Like all lies and the best illusions, it helped me function short time. I lined four black bin bags along the wall, said, “My wordly possessions I thee endow.”
With those broken fingers a broken nose and a beard, I wasn’t an advertisement for the Celtic tiger. The phone went. Picked it up, hoping it was Ann, said, “Hello.”
“Jack, it’s Cathy B.”
“Oh.”
“That’s warmth?”
“Sorry, I’m packing.”
“A magnum?”
“Gee, that’s funny. I’m moving out tomorrow.”
“Are you moving in with yer old lady?”
Sign of my age. Thought she meant my mother.
“What?”
“She likes you, Jack. At the gig, she couldn’t take her eyes off you.”
“Ann! Jesus, no… I’m moving into a hotel.”
“Weird city, dude. What hotel?”
“Bailey’s.”
“Never heard of it.”
I was glad, meant it was still a Galway thing.
“My friend Sean
