Facility

I really want to be at the point in my life where, if I draw breathe mid-sentence, I am allowed to complete the sentence. It's never yet happened, and has rather coloured my conversational style: glib, witty, water-boatman shallow. I skate over the surface of discourse like Sonia Henie with a gobful of  Slimcea bread.* I'm past the age where being a charming adornment to your party is enough. I really think that if I'd ever been allowed to think as I spoke, I might have come to some pretty interesting conclusions. C'mon - it could have happened. 

Of course, I'd never have been invited onto the Vinny Hurrell show if I wasn't a gobshite, so swings and roundabouts, really...

* ask your grandmother and great-grandmother respectively. Or like, look it up. Two seconds. Jeez.