By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors’ home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady’s cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won’t grow. O let him! His life isn’t such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won’t be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols’ the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O’Neill’s. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
Today’s is another passage of Bloom walking down the street in Dublin. I looked up the streets that were specifically mentioned, Windmill Ln, Townsend St, and Lime St. Townsend and Lime are about what you expect but Windmill Ln is covered in graffiti or at least it was. Apparently Windmill Lane Studio was the place where U2 recorded several albums and has very recently been torn down (source). It’s still unclear as to what’s going to happen to the graffiti wall, but apparently the developer is trying to preserve it. I walked through this area several times when I was in Dublin in 2013 and it’s amazing how developed it has become. I even did a drawing of a high rise luxury condo building that sat on the quay. I think the most interesting thing visually here is the children Bloom sees. As I read I thought to myself how miserable life must have been for children in turn of the century Dublin, and then Joyce goes right ahead and lays it out in the text. I looked up what offal is and it doesn’t seem appetizing at all (link to the wiki). It made me think about how people complain about hot dogs and not knowing what is in them. Apparently that’s not a new problem.