it. Some day, to walk in and see either full glasses or even empty, then I’ll know change is here to stay.
As I headed for my usual seat, I glanced to check. Yup, the two in place, halves at the ready.
Sean was as contrary as a bag of cats. Plonked coffee down in front of me, saying nothing. I said,
“And a good morning to you, too.”
“Don’t get lippy with me.”
Suitably chastised, I sipped the coffee. Not so hot, but I felt it wasn’t the morning to mention it. I glanced at the paper. Read how the gardaí wouldn’t be part of a new EU force as they weren’t armed. A fellow I vaguely knew approached, asked,
“Might I have a word, Jack?”
“Sure, sit down.”
“I dunno do you remember me. I’m Phil Joyce.”
“Course I do.”
I didn’t.
He sat and produced tobacco and papers, asked,
“Hope you don’t mind.”
“Fire away.”
He did.
He was one of those skull smokers. Sucked the nicotine in so hard it made his cheekbones bulge. He blew out the smoke with a deep sigh. Whether contentment or agony, it was a close call. He said,
“I knew you better when you were doing your line.”
God be with the days. Doing a line was all but redundant. Then, you met a girl, went to the pictures, for walks and, if you were lucky, held her hand for reasons not at all. Now, it was “a relationship” and you were ambushed at every stage by
issues
empowerment
and
the inner child
The only lines now were of cocaine.
You didn’t bring flowers any more, you brought a therapist. He said,
“I heard you were off the gargle.”
“A bit.”
“Good man. Will you give me a reference?”
“For what?”
“The Post Office.”
“Sure, but I’m not sure I’m the best choice.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter, I don’t want the job.”
“Excuse me?”
“Keep the Social Welfare off me back. Look like I’m trying.”
“Um … OK.”
“Right, thanks a lot.”
Then he was gone. I stood up and made to leave money on the table. Sean was over, asked,
“What’s that?”
“The price of the coffee.”
“Oh … and since when did you start paying?”
I’d had it, barked,
“What sort of bug is up your arse?”
“Watch your language, young Taylor.”
I brushed past him, said,
“You’re a cranky oul bastard.”
At a recent mass in Galway Cathedral, a young New Age traveller horrified the
congregation by walking up the aisle waving a replica gun.
He was charged but released on bail of 6p, because he was broke.
His New Age friends, locals later discovered, had tamed eleven rats that they
christened and cared for in their tents.
Like the guy in the Carlsberg commercial, one can only ask, “Why?”
I was heading down Quay Street. Hardened locals pronounce it “Kay” and it’s “Key” to the rest. A rib must have been broken in the devil as a shard of sun hit the buildings.
A shadow fell. The head wino. I knew him as Padraig. The usual rumours beset him. Supposedly from a good family, he had been
A teacher
A lawyer
A brain surgeon
As long as I’d known him, he was in bits and fond of the literary allusion. Today, he was semi-pissed, said,
“And greetings to you, my bearded friend. Are we perchance partaking of the late winter solstice?”
I smiled and gave him a few quid. The tremoring of his hand we both ignored. He was about 5’5” in height, emaciated,with a mop of dirty white hair. The face was a riot of broken blood vessels, swollen now. The nose was broken and I could sure empathise.
Blue, the bluest eyes you’d ever get… underlined in red, of course. Ordnance surveyed. He said,
“Did I know your father?”
“Paddy … Paddy Taylor.”
“A man of subtlety and taste. Was he not?”
“He had his moments.”
“One deduces from the use of the past tense that he’s no longer with us—or worse—in England.”
“Dead, he’s dead.”
At the top of his lungs. Padraig began to sing. It put the heart crossways in me. He sang or roared,
Blindly, blindly
at
As I headed for my usual seat, I glanced to check. Yup, the two in place, halves at the ready.
Sean was as contrary as a bag of cats. Plonked coffee down in front of me, saying nothing. I said,
“And a good morning to you, too.”
“Don’t get lippy with me.”
Suitably chastised, I sipped the coffee. Not so hot, but I felt it wasn’t the morning to mention it. I glanced at the paper. Read how the gardaí wouldn’t be part of a new EU force as they weren’t armed. A fellow I vaguely knew approached, asked,
“Might I have a word, Jack?”
“Sure, sit down.”
“I dunno do you remember me. I’m Phil Joyce.”
“Course I do.”
I didn’t.
He sat and produced tobacco and papers, asked,
“Hope you don’t mind.”
“Fire away.”
He did.
He was one of those skull smokers. Sucked the nicotine in so hard it made his cheekbones bulge. He blew out the smoke with a deep sigh. Whether contentment or agony, it was a close call. He said,
“I knew you better when you were doing your line.”
God be with the days. Doing a line was all but redundant. Then, you met a girl, went to the pictures, for walks and, if you were lucky, held her hand for reasons not at all. Now, it was “a relationship” and you were ambushed at every stage by
issues
empowerment
and
the inner child
The only lines now were of cocaine.
You didn’t bring flowers any more, you brought a therapist. He said,
“I heard you were off the gargle.”
“A bit.”
“Good man. Will you give me a reference?”
“For what?”
“The Post Office.”
“Sure, but I’m not sure I’m the best choice.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter, I don’t want the job.”
“Excuse me?”
“Keep the Social Welfare off me back. Look like I’m trying.”
“Um … OK.”
“Right, thanks a lot.”
Then he was gone. I stood up and made to leave money on the table. Sean was over, asked,
“What’s that?”
“The price of the coffee.”
“Oh … and since when did you start paying?”
I’d had it, barked,
“What sort of bug is up your arse?”
“Watch your language, young Taylor.”
I brushed past him, said,
“You’re a cranky oul bastard.”
At a recent mass in Galway Cathedral, a young New Age traveller horrified the
congregation by walking up the aisle waving a replica gun.
He was charged but released on bail of 6p, because he was broke.
His New Age friends, locals later discovered, had tamed eleven rats that they
christened and cared for in their tents.
Like the guy in the Carlsberg commercial, one can only ask, “Why?”
I was heading down Quay Street. Hardened locals pronounce it “Kay” and it’s “Key” to the rest. A rib must have been broken in the devil as a shard of sun hit the buildings.
A shadow fell. The head wino. I knew him as Padraig. The usual rumours beset him. Supposedly from a good family, he had been
A teacher
A lawyer
A brain surgeon
As long as I’d known him, he was in bits and fond of the literary allusion. Today, he was semi-pissed, said,
“And greetings to you, my bearded friend. Are we perchance partaking of the late winter solstice?”
I smiled and gave him a few quid. The tremoring of his hand we both ignored. He was about 5’5” in height, emaciated,with a mop of dirty white hair. The face was a riot of broken blood vessels, swollen now. The nose was broken and I could sure empathise.
Blue, the bluest eyes you’d ever get… underlined in red, of course. Ordnance surveyed. He said,
“Did I know your father?”
“Paddy … Paddy Taylor.”
“A man of subtlety and taste. Was he not?”
“He had his moments.”
“One deduces from the use of the past tense that he’s no longer with us—or worse—in England.”
“Dead, he’s dead.”
At the top of his lungs. Padraig began to sing. It put the heart crossways in me. He sang or roared,
Blindly, blindly
at
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