Next morning, a fitful sun shone on at least a score of unconscious nomes. Brenda had found a pair of dolly sunglasses with which she sought to dull the pain in her head.
“What the frag?”
Granny showed her greenish dentures. “You’re hung over, you are.”
Brenda looked at her belly. “No more so’n usual.”
“Nah. It’s what the biggers call feeling ill coz of booze.”
Brenda cast an unloving gaze at the figure of Oisin as he lay on the grass with his mouth wide open.
“Why do I think we’ve not heard the last of poteen?”
Granny sniggered.
Gnomes – Poteen 4
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