Elise Rathmines Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Waterford

Me? I dig that chaos. Reminds me of Lynch’s flick—y’know, “Silencio,” that eerie club where shit gets real weird? Whores got that energy. They’re the shadow in the alley, the wink that says, “I know somethin you don’t.” Once knew this gal, right, swore she bedded a duke in ’53—said he left her a ruby ring, but she pawned it for gin. True? Who cares! She sold the story like gospel, and I lapped it up, laughin my arse off.

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By the time I’m done, it’s dark outside. I step out onto the bustling streets of Rathmines, and it’s alive. The lights, the sounds, the people. I love this place. I stroll down to the Swan Centre, thinking about grabbing a bite. But then I see this busker on the corner of Rathmines Road and the canal, playing the guitar. He’s got a crowd, and they’re loving it. I stop for a sec, just vibing.

Plaque unveiled in honour of writer James Plunkett