I knew my marriage was over on a wet Thursday evening in Portobello, though neither of us said it. We were sitting in a small café near the canal, our coats steaming…

I met her on a wet Thursday in Dublin, the kind of evening when the city seems to shine out of the cracks in the pavement. I had missed the bus after…

I met him on a wet Thursday outside the Dublin Busáras, the kind of rain that doesn’t fall so much as sit on your shoulders and ask personal questions. I had just…

I used to think love meant remembering everything. The exact corner where someone laughed, the colour of their coat, the name of the place where they cried into a paper napkin. I…

I met her because I was late, which is still the most Dublin thing that has ever happened to me. It was raining sideways outside Heuston Station, the kind of rain that…

I met Lena on a wet Thursday in November, the kind of Dublin evening where the sky seems to lower itself onto your shoulders. I was working late in a small print…

I used to tell people that I met him in a very romantic way, because the truth felt too ordinary. I said there had been rain on Grafton Street, a busker singing…

I used to think the best approach to love was to make yourself easy to keep. Don’t ask too much. Don’t show the nervous parts. Laugh when you are hurt, say “no…