I don’t know the name of this pub. It’s new and some sort of awful techno is on the speakers. I’ve got a corner table and there’s a full glass of Jameson near my right hand, within spitting distance so to speak. An untouched pint of Guinness is shadowing it, standing point. I was in Garavan’s, was it yesterday? And when I came out, a group of school kids were messing on the street. One of them shouted “Hey, Johnny the limp!” I looked back and I swear one of them was the twin of Niall O’Shea, who leaped from the crane. I’m not too sure how long I was in Garavan’s, but I heard a man mention the sadness of the small white coffin and I had to get out.

The day before, I bought sixty Major in Holland’s. Mary spoke to me, but her words didn’t seem to make sense. In the shop beside the canal, I got a shiny new lighter. I like it as it has the Galway crest on the side. I’ve put them to the very left of the drinks. It seems important the table look neat, everything in its place. Symmetry, is that the word?

If I ever go back to Bailey’s, I might look it up, check the spelling.