Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

Zöe Beck I continued to see Flann, I was given a relatively clean bill of health, but somehow this made me unhappy. “Stress,” is what they finally determined, even the fortune teller. I should go away for a while and relax, and everything would take care of itself. “I’m not stressed,” I protested. “You just moved,” the neurologist in Edinburgh pointed out, “to another country…” “From England to Scotland, come on now!” I interrupted him. “For some, moving away from home is a big readjustment. And then you discovered your neighbor dead. That is

stress.” The neurologist emphasized that he had discussed this diagnosis with two other colleagues, and they concurred with him. That evening, I found myself back in St. Andrews in the pub at my - or actually at Flann’s - regular table, staring at my whisky and ignoring the Púca and his beer. “You’re going to have to talk to her eventually,” Flann said after a while, meaning Sam. “It will be hard for me to explain you to her,” I said. “Then you’ll have to end it.” It sounded logical and reasonable, though it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “Why won’t you just leave?” I asked him.

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