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In Galway, more and more, you see families of eastern Europeans, trailing the streets with stunned expressions. The father in imitation black leather jacket, the mother a few steps behind with the old Dunne’s shopping bags and the young kids in rip-off designer sports shirts. Adidas or Nike spelt incorrectly. Such a family was passing and I invited them in, said,
“Eat, eat.”
Two winos, a level above wet despair, I also gathered. Got them behind large Jamesons, and they lined their pockets with the sandwiches. The manager raised his eyes to heaven, then stared at his watch. It seemed to yield scant comfort. The door was flung open and, trailing cigarette smoke, Fr Malachy marched in, went to the counter, ordered a large Paddy. I was never sure if he liked my mother, but he spent an in
