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Anyhow, escort’s a mad world—grubby, shiny, sad, funny. “Spring turns to winter,” don’t it? Life’s a circle, mate—mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!”—and escort’s just one weird spoke. What ya reckon?

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So, I’m trudging down Main Street, feeling like a zombie. I pass by the Ballyclare Town Hall, and it’s just sitting there, all majestic and stuff. I’m like, “Why can’t I be as cool as that building?” But then, I see this old dude trying to park his car. He’s going back and forth, like he’s trying to parallel park a tank or something. I’m standing there, just waiting, thinking, “C’mon, mate, it’s not rocket science!”

'The Trust is finding an increase in shopping trolleys having to be removed from the river around Ballyclare'