I was nineteen when I started working weekends in a small café just off Grafton Street, the kind of place where tourists came in dripping rain from their coats and regulars knew…
I met Pat on a wet Tuesday morning in Phibsborough, the kind of morning when Dublin seems to be made entirely of bus spray, grey sky, and people pretending they are not…
I met Nurse Bríd on a Tuesday morning in the Mater, the kind of wet Dublin morning where everyone arrives carrying rain on their shoulders. My father had been admitted after a…
I put the first shelf outside our house in Phibsborough because I was lonely and too proud to say it out loud. It was the spring after my father died, and the…
I first met Martin on Christmas morning outside a parish hall near Smithfield, when the city still had that half-asleep look, all silver pavements and closed shutters. I had signed up to…
I first noticed him outside the Mater on a wet Friday in November, when the rain was coming down sideways over Eccles Street and everyone looked like they were carrying bad news…
My son turned eight on a wet Saturday in Stoneybatter, the sort of Dublin day where the rain seems to hang in the air rather than fall. We had balloons taped to…
Every Saturday morning, I bought two coffees from the same little café off Grafton Street. One flat white for me, one oat latte for my wife, Nora. The habit started when she…
Every Saturday morning, for nearly eight months after Maeve died, I bought two coffees from the same little café near Smithfield. One flat white for me, one cappuccino for her. I know…
I first noticed the bread on a Tuesday morning, when the city still looked half-asleep and the buses on Thomas Street were sighing at the kerb. I had been walking to a…