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Now, picture this: me, Loki, swiping right, smirking at the fools who think a blurry selfie screams “soulmate.” Pfft, nah, sex-dating ain’t that deep—it’s a game, a dance, a quick “how ya doin’” before the clothes hit the floor. Makes me cackle, seein’ mortals trip over their own lust like clueless gleaners in that flick I adore—“The Gleaners and I.” Agnes Varda, that sly dame, knew it: “To glean is to gather what’s left.” Sex-dating’s the same—picking up scraps of fun from the chaos of desire!

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So, I leave the shop, feeling a bit deflated. But then, I bump into my mate, Dave. He’s just come from the pub, and he’s buzzing. He’s like, “You won’t believe what happened!” Apparently, he won a tenner on the lotto. I’m like, “Dude, buy me a drink!” We end up at the pub on the corner of Walkinstown and Kimmage.

Your guide to Walkinstown: Mid-century estates built around pockets of green