I used to be known for my smile. That sounds like a silly thing to say about yourself, but in my family it was almost my job. At weddings in Finglas, at…
I delivered letters around Stoneybatter for nearly seventeen years, long enough to know which dogs were harmless, which doors stuck in winter, and which houses had gone quiet after somebody died. People…
I was sixteen when my mother first sent me across the landing to Mrs Kavanagh’s flat in Stoneybatter with a plate of brown bread and a warning not to come back in…
I met Martin on a wet Tuesday morning in Dublin, the kind of morning where the rain seems to come up from the footpath as much as down from the sky. I…
I first noticed it on a wet Tuesday evening in Smithfield, when the windows of our small GP clinic had gone black and the buses hissed past like tired animals. I was…
The snow came down on a Wednesday night, the kind that makes Dublin look innocent for about six hours before it turns to grey slush and trouble. I live on a small…
I had been a mother for seventeen days when I learned that crying in public feels different from crying at home. At home, the walls know you. The kettle knows you. The…
I worked as the caretaker in a small secondary school on the north side for nearly nineteen years. I won’t name it, because the school is still there and the children are…
I met Martin outside St. James’s Hospital on a wet Tuesday morning when Dublin looked like it had been rinsed and left on the line too long. I had just finished my…
I first met Mr. Duffy because of his dog. Not the other way around. The dog was a scruffy little terrier called Moss, with grey whiskers, one folded ear, and the kind…