down about a mile down stream, the ducks circling him and quacking raucously. They were blood thirsty to be sure and arrogant as anything. The reward was increased and open season was declared, but no one else had the heart to try.

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The importance of Hildebrand to his children was negligible. They barely noticed him at all, nor should they, he hadn’t seen them since he’d left to open a beach bar, back when they were three and four, and the last thing he ever said to them was not to trust their mother, ’she’s a bitch’ and to ‘keep an eye on your money ‘round her’.

No, they had never really thought of him at all, except when their mom cried or shouted. They associated that with him. Not that it was related to him at all, she hardly thought of him either, but she was rather free with her emotions. Her own mother had told her that if you felt like crying you should, or it would twist your head, and as such she cried when she felt at all sad and laughed when happy. It made people wary around her, she appeared volatile but was really just honest.

Indeed Hildebrand barely remembered he was ever married, or that twice he had tried to persuade his wife that they weren’t ready for a child and twice she had quietly said it was her decision, and loved him a little less. But then this story isn’t about them next door, and him what used to live there. But it is about their garden.

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What are you listening to this week?

Muhammad (Momo) Al Bakiri Zawerrk, Suicide bomber, Iraq

Mr Bombastic, Shaggy
This was my nickname at the camps. I got all the steps to it down. You gotta love the beats. Classic

Boom shake the room, Fresh Prince and Jazzy Jeff
Obvious innit? Its me job

Two tickets to Paradise, Eddie Money
That’s where I’m headed. Palm trees and blowjobs all the way.

Highway to Hell, AC/DC
Great track. Me and the lads psyche up before a blast by listening to this in the dressing room. ‘Cause its were we’re sending the infidel like.

Bootilicious, Destiny’s Child
These girls are what I’m hoping my virgins look like. Bootilicious for me babe!

Muhammad has successfully completed 17 suicide bombings and recently bettered his personal best of 121 people killed in one blast. He is currently in training for this summers Jihad Olympics. Good luck Momo!

The twack of willow on sharp red leather, the crisp white uniforms, the knees stained green and thighs red. Goodness, what a delight. Could you spend a more pleasant afternoon, a more pleasant morning even? Nonsense sex has nothing on this. The rhythmic rush of feet, the gasp of breath as a ball slams into padding. The bright blue sky, beladen with fat yellow sun! We stand here, under god, to do his work. The bowler runs, chucks and the ball spins and rushes towards the modern Knight errant. Thwack it shoots high and away, the silly mid-off dives and his back arches high in the sky, hands coming together. But too late, the ball is gone, but one bounce and a four is given. The knight waves his willow sword and acknowledges his ton. A cloud wonders across the sky, raising a smile from us all, it reminds us that winter is past. Love now is here, is summer, is cricket.

It’s hard to remember quite who you are. All the air has been forced out of you, and somehow you can’t quite fill your lungs again. The first thing you properly feel, other than confusion and panic, is the particular weird pain of a grazed chin. Its strange that this is the first thing to wonder through the mists of your head, as you try to work out what you’re looking at, is it grey bread? But then, other things start to become clear, you know, for instance, that movement is not your friend right now, but that if you don’t move, you might not ever again. There’s a feeling of being drained, as if you knees are shitting. Its your blood seeping out. You can still feel, like the cliche goes, your feet, but then, they still exist. You can see them, over there. But whatever, you’ll soon realize there’s no getting over this one, and if you survive it, you’re fucked for life anyway. Your into one of those ’sipping shepards pie through a straw’ gigs.

You knew what you were doing, too. You walked out there, between to the two earth banks and listened to the quiet squeal of the metal planks that pass either side of you. You know that the light in the distance is some sort of terrible doom, but you have to bare witness to it as well. Perhaps it was worth it. You won’t write again anyway. But thats ok, because you’ve seen and felt just about the best there is.

Oh my God! Have you heard? They have sold the fucking Ilac Centre. Some shit head company have bought the jewel in the crown of Dublin. Like a beautiful golden crown nestling in a dirty matted hair.

Bequothed to the city by the illustrious Count Reginald von Clovis, the Ilac center was originally designed to host the great Peace conference of 1923. Following the League of Nations inspection, however, it was felt that the Centre was too glamorous a venue and the conference was moved to New York. As a direct result of this the USSR pulled out. I do not blame them.

Following a sell out show in both the west end of London and Broadway, the Ilac returned to its humble routes in Dublin. For years the Ilac was reputed to be not only the inspirational character behind the Great Gatsby but also the Supertramp song, You’re So Vain.

In recent years the Ilac has released a string of hit singles, following its massive win in 1998 Eurovision, and is due to go on tour later this year to support the release of a greatest hits album.

Have you ever fallen over and not wanted to get up again, ’cause like in a few minutes you’ll only fall over again, but harder this time? Do you ever wonder why you’ve botherd to get up, to open your eyes, why you just don’t lie on your bed pretending and lying to yourself that your asleep. That you could be happy. Really? Jeez, sort yourself out.

I’ve no time for this moping laugh. Get up and out into the sunlight. Grab a drink, that’ll perk you up. Have another sip there and pass the can. There’s good boy. Now let go, I know a pitch up by O’Connell Bridge, you can make like €30 in twenty minutes, and I’ve a pack of rich tea that’ll tide us over. You know that burning hunger, the feeling like you’ve just been punched in the stomach? Like it? I love it. It makes my brain real sharp.

Here we are. Have a drag on that. Benson’s are the best aren’t they? Real strong flavor. So, whats up? Want to go halves on that cider? Go on, I’m going to the offie in a wee while. Legend. See, we’ve barely sat down and we’ve got a couple of quid already. You stick with me child. I’ll see you through. Winters past. We’ve months of this, balmy blue skies. Drunk young lovers out for a night. We could be lovers.

Wild eyed publicity whore Bobby Sands has declared his intention to release a new diet book based on his wildly successful weight loss program. Since he took up the scheme it has become very popular in his work place, with colleagues literally keeling over themselves to join the plan.

Indeed the weight has been falling off Sands, and although his latest fashion and interior design tips are perhaps not going to be making a splash on the high streets, fashionistas are already talking his Milan show to be highlight of this years calender.

When asked whether his new role as life guru to Rene Zellweger, amongst other higher profile celebrities, was inspired by some political goal he said, “Absolutely not, politics isn’t sexy!”

Bobby Sands new book, ‘One Day in My Life’ is available in all good nutritionists.