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Ulysses 

283 

of

 1305 

—I will, Mr Bloom said. 

He watched her dodge through passers towards the 

shopfronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue 

canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison’s hugging two heavy 

tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. 

He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and 

thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw 

wagging as he spoke earnestly. 

Meshuggah. Off his chump. 

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him 

in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling 

stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two days. Watch him! 

Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world. 

And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time 

she must have with him. 

U.P.: up. I’ll take my oath that’s Alf Bergan or Richie 

Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet 

anything. Round to Menton’s office. His oyster eyes 

staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods. 

He passed the Irish Times. There might be other 

answers Iying there. Like to answer them all. Good system 

for criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the 

glasses there doesn’t know me. O, leave them there to 

simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of 

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them. Wanted, smart lady typist to aid gentleman in 

literary work. I called you naughty darling because I do 

not like that other world. Please tell me what is the 

meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell 

me who made the world. The way they spring those 

questions on you. And the other one Lizzie Twigg. My 

literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the 

approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). No 

time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of 

poetry. 

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the 

provinces now. Cook and general, exc. cuisine, 

housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit counter. 

Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork 

shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent 

dividend. Made a big deal on Coates’s shares. Ca’ canny. 

Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady news. Our 

gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the Irish Field now. 

Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her 

confinement and rode out with the Ward Union 

staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath. 

Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it 

tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like 

a man. Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion 

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for her, not for Joe. First to the meet and in at the death. 

Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women. 

Swagger around livery stables. Toss off a glass of brandy 

neat while you’d say knife. That one at the Grosvenor this 

morning. Up with her on the car: wishswish. Stonewall or 

fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Think that pugnosed 

driver did it out of spite. Who is this she was like? O yes! 

Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and 

black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel. Divorced 

Spanish American. Didn’t take a feather out of her my 

handling them. As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in 

the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in 

with Whelan of the Express. Scavenging what the quality 

left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking 

it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few 

weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No 

nursery work for her, thanks. 

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his 

madness. Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the 

educational dairy. Y. M. C. A. Eating with a stopwatch, 

thirtytwo chews to the minute. And still his muttonchop 

whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. 

Theodore’s cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in 

every family. Hardy annuals he presents her with. Saw him 

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out at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded 

and his eldest boy carrying one in a marketnet. The 

squallers. Poor thing! Then having to give the breast year 

after year all hours of the night. Selfish those t.t’s are. Dog 

in the manger. Only one lump of sugar in my tea, if you 

please. 

He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A 

sixpenny at Rowe’s? Must look up that ad in the national 

library. An eightpenny in the Burton. Better. On my way. 

He walked on past Bolton’s Westmoreland house. Tea. 

Tea. Tea. I forgot to tap Tom Kernan. 

Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a 

bed with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, 

her belly swollen out. Phew! Dreadful simply! Child’s 

head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her trying to butt 

its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me that 

would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to 

invent something to stop that. Life with hard labour. 

Twilight sleep idea: queen Victoria was given that. Nine 

she had. A good layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe she 

had so many children. Suppose he was consumptive. Time 

someone thought about it instead of gassing about the 

what was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. 

Flapdoodle to feed fools on. They could easily have big 

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