low day on the high sea.

Some days are like that.
The kind of days that, at home, necessitate the collection of a posse of near and dear and consumption of your alcohols of choice.
Youve dislocated your toe.
Youve had a sleepless night in a hostel bunk beneath a german girl that sounded like an invading panzer division.
The button of your jeans just broke waiting to clear customs.
You just lost your headphones and your camera case.
It could be worse, but all in all a forgetable day.

...

Ive come to the conclusion that Europe, or Britain and Ireland at the very least, would come to a grinding halt without the Polish.
They dont just do all the jobs that no-one else wants,
they do all the jobs.
Doesnt anyone else want to work?

...

A little euro-caberet over dinner last night.
An Irish Ferry.
On the ocean heading to France.
A table full of middle-aged french tourist.
A polish waiter trying to describe blue steak... in English.