DISPLACED IN MULLINGAR:THERE'S A NEW fish shop in Mullingar which sells fresh fish, so last week I decided to give up meat. I ate tuna, and haddock, and cod, and mackerel and shellfish, all week.

And I felt lighter. Which was good, because I had to appear in public on Friday evening.

I had a minor involvement with Moby Dick, a theatre adaptation of the book, which was playing in the Pavilion in Dún Laoghaire. When the show was over, the director and some friends were going to party, but I was tired, so I went off to my room in the Royal Marine Hotel.

I asked at reception whether there was any possibility of getting supper, but I was disappointed. Not even a sandwich was available, the receptionist explained, because the dining room was closed and the night porter was not yet on duty.

I went up the street in the lashing rain, passing two young police officers, who were sheltering at the entrance of the shopping centre. They were deep in conversation as I crossed over to Burger King, which was still open.

I was sitting at a plastic table, munching a big burger, when a woman came in, drenched to the skin, and sat down beside me.

“Well, I don’t believe it,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” As if people from Mullingar shouldn’t be in Dún Laoghaire.

I knew her years ago. She used to be a painter. She had a big room overlooking the sea, and she never had any money. But now she was wrapped in gold and silk, so I presumed she was no longer an out-of-work artist.

“Have you given up painting?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I am married to a solicitor and we have two children and a house in Wicklow.”

I said: “Lucky you!”

“What are you at?” she wondered.

I said: "I was at Moby Dick. In fact, I was in Moby Dick, this evening, in the Pavilion."

There was a pause.

“How is your mother?” I inquired.

“She has a new hip.” “That’s great.” “Yeah. She would be in a wheelchair, if it wasn’t for the new hip.” “What age is she now?”

“Eighty-seven.”

“Good God,” I exclaimed, “so you were the shakings of an old bag.” She looked annoyed.

“It’s just a metaphor,” I explained. “I don’t mean that your mother is an old bag.” “Good.” “Do you know that there is a statue of Joe Dolan in Mullingar?” I asked.

“No.”

I said: “It’s a literal replica of him holding a microphone. But it doesn’t work, because there is no metaphor. Art requires metaphors. You should know that; you used to be an artist. And good conversation is peppered with metaphors.”

She asked me had I been drinking.

I said: “No. But I’ve been eating fish all week.” She said: “You’re eating a burger.” I said: “That’s an exception. Because I couldn’t get a sandwich in the hotel.”

Clearly, she was getting uneasy.

I said: “You are a beautiful woman.”

Her brow was furrowed, as if she was thinking of phoning her husband to come immediately and rescue her.

“Text me your number,” I suggested, “so I can meet you sometime, when I’m up from Mullingar again.” She said: “Okay.”

In bed that night I dreamed a giant cat was chasing me.

And then I was awake in a great sweat and I couldn’t find the light switch. And then I slept again and dreamed that I was in charge of a zoo and the animals were going crazy.

The next morning I woke up feeling very fragile, so I sent a text to a friend, to cheer myself up.

“How-r-u? Me-in-Dublin. Met-woman-last- night.” The text went on to outline my opinion of her marriage to a solicitor, and how sad it was that she could abandon the artistic life, and the degree to which I desired her, and was lusting for her body.

And at the very moment I sent it, I realised that she had already sent me her number by text, overnight, and that she was now, perhaps, choking on her strawberries, or just lying speechless on her pillows, as she read the text that had just gone to her in error.

So, for breakfast, I decided to have two rashers, two sausages, and lashings of black pudding. There’s only so much fish any man can handle.