Take a letter, Michael. To Dublin City Council. "Dear Sir or Madam. As wheelchair users with suicidal intentions, I must protest at a lack of facilities. None of the bridges are equipped with easy parapet access, thus curtailing the rights of the disabled to throw themselves in.
— Have you no respect for the others?
— They haven't earned my respect.
Rory O'Shea. Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Besides the full vocal range, I have the use of two fingers of my right hand, sufficient for self-propulsion and self-abuse. You can shake me hand or kiss me arse; but don't expect me to reciprocate.
— I love you.
— I'm sorry, Michael, but...
— Do you have any feelings for me?
— Michael, I'm paid to do what I do for you. That's my job. That isn't love. And what you feel for me, that isn't love either. It's gratitude. I like working for you, but... it is just a job. There isn't anything else going on here, Michael, do you understand? There isn't anything else going on.