Take me back to squandered days on the riverbanks of Leitrim

DISPLACED IN MULLINGAR:I WAS IN the cafe at the Mall, standing in the queue behind two African women who were laughing and touching each other affectionately, and squeezing each other's hands as they chatted. They had long dresses; one was lavender, and one was gold. They were ordering apple tart and cream.

The lavender one changed her mind and decided to have a breakfast instead. She wanted to know if there was a standard price, or could she pick and choose a few bits.

"I don't want the whole thing," she said.

The girl behind the counter didn't understand her. So the African lady gave up.

"I will just have a muffin," she said.

They arrived at the checkout.

"Are you together?" the girl asked.

"Yes," the first one said, laughing, "We are together." They paid.

I was next, and I was alone.

"Coffee please," I said.

"Black or white?"

"Black." She delivered it.

"Now," she said, "Is that all?"

"Yes," I admitted. "That's all."

She had darkly painted eyes, and I was tempted to invite her to join me; to sit with me at the balcony and ease my loneliness. But I resisted. It is almost impossible to be overcome by passion at a cash register.

"Lovely day," I chirped. But she showed no interest in the weather.

I used to have a boat in Leitrim. I would mooch about the riverbank all summer, tracking a kingfisher that lived near Drumshanbo.

In Mullingar I must make do with sun shining through the roof of a modern mall, and endure the human species fretting all around me, instead of kingfishers.

A child, putting his plate of chips on a table, misjudged the move, and the chips went all over the floor.

A girl in uniform came and told him not to worry; she would get fresh food.

His mammy said: "Now look, she's going to get you more chips. Isn't that great?"

The little boy agreed. The girl returned with fresh chips, and then swept the food from the floor into her scoop.

The two African women tucked into their breakfast and pretended not to notice.

Later I walked to an east European store, where I bought coffee beans. The store was clean and as quiet as a library. The sun shone on a blonde-haired girl behind the counter as she read her book.

"I drink too much coffee," I joked as I pocketed my change, but she hardly noticed me.

As I walked home with my bag of coffee beans, three teenage girls passed by in white tracksuits and plastic anoraks. The one in the middle was older than the others and she walked with the confidence of a leader. The younger ones chewed gum and flanked her with great care and attention.

I expect they were going to the park to sit on the seats beneath the trees, smoke cigarettes, text their friends, chew more gum, and generally enjoy the lovely day.

I returned to the house and put the coffee beans through the mill, scooped the soft dust into my espresso machine and listened to the news on the radio as I waited for the coffee to brew.

Mullingar is part of Europe now, and Europe is rich, and everyone in the world wants to gatecrash. Refugees come in little boats, squashed like sardines, and then fall out and die, like frightened humans, before they reach the shore.

I do not belong in this Europe of special offers and cheap toiletries, and shopping aisles that never end. But I have made my bed, and ruefully I must lie in it, stand in it, queue in it, and be grateful for my iPod, my diesel jeep, my coffee-maker and my microwave.

I would like to go home, to Leitrim, and push the boat out once again, into the brown river water, and squander all the lovely days of summer, in the hunt for nooks and crannies along the Shannon; boggy places of heather and whitethorn where, without clock or wireless to measure the day, I would moor my boat, and lie on the grass and idle the time while the kingfishers fished.

Instead I just go on drinking coffee made from beans harvested by women in far-off countries, who sometimes dream of boats, as they watch their children starve to death.

mharding@irish-times.ie