That day I didn’t wake on time that day and missed my lift. The first time ever. I was angry with myself. I would have to take the first bus but would be two hours late for work. Two hours late on one of the busiest days of the year. That day the bus came early. The first time ever. I had missed it. We all had. I would be even later.

A couple at the stop decided to take their car. The first time ever. I could travel with them. Half way into the journey the woman remembered something she had left behind and we turned back. Setting out again I seen mo mháthairín walk up toward the church. I waved and smiled. She waved and smiled back. She stood looking after the car. I guessed she was wondering why I was going to work so late. I was never late. That wasn’t the way she reared me.

The receptionist had a message for me. Call home. Urgently.

I sought out a workmate. I needed to tell someone. I needed company. My hands shook uncontrollably. She lit a cigarette for me. I couldn’t hold it. My head spun. My knees were weak. Memories came flooding. Tears too.

Crazy thoughts. Had some force had contrived to delay me that day? Delay me long enough to wave a last goodbye? Her god, perhaps? Not mine. I didn’t have one. But she did. One she believed in and trusted in with all her heart. That I couldn’t believe was something she accepted. That was the woman she was. Open-minded and wise. Uncommon for one of her era. Accepting of everyone. Black, white, Muslim or Jew - we’re all the same, a mhic. We’re just people, just people, a mhic was her mantra.

That day I thought of how the little people were drawn to her unquestioning love. They sensed it before the big people did. Our house was never empty. Always full of children. They concocted the flimsiest of excuses to be there. Never a harsh word. The boldest child would sit quietly, staring adoringly as she told some tale of times past. She’d drop a hint. Never give an order. The children would comply. They would open up and share their troubles and fears. Ones they couldn’t tell their own parents. She’d have advice and consolation for them. As teenagers they would come to her with their broken hearts and she’d fix them as best she could. She was never Mrs to them. Children instinctively used her first name. She was a friend not an adult. And remained one.

As young couples they would come to her with their problems. Even physical ones. Ones that couldn’t be spoken aloud in the Ireland of the 60s and 70s. Their secrets would be safe with her. They brought their babies to be minded. They would be safe with her. Later these children would come to her themselves and the cycle would begin again.

She couldn’t read or write but that didn’t matter. No one though less of her for that. She was wise is so many other ways. Wise beyond her years.

That day when I got to her house it was empty. Full of people, but empty. Silent touches. Hugs. Sobs. Sobs over the phone. Only the dog made noise. Whining, fretting, knowing something was wrong. She was missing. Wasn’t coming back. Animals had always sensed something about her. Stray dogs followed her. Wicked ones lay down at her feet. The ones that bit others licked her face. She had no fear of them. Nor they of her.

That day I recalled when I was six and a young horse shied and threw the rider. It reared and bucked and the other riders couldn’t get near it. I yelled in terror. Frozen to the spot. Afraid it would clear the hedge into the yard and trample me. She calmly walked onto the road and stood in front of it. Waited until the rein dropped into reach and caught it. She wouldn’t have the strength to hold it. The riders pleaded with her to back away. She didn’t need strength. It calmed down as she mumbled to it. Stood with its head bowed and nuzzled her as she admonished it for being bauld and warning it not to do that again. She was protecting me and the rider injured on the ground. She stayed. Soothing it when the ambulance arrived. Siren blaring. Lights flashing. Stroking its neck. The horse remained placid in her hands. Good boy. Good boy. There’s the fella. Easy now. Good boy.

Everyone knew her. When asked, I always identified myself as her son not my father’s. It was easier. Rich and poor knew her and were treated equally. The wealthy neighbour would sit drinking tea in her kitchen with the unemployed labourer. The stable hand with the government minister. They would never been seen together in a pub or even in the church. But there was none of that auld shite in her kitchen - the door is always open; the kettle’s always on; take me as ye find me; lump it or leave it; no airs and graces around here.

That day I tried in vain to count all the times she’d been unwell. How she’d prepared me for the worst before her heart operations. Stern warnings to be brave. Just in case. But not to worry. Her god would take care of everything. Then laughing, ah shur they’re just putting in a new spring is all. That’ll keep it ticking for years and years.

That day I pictured the two of us. On the way home from a hospital again. An eye operation to remove an abscess. An operation that didn’t work. Now one eye less. Did the false one hurt? Feel funny? Could she see well enough? A fit of giggles. Your father will be right for once - Like he always says, I do only be half watchin’ the telly.

That day I was taken back to cold dreary Januarys. She’d take me to the travel agent’s after shopping. We’d gather brochures. Hers were always sunny beaches. Spain. Mine more exotic. Places we could never afford. We never had a holiday. But we’d make plans. Pick destinations. Pick rooms. Study flight times. Tried guessing the weight our suitcases would be. Suitcases we didn’t have. Couldn’t afford even if needed. They were dreams that kept us busy on dark evenings. Someday, a stór, we’ll have money and we’ll go. We knew we never would. But dreaming was good. Sharing the dreams, better.

That day I remembered us going to watch the marching bands on Bodenstown Sunday in the 70s. Mainly bands from the North. The players would rest between tunes. But the drummers kept up a marching beat. Drums so loud I’d cover my ears. Then the leader would toss the baton high in the air and they’d begin again. And (young) Rody MacCorley goes to die / On the Bridge of Toome today. The words meant little, but the music and the beat was uplifting. The colours. We cheered and waved at the kilted pipers. As we always did. A shot was fired! Women screamed. Men ran. Scuffles. Someone fell. Was he shot? A car was overturned. Set alight. A Dhia, I didn’t think they’d bring it down here she cried. Why? Shur we’re all the same. Why don’t they know that? I was slapped against the bridge wall. My cheek bloodied by the stonework. Covered by her coat. Covered by her. Smothered. Pressed to her bosom. In case there was another shot. She’d take it. Not me.

That day I remembered other music. Music she loved. Ag Críost an síol, ag Críost an Fómhar, In iothlainn Dé go dtugtar sinn. She’d hum it. Never sing it. Songs of her god. Songs of other things too. My first smile that day was remembering how she was so taken with one then in the charts - Brim Full of Asha by Cornershop. Everybody Needs A Bosom For A Pillow / Everybody Needs A Bosom. I remembered how she’d protected me with hers and realised I’d none now. No emotional pillow. My smile turned to tears again.

That day I cursed her god. Why so cruel? There was some money now. She could go to Spain if she wanted. Not that she would. Her house had just been renovated. Comforts she’d never had before. Mod-cons to do the work. Not that she used them much. Just five short months to enjoy it. Then her god did that? And to one yet so young. With so much more to give.

That day was exactly ten years ago today. The memories of it are still vivid. The memories of the years before it have come flooding back. That’s all I have. Just memories. No real keepsakes. Possessions meant nothing to her. Things didn’t matter. Where’s the new electric kettle I got ya gone? Ah, so-and-so’s one broke, so I gave her a lend of it. Shur I’ll be grand with the auld one ’til she brings it back. She won’t, you know. ‘Tis only a kettle. She needs it more than I do. Ara, doesn’t matter, a leana. People mattered. Especially children. That day I arranged her funeral. In the house of her god, as she would have wanted. The one outside whose gates she had fallen and breathed her last mere seconds after I’d seen her. There would be children bringing the gifts. Children doing the readings. The prayers. Singing. So what if they cried at the pulpit and couldn’t read? So what if they let the offerings fall with the shaking? So what if they sang with hoarse voices? I would would be crying, shaking and hoarse too. Everyone who knew her would. I was. They were. Today, ten years later, I still am.

Mo mháthairín, cinnte. Ach ár mháthair freisin. For that she was to everyone who knew her.

Thursday was bitter cold. Bitter as a 70-year-old virgin. The painter’s fingers quickly turned a Smurf blue as he put masking tape on the windows. I helped as best I could with coaching and encouragement - Another one down, Lar. You’re motoring now. I’m sure he appreciated my assistance though he never said. Must be the silent type I suppose.

~~~~~

He got something in his eye and spent Friday at the hospital. His wife came though. She owns a cleaning company and offered to have the place scrubbed down in lieu of a house-warming gift. That’s a bit of a misnomer seeing as it isn’t a new house, just an extension to an old one. So strictly speaking her services were in lieu of an extension-warming gift. But that sounds like something you’d buy on eBay and hope the postman wouldn’t (mis)read the customs label.

I checked on her at lunchtime. We’re flying, Primal. The windows were a curse though - took hours - them fekin builders never took the tape off them. I suggested she let Lar know that - he’d be very interested. I got a quizzical look. Ok. I was going to call anyway to see how he was getting on with the eye. I made a hasty exit.

~~~~~

The cat turned up on Saturday after a three week absence. He was barely able to walk. Puss (appropriately for a cat) was oozing from a wound on its throat. Obviously there had been a fight and he’d lost and had been lying in a ditch somewhere. Now I hate cats, but I felt sorry for it. Something had to be done.

I called the vet. White male - approximately 3 years old - gangland victim - heavy discharge from infected wound on neck - deep laceration to left foreleg - dehydrated - impaired mobility - possible euthanasia candidate. Okay, Mr. Sneeze. You’d better bring him in. What’s his name? Name? I don’t know. He’s a stray then? No. He was one of three white sibs - Disclaimer, Terms and Conditions. Two died from trafficitis. I could never tell one from the other. Trafficitis? Yeah. Severe trauma to the torso caused by pneumatic tyres on heavy goods vehicles. I see. So what name will I put in the computer? Anonycat. What? Well it’d be stupid to call it Anonymouse.

~~~~~

Nervy Neighbour wanted to have a chat. He was having trouble with Nasty Neighbour again. We could have a pint. Pints are great catalysts for sorting out the woes of the world.

The pub was buzzing but not a barhound in sight. We stood there playing spot-the-barman. One bustled in all hot and bothered. The soccer? The soccer is it? Room down the hall there. Eh, no we w… Oh, the rugby. On in the lounge. No, we ju… Yee’re grand then - the racing’s on here. NO! We just want two fekin pints, ya tool!

That Irish publicans are more interested in sport than drink was another woe we added to the world’s ever growing list.

We hadn’t even gotten to start on the list when Strange Fellow plopped himself down between us. Know anything about car seats, lads? Are you giving up the window cleaning business and going into car valeting? No I am not. I bought a car. An 06 Saab. Well fair play to ya. After years riding around on the bike it’ll be great comfort. So what’s wrong with the seats? I can’t fit me ladders in. I’ll have to take out the seats. Do yee know how ya do that?

~~~~~

I’ve been needing two RJ-45 connectors to finish networking the office. Two lousy pins. Do you think I could get them? Not a hope in Hades. The so-called geeks in PC World never heard of them. I didn’t mind the blank looks from the staff in the hardware stores, but in PC World - com’on lads, get your act together. A local electrical supplies shop, Wesco, had them. 50c each. I suggested the guy behind the counter perform a sexual act on his own person if he thought I would pay 50c for something worth about 15c. I am a man of principle after all. Bad language, but principle. Principally bad language.

I could get them from an Irish online supplier, Komplett. €2 for a 10 pack. Excellent. €13 postage. Shite. They could perform the same act.

Maplin in Blanchardstown had them at a reasonable price, but I would join the folks at Wesco and Komplett in their new pastime if I was driving all that way just for two pins.

Would I go to Argos on Sunday morning and collect stuff? Ok. Maplin is near there so I could get the RJ-45 connectors. Men are from Maplin, women are from Argos. Fact. The women in my life happily spend hours poring over the Argos catalogue - I get as excited as a hungry baby in a topless bar with the Maplin catalogue in front of me.

But letting me loose in an electronics store is as dangerous as letting a woman loose [double checks order of those words] in Macys at sales time. I came home with a cordless screwdriver, a network tester, a solar-powered battery charger, a watch case opener and a simcard reader. All of which I will probably never use. Unlike the RJ-45 pins which I will. Or would have used, if I hadn’t left them behind on the counter.

~~~~~

Today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick driving the snakes up ladders without passing go or something like that. Maybe it’s the time he went camping with Tara and he lit a fire to cook shamrock while she played with his crozier. I’m not really sure any more. Sometimes I get mixed up between the St. Patrick’s Day we have in Ireland and the St. Patty’s Day they celebrate in America.

All I know is that I am to drink pints today as required by law. They will be black ones as they always are. I will wear jeans. They will be blue ones as they always are. I will express my wish that a friend be happy. I will say happy birthday to her as I always do on March 17.

It’s a bank holiday. Our national day. No one else’s. What could possibly go wrong?

Irish funerals are a part of Irish life. To an outsider, I’m sure, they seem strange. I’ve written about them before and it is often said the only difference between a funeral and a wedding is one less drunk. Oh, and no cameras.

The very first I was brought to was of an old man whose family had recently moved here from the west. Days before he died, a keener* had been sent for from Mayo. The sight of a body at the age of four coupled with the keener’s performance frightened me off and I flatly refused to be taken to any more for years, which was much to my parents’ embarrassment - you see, mourning families may not remember who was at their loved one’s funeral, but they will never, ever, ever forget who wasn’t.

So important is it to make an appearance, to show one’s face, that we even offer two opportunities: funeral-lite the night before the burial and funeral-full that day. Funeral-lite is quick, with the minimum of ceremony. It suits people who can’t take time off work the following day and afterwards there is ample time for those gathered to form queues and shake hands with the bereaved. Howya, eh, eh, howya. Eh, sorry for your trouble is responded to with thanks for coming, eh, eh, thanks. Ad nauseum. That you can’t remember the family members’ names, nor they yours, is irrelevant - they will remember you if they didn’t see you.

Funeral-full is a much more lavish affair, though generally less well attended, which is lucky for the family as, while once they were expected to lay on soup and sandwiches, or soup-sandwiches, these days a full sit-down meal is the norm. The graveside also sees more howya, eh, eh, howya, eh, sorry for your trouble and thanks for coming, but not much, which again is lucky for the family who are either pissed off with it at that stage, or having neglected to remove their rings the night previously, are in need of surgery on crushed and swollen fingers.

While the tradition of keener has died out, some of the older families still hold a wake. The starter pack. A third opportunity to shake hands, although those who do attend usually partake of funeral-lite and funeral-full too - the professional funeral goers who have replaced the keeners. I can’t tell you anything more about wakes - the trauma inflicted on me as a four-year-old has led me to avoid them since.

In fact, I avoid most funerals. All breeds of them. Sugar-free. Full-fat. I hate the he was a great man crap. The don’t speak ill of the dead fear. Dying doesn’t change what a person was. The only different between a live bollix and a dead bollix is one is dead.

I hate shite from the priests who offer their brand of religion as support for the family. The family that doesn’t believe a word of it. I hate the professional funeral goers that knew the deceased well - they met them in the shop the odd morning.

I have buried both parents. Both with all the religious pomp. Because that’s what they wanted, not me. I merely did what they had asked of me. (I know of a young man who was recently cremated as he had asked. His parents buried his ashes at a second ceremony, not spread them at the Devil’s Bit as he asked. That galled me). I hated having to shake hands with people I didn’t know. I felt like standing up and saying anybody here who isn’t a good friend of the family please fuck off. I came close but was held back by the, more stable, sibling. I hated people asking if there was anything they could do - yeah, shag off, I don’t know you. I welcomed the support of close friends, more so before and after, the funerals but I hated the intrusion of strangers who felt they had to make an appearance.

I go to the funerals of people I was close to. People whose family I am also close to. If I was close to someone, but not their family, I stay away because otherwise I would be in the way - I would be just another stranger mouthing rubbish and showing my face.

For this, I am a continual source of amazement in the locality. I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal. I wasn’t there. Were ya sick? No. I just didn’t go - I don’t know the family. But you knew so-and-so himself. Shur ya used have a pint with him. I knew him. I may have chatted with him in the pub but we weren’t close. I’m talking to you now and we both have pints in our hands but I won’t be at your funeral either. For fek sake, you could’ve at least shown yer face.

A neighbour is being buried as I write. I can name two of his brothers but couldn’t tell one from the other. The other brothers and sisters I’ve never met. Obviously I’m not there. And for the next month or more all I will get is I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal.

* A professional mourner. From the Irish, caoin : to cry.

I wasn’t much of a wine drinker back then. But that was all they had. They rummaged in the cellar but not a single bottle of beer was to be found. I survived a couple of hours but finally cracked. I persuaded one of the waiters to drive me down to an off-license.

We were met by two security guard types when we got back. Ah jayzez, have they stolen the crown jewels? This is no laughing matter, sir. A man’s gone missing. One of your party I suspect - a Mr. Sneeze. Fuck off! That’s me. Look, I’m not missing. I’m here. See me. I’ve been here all along. And, okay right, there, pointing down the hill, for a bit.

Pam read me the riot act. All sort of stuff about employee safety being her responsibility on this trip. My conduct would be reported to Dublin. Yackedy, yack, yack. What had I got to say for myself? I don’t suppose I can put the beer on expenses can I? Apparently I was not only irresponsible but I was cheeky too.

Back at the hotel the VP announced he was pulling rank. He threw a few hundred behind the bar. And no one was going to bed until they had sang at least one song and all the money was spent. I sang the first 114 verses of Báidín Fheilimí - as you do. Pam decided she was off the clock, had her first drink of the evening and chilled out a bit. Now was my chance.

Eh, Pam, me auld flower. Yes, Primal - what now? Well you know they way I kind of make a bollix of things? Like nearly loosing the £100 cash? Yes, I heard. And like nearly getting arrested trying to spend it? I heard that too. And like going missing? I noticed. What now? Well I left my feking cheque on the table up at the Castle. Damn it, Primal, you are incorrigible. That’s not good I take it? I suppose it’s lads like me give drink a bad name.

She made some calls. The cheque was found. In a bin. Where else? The bagpiper would be passing the hotel on his way home and drop it off. He duly did and the VP insisted he stay for one. He couldn’t - he had two of the dancers waiting in the car. I was dispatched to fetch them and the tartan octopus.

I don’t know what time we called it a night but Sunday was the Feast of Mother Mary Aching Head. You couldn’t class me as an absolutely brilliant anything. I could just about manage horizontal but vertical was out of the question so I stayed in bed until it was time to go to the airport. I double checked the bin and left.

It being pre 9/11 security was just a formality. Sick as I was I still had the responses off by heart. Did you pack your own bags, sir? Yeash. Has your luggage been out of your sight since then, sir? Noargh. Have you any new or unused electrical equipment? Noargh. Big mistake. The scanner picked up the radio and I got the “could you step in here for a moment, sir, thank you, sir” treatment. It may have been pre 9/11 but in the aftermath of Canary Wharf being Irish was a bit of a disadvantage in the UK.

The absolutely stunning girl was beside me on the plane again. How was the musical? Brilliant! Pity you threw away your ticket. Yeah, I regretted it after. Big time. Twice. So how was your company dinner? Oh, a few glitches but great overall. Do you reckon we’ll be in Dublin before 10? If I miss the last bus from town I’ll have to take a taxi. Well we’re running very late because of that security scare so I doubt it. Some idiot was trying to smuggle electronics. Yeah, I heard. Some people, eh?

I missed the bus. The taxi driver took the last of my sterling - pound for punt - no exchange rate. I’d have preferred to have left it in the bin than give it to the robbing bastard. I bought shares in the company with my cheque. Not long after, the President and the (by then, not so absolutely brilliant) VP were caught fiddling the books and the NASDAQ suspended trading. The shares plummeted the day the ban was lifted and I was left with next to nothing. I might as well have left the cheque in the bin. So much for being an absolutely brilliant employee.

I actually did go sightseeing that morning. Well I stood on Princes Street and looked up at the Castle for a minute or two. That’s nice. Now where’s that bar near the bookies? The girl on the plane was spot on with her suggestion. A big shiny Guinness sign in the window and a bookies right next door. Every customer was reading the racing pages. Dockets and pens set out along the counter. This was home from home. And better still, I had two crisp £50 notes to play with - my musical money.

The problem was the barman wouldn’t take them. He said they looked dodgy. Fifties obviously weren’t often seen in this pub. Where did I get them? I rescued them from a cleaning lady’s trolley. [Digging] No, I mean, they’re legit. I put them there myself. Sort of. [Deeper] Look, they were a gift from my job because they couldn’t get me a ticket to see some crap musical. [Throw me down a ladder] I should have just lied and said the bank gave them to me.

I tried the bookies. Hey, you’re the Irish bloke who was trying to offload fake notes next door. He reached for the phone. I assumed he was calling the cops and I legged it out the door.

Another bar laundered them without a whimper and I managed to back a few winners. Even with the few pints I had more in my pocket when I got back to the hotel than I went out with. This was going great.

The plan was that we’d all meet up in the hotel (in our business-casual attire though I still didn’t know what that meant), for drinks, then a coach would take us up to the Castle. The woman in the lift asked if I was Mr. Sneeze. Primal, yes, and you are? Pam Wolcott (Head of Human Resources, Europe) - I just knew one of you Irish would be first down to a free bar.

Well that stung big time. She was probably right, but it stung anyway. I bit my tongue.

The rest of the party arrived shortly after. I needn’t have worried about the dress code - the guy from Vienna wore a yellow jacket, green tie and red pants. The two from Rome must have shopped at the same circus-surplus store. I was positively normal.

I brought a tray of drinks back to our table but left a mineral water on the counter. The Irish weren’t the only ones taking advantage of the free bar and the queue was three deep. Eh, Pam, could you pass me out that Evian there like a good woman. She squeezed past one, under the arm of another, hitched up her skirt, knelled on a chair, leaned over a table and handed it to me. Well done. Obvious it’s not the first time you passed water in a crowded room.

Why they hired a coach is beyond me. It took longer to get on it and off it than the journey. The Castle entrance was just around the corner. We had to walk for miles after that. Uphill and over cobbles. I learned the phrase why the fek did I wear high heels in seven languages that night.

It was worth the pain though. The craic was mighty. A bagpiper led us into the hall. Later he was to recite/roar the Address to a Haggis and proceed to rip it to shreds with his scian. I began to wonder if Robert Burns actually hated the stuff. Maybe it was just our bagpiper. Hauling around a screeching octopus in a tartan knickers all day would put anyone in bad form.

The big fat cheques were presented by the Belfast born VP of Europe and the Middle East. Then band came on. The dancers in their innocence asked for volunteers. Four Paddys full of drink and high on trad, with four pretty girls in the same room is simply dangerous. Before the circus-clad crowd could get their jackets off we three absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland and the absolutely brilliant VP (he gave us the cheques remember) were swinging the girls around the floor ignoring their pleas for mercy. But it encouraged the others to loosen up and by the end of the night we had the whole Continental Céilí thing going on. Luckily no one was injured. Much.

Then there was the search party. Had he gotten lost looking for the loo? Had he slipped down some stairs and was lying in agony? Could he fallen over the wall to his death? I hadn’t done any of those things.

It was the mid-nineties and I was working for large multinational. I had won a prize for being absolutely brilliant or something. Being the heady days of the dot com boom, the prize was equally heady. Myself and the other absolutely brilliant employees from all around Europe and the Middle East were to be brought to London for a weekend where we would be presented with our awards and collect nice fat cheques.

Then the IRA went and blew up Canary Wharf. The company decided London was too dangerous and the venue was switched to Edinburgh. It would be bad press to have your absolutely brilliant employees killed and wouldn’t make a lot of economic sense either. Edinburgh suited me much better anyway - the beer would be drinkable.

The itinerary went like this:

Friday afternoon: Fly to Edinburgh. Limo from airport to fancy hotel. [Grand. Friday off work and paid]

Friday evening: Wine & cheese reception. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday morning: Shopping trip. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday afternoon: The matinée of a musical. [I'd find a bar near a bookies]

Saturday evening: Gala dinner. Business-casual dress. [What was that about? I'd find the bar]

Sunday morning: Sightseeing tour. [I'd find a bar. Get a cure]

Sunday afternoon: Limo to airport. Fly back home. [Bollix! I'd have to work Monday]

I hadn’t even left Ireland before I made the first cock-up. I queued for 45mins at the Aer Lingus check-in only to be told that I needn’t have bothered - I had a first class ticket. I’d never had a first class ticket before. Not even on a train. This was going to be great.

I was ushered onto the plane first. This was going to be great. They gave me a newspaper. Offered pillows and sweets and stuff. An absolutely stunning girl was next to board and sat beside me. I introduced myself: I’m an absolutely brilliant employee. You’re an absolutely stunning girl. She laughed. Not surprising - women always laugh when they see me first. We got chatting and she told me she went to Edinburgh nearly every weekend to visit her sister. I got the whole story on the best restaurants. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She told me what shows were playing. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She listed all the must-see attractions. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She didn’t but would find out.

A chauffeur greeted me at the airport with a sign saying Mr. P. Sneeze. Peaked cap, black gloves, the works. He insisted on carrying my bag and opening doors for me and calling me sir. This was going to be great.

The hotel was amazing. The room was more of a suite. On the desk there was a note from the company welcoming me and an envelope with my ticket for the musical. I tossed that in the bin. On the bed was a gift from the company - a picnic hamper. But not a Yogi Bear one. This had a really soft tartan woollen rug, a radio that could even pick up aircraft frequencies, a bottle of champagne, Waterford Crystal glasses, binoculars and I can’t remember what else. I suppose it was intended for those who like to picnic at exclusive airports.

It was nearly time for the cheese and wine do in the lobby. I rang down to reception and asked them to tell the bosses I wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. And then I asked if the hotel had a back door. I found a bar.

The next morning there was a message for me at reception. I called the number. It was the girl from the plane with directions to a pub near a bookies. Highly recommended by the locals. Would she be there? No, she was going to the big musical. Ah fek, I could’ve given you a ticket - I had a free one and threw it away.

I met up with another two absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland at breakfast. Was I feeling better? Was I going shopping with them? Yes, much better (except for a hangover). And no, all my shopping was done. I had a lovely rug for the mother. A radio for the father. Waterford Crystal for the sibling. Champagne for the Sneeze’s squeeze. Binoculars for her dad. Ya cheap bastard, Primal. Would you not have given your mum the whole basket and bought more stuff for the others? The ma doesn’t like airports, I explained. And anyway I was skint and my budget only ran to alcohol.

So what was I doing for the afternoon now that we weren’t being taken to the show? We’re not? Why? The last minute switch from London meant it was too late for them to buy us tickets. That’s why they put £100 cash in the envelope instead of tickets. They fekin’ what? Oh, Christ! This wasn’t going to be great.

I raced back up to the room. The bin was empty. I ran down the hallway, around the corner and slammed straight into a rather portly lady in a blue pinny. Was it yourself cleaned room 404? (I should have known that number would bring bad luck). It was her. You did a great job. Now just bear with me for a minute. This is an emergency. I upended her trolley and rummaged through the pile for my envelope. I planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek and danced back down the hall waving the cash in the air and whooping like, like a thing that whoops. All I could hear behind me was bloody Irish. They’re all mad.

Maybe this was going to be great after all.