The days spent dreaming of a future
And say then, that was my life.
For the days are long –
From the first milk van
To the last shout in the night,
An eternity. But the weeks go by
Like birds; and the years, the years
Fly past anti-clockwise
Like clock hands in a bar mirror
J.P. Donleavy’s Dublin, by Derek Mahon
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It’s all there in black and white.
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Our Intangible Cultural Heritage
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Where angels fear to tread
Walking down the street the other day, I felt a familiar pressure under my left foot. Merde! At that precise moment, I’d have happily signed a decree authorising the public execution of every dog-owner within a hundred kilometres. As I morosely slid the sole of my shoe backwards and forwards on a nearby patch of … Continue reading “Where angels fear to tread”