A fry-up is bacon, egg, sausage and sometimes some black and white pudding, stuff you'd likely see in any (meat-eater's) fridge in Ireland.
Life with 2 drunks was unpredictable, you never knew when fists or furniture were going to fly. But give them their due, though they battered each other they rarely raised a hand to one of us.
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What?! This is a true story? Explains why you could freewrite so vividly.
Where did you all go on the nights you left?
Sometimes she'd sneak us into some pub, a few times we went to a refuge, an odd time we'd go to her mother's place, but often we'd just wander the streets until she thought he'd be asleep and then we'd go back home.
Was there ever harmony, fun? It's unbearable so far .
Not that I remember, but surely there must have been some. Perhaps we tend only to be able to recall the bad times because they make more of an impression.