A Place in the Sun

 

“What television program has done more in the past year to keep the sanity of millions of Irish and UK citizens?  

What program has lifted spirits daily since lockdown began?”

“I give you” (blast of trumpets) A Place in the Sun! A program broadcast on Channel 4 and repeated on Channel 5.  “A Place in the Sun” has provided a whole hour every afternoon of pure escapism. While the rain hammered against our windows and we added more coal to the fire, we watched the presenters, dressed in summer clothing walking in brilliant sunshine and leading couples around towns, villages and properties in places as far afield as Bulgaria, Turkey, Tunisia, Spain, Portugal, France and the Canary Islands. They recorded the programs mainly in the off-season as the seaside resorts and towns were quiet, the communal blue pools deserted.  It gives the viewers a somewhat false sense of calm about places that would in peak season be jammed with holidaymakers. But do bear in mind that many of the people involved in the property search were looking to live all year round in such places so, on balance I believe it was useful visiting at those times of the year.

The program’s format is to present five properties starting with the weakest and ending with the strongest, ramping up the tension as one by one the properties fall by the wayside and the presenter talks animatedly to the camera, with ten minutes to go, of needing to pull “a rabbit out of a hat” with their final selection.  Nine times out of ten the property chosen is the fifth, which begs the question why bother to see the others but then you’d have no program and its part of its charm visiting several locations during each program, learning a little bit more about each of the areas we thought we knew.

The presenters come across as nice chatty knowledgeable people and the couples themselves are invariably people that go with the flow.  “Go off now and discover this one on your own” they are instructed and they duly shuffle off and do so. The presenters try to read how the property search is going and share a quiet word with the camera to keep us in the picture. It draws us into the presenter’s predicament and primes us for the next property to be seen and the reasons why it’s been chosen, a nice hook to keep us watching.

The couples featured are generally in their fifties or older. Many are seeking a property that can act as a holiday home for several years before they retire to live in a place in the sun permanently. Most sought extra space, a spare bedroom or two for visiting family members, children and grandchildren. Most sought places in towns or close to beaches often as one of them had mobility issues. Others sought cooler more mountainous locations so that they could grow their own grapes, olives and fruit & vegetables. 

I found that couple watching an interesting part of the program. How they related to each other and to the presenter. If one partner constantly spoke for both it gave a telling insight into their relationship. I also noticed that in male/female couplings, the male will never pronounce on rooms until the female does and then he agrees with her every time. It’s as if men are afraid to disagree with their partners, at least on camera. I’d guess that a frank exchange of views takes place off camera later, perhaps over a glass of wine that evening. But to focus on the humans and the properties they visit is to miss the “X” factor that makes this show so watchable and such a tonic to the soul.

The “X” factor is the programs ability to transport the viewer if only for an hour, to a land of bright sunshine, blue seas, sandy beaches and bobbing yachts. Places where small restaurants have tables with umbrella’s set outside, town squares feature ancient churches, fields upon fields of banana trees border the roads, promenades trace harbour perimeters and stretch beyond the camera and into the distance. Volcanic mountains covered with greenery tower over the villages below whose beaches feature black stones and sand. The scenery and the heat visibly present at the time of making the program yields us the spiritual benefit that a bottle of vitamin D tablets never could. We suck in the sun holiday mood, we imagine that sun on our bodies, we walk alongside them as they wander along the seashore. We are there when they sip coffee in a cafe or travel in small boats across crystal clear waters.

Yes, there is an additional bonus to be enjoyed in taking voyeuristic delight in seeing inside other people’s properties. Isn’t that kitchen a bit small, a bit narrow, a bit traditional, a bit modern or just a bit too far away from the dining room? Isn’t that private pool fab, weird shaped or just small? Would you want a plunge pool in your garden? Did you notice there was no grass in the garden? Did you see the orange grove that came with that place? Then a further bonus comes when the cameraman shares the views from their balconies, rooftop suntraps or outside cooking areas. It all adds to the pleasure of the program.

Anyway regardless of which property is the chosen one, we move to the program end game with the bidding process which though never a certainty tends to occur more times than not. The presenter relays the couples offer to the property agent and sits back with her mobile phone on the table waiting alongside the couple to see if it’s accepted. It’s at this point that the minds of some buyers appear to have become warped during the process of program making. They seem to lose sight of their original budget sum and will seem reticent to spend the necessary amount to get a property that has clearly been their favourite and ticked all the boxes. They enter a low bid, say forty thousand below the asking price, up it marginally by ten thousand and then say that’s your lot. We sit in amazement as they appear happy to walk away from exactly what they wanted with the seller’s final price well within their budget. “Nowt strange as folk” as an old English saying goes.  Alternatively we see instances where the buyers shoot low with an offer forty thousand below the asking price and to our astonishment the offer is accepted!

Regardless of the outcome of negotiations, the presenter then toasts her couple with glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and wishes them happiness for the future and the credits roll. The credits themselves are revealing as it appears the programs were recorded in 2018 and 2019.  Due to Covid-19 and the pandemic program making didn’t occur in 2020 and the presenters were forced to join us for autumn and winter which must have driven them to add a few layers of clothing. Hidden away in the credits are given the GBP/EUR exchange rates which were current at the time of making the program.  I found this useful as throughout the show prices are given in pounds rather than euro’s and for us, in Euroland it’s useful to be able to convert to euro values as watching from a cold environment does make a place in the sun seem most agreeable.

 Is that it then?

No, for the viewers can garner one more lift from the program through the creation of uplifting thoughts that remain with the viewer long after the credits have rolled. Such as, with prices like those we’d just seen, if we really wanted to, we too could probably afford to buy a holiday or retirement home.

This dream is accessible to all. It just requires a mind flip and a strong desire to make it happen. The freedom this gem of broadcasting offers can last a lifetime.

Uplifting experience at sea

It is 7.00 am and we are sailing at 18 knots through rough seas off the coast of Africa. The ship's movement is not enough to knock a cup of coffee or glass off a table but it does make the wardrobe doors swing open releasing wheelie suitcases which roll out across the carpeted cabin floor crashing into the wall opposite. We, myself and Margaret, exit our room and walked along a seemingly endless corridor of doors.  Doors that were followed more doors, only differentiated by a single-digit yet united by the knowledge they were all even-numbered. The odd numbers were on the other side of the ship.  Onboard deck floor maps are posted on walls in the open areas, near the stairs and lifts as it is very easy to get lost on this gigantic vessel. Periodically as we walk, we pass openings on our right, options to turn inward but we ignore them and press on. Our destination is the self-service restaurant located in the very bow of the ship and up on Deck 12. The Oriel is a 70,000-ton feat of German engineering. Manufactured in 2002 and only refurbished last year it has two thousand passengers and eight hundred crew on board for this particular cruise.  

Occasionally, as we walk we have to adjust our centre of balance as the floor tilts upwards to the right and then down to the left.  Being up early this morning we are encountering no one, not even the cabin stewards with their trolleys. It would appear that the longer the cruise goes on the later passengers rise. As today is the third last day of this cruise I can understand the passengers' desires to squeeze every last luxurious moment out of the remaining days.  The cruise itself had gone very well and I felt that finally I could understand and relate to the cruise lines catchphrase “This is the life.”   

These words in the television advert were spoken by an actor in his mid-forties whilst resting on his elbows, leaning over the ship’s rail, wearing a white dressing gown and clutching a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Beyond him lay miles of sparkling blue sea and to his right, the ship’s bow was cutting a crisp clean path through the calm waters.  Who wouldn’t want to enjoy a life like that?  The image portrayed to me was one of luxury, elegance, and total relaxation. I concluded that he probably wouldn’t have looked quite so smug if they had filmed that advertisement today and on this ship. 

         Within a few minutes, we reached the final opening and turned into a large carpeted foyer. To my left, an open glass floor to ceiling window showed the ship cutting through the rippling snarling white-tipped waves while to my right three sets of lifts stood waiting with their double doors closed. Beyond the lifts, a carpeted staircase lay available for use by the more energetic of passengers. Above each lift were digital displays indicating the floor upon which, each lift currently stood. I hit the red button on the nearest lift to our deck, Deck 8 and seconds later with Margaret I stepped into the empty lift. Once in the doors shut solidly behind us. We’d ridden these lifts many times over the past fortnight, several times a day and I was thinking more of what I’d eat for breakfast than anything else when I pressed the control panel button for Deck 12.

Unusually though, instead of illuminating our destination button,  the whole panel just died. I tried to press it again but the panel just appeared as if it had switched off. Nothing I did now mattered a jot. We looked at each other and shrugged. “That’s odd,” said Margaret and she smiled a tad nervously. I smiled back and looked around for instructions on what to do next if your panel dies.

Suddenly with a jolt, the lift began to rise. I relaxed,  the panel was still dead but the lift had obviously remembered my request and we’d be heaping steaming hot sausages, rashers, tomatoes, toast and scrambled egg onto our plates in minutes. Up the lift rose past deck 9, past deck 10 and past deck 11 until it came to a halt on deck 12. We both moved towards the doors in anticipation of exiting but they remained closed. Margaret pressed and pressed the door buttons but got no joy. We looked around to see what else we could do. Then with another jolt, the lift took off again. Gathering pace it rose to deck 13 and then deck 14. I began to panic as I knew there was no deck 15 so I was bloody pleased when came to a juddering halt at Deck 14.

Then, without any instruction from us, the lift set off at pace downwards and gathering speed as it went. It hurtled down past the floors, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 and was heading for 5. I suspected 5 was the lowest it could go, and it duly reached it with a shudder and we suddenly came to a terrifying death defying stop. We were both sent sprawling across the floor. Margaret cried out “Luke you have to do something!”

Before I could stand up, the lift had set off again. This time we travelled upwards which relieved me as the opposite direction would have lead to the sinking of the ship and our certain death. For the next few minute’s we sailed up and then down the lift shaft, passing floors without stopping and then reversing the journey time and again. All the while the ship was rocking and heaving from side to side. I was terrified but I knew I had to do something. Once I’d calmed myself down and had time to assess what was happening, I flipped open the metal cover in the lift wall and pressed the alarm button hidden inside. I could hear a shrill bell going off outside the lift but nothing else occurred and our terror ride continued.

Then in desperation, I remembered the small amount of morse code my merchant navy officer and sea experienced father had taught me.  I tapped out small patterns of morse code—dit, dit, dit, pause, dit, dit, dit, pause dit dit dit, on the alarm button. This is morse code for SOS – emergency help wanted – ship in distress but no one reacted. No call came from a control centre in the bowel of the ship or upon the ship's bridge where officers were on duty twenty-four seven. The loudspeaker within the lift remained stubbornly silent.

As the minutes passed and the violent lift movements up and down past the floors continued, our anxiety grew. I increased the frequency of the alarm button pressing until finally my finger was permanently on the button.  Margaret was in a panic. With eyes wide open, mouth poised in a silent scream, she stood ramrod straight, upright and jammed into the farthest corner of the lift. She felt around the smooth silver metallic wall for a handrail or something to grip onto but found nothing.  Eventually, the lift of its own volition stopped moving but we were still trapped inside it. I heard a voice from above shouting something to us but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The lift remained static at deck level 5. A short while later, that seemed to us an age, a technician opened the lift doors and we stepped out shaken but okay.

"All out?" asked a voice from somewhere above us.

“Yes. It’s just the two of us” I answered. With that, a technician in overalls jumped down from the lift ceiling and joined us in the lobby.  He smiled at both of us and said, "I was walking past the lift when I heard your alarm bell.  I've been chasing this lift up and down the floors for the past five minutes or more."

It didn't inspire confidence. What if he hadn't been passing? What then?  I thought.

"There are loads of safety features on this lift," he informed us. "You would never have fallen to the foot of the shaft." I wasn’t so sure. We walked up the stairs to deck 12 and sat in the restaurant not talking just looking at the sea rushing past our window. Neither of us felt like eating so we settled for two cups of steaming hot tea. Upon leaving half an hour later we walked past the lift and I didn't see any, Out of Order signs. Not only that, the lift appeared to be continuously in use. I went directly to reception and made a formal report of the incident, verbally to an officer who typed as I spoke.

"Yes, we had reports from passengers of a lift sailing past floors without stopping," he confirmed.

 “I would have been reassured if, upon my pressing of the alarm button, someone in the ship’s crew had made contact with me via the PA system or from outside the lift as we have just spent a considerable period of time yo-yo’ing between ten decks unaware that anyone knew we were trapped in a lift with a mind of its own.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I can do no more than register your comments, sir.”

“Well don’t say I didn’t try to warn you – that lift is a death trap!” I said loudly turning on my heels. With hindsight, given what happened next, I probably should have taken the matter further.

Above is an extract from Murder On Board – available now on Amazon – click here for link

Blast from the past - Echo Beach

For an audio version of this story Blast from the past

A song from a moment in time perfectly captured the essence of me. The single or 45 as we used to call them was a one-off hit for Martha and the Muffins in February 1980, a time when punk was in vogue and glam rock was passé. I bought the record in London while living in a hostel even though I hadn’t a record player to play it on!

I’ve always been a sucker for guitar riffs and this song catches the listener’s ear with a repetitive riff that just grew and grew in volume until it finally arrives and then the band jumps in and drives the beat forward while Martha sings:

I know it's out of fashion and a trifle un-cool

But I can't help it I'm a romantic fool

It's a habit of mine to watch the sun go down

On Echo Beach I watch the sun go down

“That’s me,” I said to myself as I listened on. I have been out of fashion all my life, which at that time amounted to twenty-four years. I regularly spent my last penny not on clothes or beer but on vinyl. From the age of fourteen, I became aware of pop music, of “Top of the Pops”, of Radio Luxemburg and the existence of records. Suddenly there was something out there that I could own. Imagine a fourteen year old possessing something that lasted longer than a gobstopper? For twenty pence I could possess a round black thing with circles carved into it and a hole in the middle. It doesn’t sound exciting does it but then the needle enters the grooves and fabulous music fills the room. Now you are getting it!

Music became a drug, an opiate to me and I couldn’t get enough of it. I started collecting singles because I just wanted that song, not an album of songs I’d never heard of. I started logging the charts in my diary, just the top ten each week and then buying the records for twenty pence when they fell out of the charts. I stored them away and indexed them with cloakroom ticket stubs as their number grew to five hundred or more. I made plastic bags to protect them and played them endlessly until I left for England in 1980.

I’m a romantic fool – well, you are looking at him. The eldest of four boys I was going where no one I knew had ever gone before. Women were exotic and not of my world.  I looked wistfully at them admiring from a distance but offering little that would interest them.

Watching the sun go down on a beach – is still one of my favourite things to do.  To sit with sand stuck between my toes and watch the rippling waves stretch out to meet the sinking red sun are moments of pure pleasure I often recall during winters like we have all just experienced

.

From nine to five I have to spend my time at work

My job is very boring I'm an office clerk

The only thing that helps me pass the time away

Is knowing I'll be back at Echo Beach someday

Hey, this is was just too much of a coincidence. My job was very boring and I was an office clerk. Hell, I must have a twin brother in Canada! Mark Gane the songwriter is beginning to sound a very familiar person. It turns out he worked in a wallpaper factory quality checking roll after roll of patterned flying geese when he wrote this song. I share his pain.

On a silent summer evening, the sky's alive with lights

A building in the distance surrealistic sight

On Echo Beach, waves make the only sound

On Echo Beach, there's not a soul around

Echo Beach, far away in time

Echo Beach, far away in…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEQkIEkxm7k

Forty years on the record still sounds fresh and new. For me, it's a timeless relic from a misspent youth. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Operation Transformation a short story

 Like everyone else, he had heard about the events in the rowing boat but unlike everyone else in the room, Sean didn’t believe a word of it. Nuala, the TV Director had taken them to one side after breakfast and with a Garda officer standing next to her, she broke the news to the group.

Looking around the room he believed the rest of the Operation Transformation team had swallowed the news delivered by Nuala without question. The two young women Mary and Aoife burst into tears and fell into each other’s arms. Fred and Pat, two very overweight middle-aged men from Galway looked shocked and seemed to be grappling to process the news. Henry, the Rock, one of the team’s coaches looked grimly straight at Nuala while the series producer, Trevor sat on a nearby table, swinging one leg back and forth whilst staring hard at something on the floor beneath him.

Outside the hostel, Sean spotted the emergency vehicles in the car park, lights flashing, the white ambulance parked with its rear doors swung wide open awaiting its load.

“Are you OK Sean?” asked Nuala interrupting his flow of thought and suddenly he found that everyone was looking at him.

“Yeah, I’m fine” he heard himself say but he knew he wasn’t.

Sean had been Franks bunk-buddy for the last two nights and they’d got on well enough. Frank snored loudly but Sean had come prepared and equipped with earbuds. Frank had given Sean a spare toothbrush and they’d shared their life histories over the past days. I suppose you could say they’d bonded, especially as they were on the same team for the weekend. Both were grossly overweight now but it hadn’t always been the way, at least for Sean. No, it took a hip broken in a car crash fifteen-year ago to turn him into a telly-tubby. He suspected for Frank it had been more of a one-way gradual yet steady decline. Frank had a gastric band and stomach reduction operation carried out ten years back yet the pounds continued to pile on and with the weight came the depression. Sean wasn’t sure Frank could ever have won his battle with food. Now we’ll never know.

Yesterday had been full-on. From the start the teams were walking miles, crawling through concrete pipes and building campfires in the forest, all captured by lythe able cameramen who accompanied them. It had been a subdued tired group that returned to the hostel that night. Darkness had fallen as they walked through the car park and into the lush reception area where they left a trail of muddy footsteps. After a shower and a change of clothes, Sean sat in the bar sipping a tall glass of water while Nuala explained what lay in store for tomorrow. The rest spread themselves about the lounge nippling on a tray of sliced carrots dunked in a vegan dip and sipping low-calorie soda drinks. Now that he thought of it, Sean hadn’t seen Frank at the meeting.

 Maybe he’d already gone? Gone where?

Sean returned to their room once the briefing was over and though he was knackered he had found it difficult to go to sleep with the empty bunk bed opposite. He stuck at it for a few hours and finally, he’d gotten up and had awoken Nuala. Together they’d searched the hostel and that’s when he began to get worried about Frank. The others were allowed to sleep on and he left Nuala on the phone when he just couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

They’d all met up again at breakfast this morning and the consensus of opinion was that Frank might have split for home late last night. Just had enough, ordered a taxi and vamoosed, dropping out of the program.

“Feck it!” said Fred “He probably stopped for a Chinese takeaway, spring rolls, chicken balls, fried rice and a can of Coke on the way home.” They had salivated in unison at the image conjured up but Nuala had drained the humour from the room with the announcement that Frank had been found dead, in the last hour, on a boat floating in the middle of the lake with no oars and a paper bag full of uneaten custard cream doughnuts.

“It appears from CCTV footage,” said the Garda “that Frank had been recorded visiting his car and then heading on foot around to the rear of the hostel when he disappeared into the darkness only to reappear at the jetty, a wooden platform located at the edge of the lake. We were just able to make out a figure stepping into the boat carrying a bag of some sort.  No further sighting of Frank was found on the camera footage but it’s safe to assume Frank rowed out into the lake to consume his doughnuts. Subsequently, it appears he lost both oars and died of exposure. An autopsy will be required and the State pathologist is on his way to us as I speak.”

“It appears to have been a tragic accident,” said Nuala “and out of respect to Frank we are abandoning the shoot planned for today.

“How can you be so sure it was an accident?” piped up Sean.

“What do you mean?” said Nuala.

“Frank was terrified of water,” said Sean “He told me yesterday.”

“Maybe that’s why he stayed in the boat,” said the Garda “as many would have been tempted to swim for it rather than freeze to death as it transpired.I know I would have.”

“Then how do you explain that having rowed out there he didn’t eat the doughnuts before he died?” replied Sean.

“Something just doesn’t add up” said Sean with conviction.

Again everyone turned to Sean but this time all the team members nodded their agreement.

 

 

 

 

Dublin 1970 Streetwise

 It was just another day and now was just another afternoon in my teenage years. The school bell rang loudly from somewhere deep in the bowels of the building and three hundred uniformed kids poured out of St. Marys College. They ran along Military Road and up the Rathmines Road Lower at 3:30 pm one sunny May afternoon. The Marys boys were easily identifiable with their short peaked caps, blue badge encrusted jackets, grey slacks or shorts and grey socks. Bags weighed down by school books and empty lunch boxes hung from their backs or were dragged along the pavement behind them.

As the minutes passed they split up into smaller units of threes and fours and dissolved in amongst the everyday foot-traffic of the busy Dublin suburbia. Most off the boys were heading for Terenure, Rathgar or Templeogue, areas that at that time were much sought after with many new housing estates being constructed. The schools own past-pupils rugby clubhouse and grounds were in Templeogue but the school's pitches and dressing rooms were still in Kenilworth Square, only half a mile from the school.

I and my younger brother didn’t live in any of those local areas where Mary’s boys grew up playing together, schooling together and bonding together in friendships for life. We lived eight kilometres away, due south. This distance was normally bridged by a bus journey or a pick-up by my father when he was passing at 5:30 pm on his way home from work.

We crossed the Rathmines Road Lower and turned down a laneway walking past a laundrette where the large tumble dryers were noisily tossing clothing wildly about in the warm air. I remember that day we were both quiet and pensive as we passed the local national school which lay deserted and ominously quiet. It’s occupants always exited half an hour before us so they could be anywhere now.

We turned right at the end of the road and past a small shop that sold bags of broken biscuits and “Gur cake, my favourite treat. If I had a spare shilling I’d buy some and occasionally I bought it even when I hadn’t a shilling to spare. On those days I walked home.

Today we did a quick right and left and strode into Mount Pleasant Square, a Georgian area built in the eightieth century. It’s tree-lined streets enclosed a large private tennis club whose black metal fences secured the square itself and though its houses were of glass and brick with pillared ornate fan-shaped doorways and granite steps, we knew were entering an area of extreme danger.

Normally we had Decko, Brian, and Rodney with us. We’d cover this route in convoys of five or six boys at a time but today there we were just two. We had taken the chance and come this way as it cut ten minutes off the safer route and on a sunny day like this was the world seemed a benign place.

Further up the road, two local boys with a large German shepherd were to be seen walking briskly towards us. I thought about fleeing but we had been seen. No point in running as they knew the surrounding streets far better than we did.  If we stuck to this road someone, an adult, may stumble across us and them. There was no such chance on the other roads.

My brother, two years my younger, stood by my side as we got a better look at the pair now almost on top of us.  The dog, not on a lead, was held by the hair on the nape of his neck and was growling with intent. We stepped off the pavement in an effort to avoid head-on contact but they merely stepped onto the road in front of us. They stopped a foot ahead of us and I saw that they appeared to mirror our ages. This was to be a clash of the classes.

“Give us a fag mister” demanded the older of the two as he wrestled to restrain the dog who was snarling viciously at me. I stared hard at the boy, his dirty freckled face with eyes of unflinching coldness. He surveyed me with zero empathy.

“I don’t smoke” I replied.

“Me neither” piped up my brother.

“Then gimme a lend of a quid mister” the older one demanded, his left hand stretched out in a cupped palm.

“I don’t have a quid” I retorted, which happened to be true.

He didn’t bother demanding anything of my brother. He focused just on me and he froze me with his look. I felt powerless to look anywhere but into his dark menacing eyes.

“Empty your pockets misters – both of yea” he ordered and he now stuck the cupped hand closer and the snarling dog now moved in to within an inch of my trousers. Its flecks of foaming drool dripping from his mouth discoloured my light grey trousers and I could feel its breath warm on my leg. I could also see that my brother was shaking.

“We’ve only got our bus fare” I protested but it was cutting no ice with this pair.

“Fucking hand it over. All of it mind you! All of it or I’ll set the dog on yea!” He replied jerking the dog up by its hair and the animal let out a blood curling snarl. I glanced about the street desperately willing someone to wander up it but my luck was out. I reached into my pockets and dropped the half crown into the palm of his hand. My brother did likewise. I could see he still wasn’t happy.

“Michael – take the bags off this pair and go over there and go through them” and he pointed to the roadside kerb a few feet away. “Now fuckin dammit now!”

I sensed he was on a tight rein, perhaps missing his nicotine hit. Michael dutifully relieved us of our heavy leather satchels and took them over to the pavement where he opened them up and delved inside. He opened pencil cases, looked between copy books and unclipped side pockets. He was searching for something, anything that might be valuable, that they could flog. He picked out our plastic toy cowboys and Indians and stuffed a handful of them in his pockets.

Out of the corner of my eye, a bicycle and rider came into view behind the ragged pair of robbers. Slowly the young man, perhaps in his twenties progressed up the road towards us. He seemed a well-dressed man and it seemed to me that he correctly assessed what was going on.

“What are these boys demanding of you?” he asked of me as he dismounted his bike and came to join the group.

The older robber twirled around in surprise. Being streetwise, in a nanosecond he had sized up the newcomer and computed his options which were 1) abandon the robbery taking the cash in his hand 2) continue with a bluff greeting and brave it out. This situation has the potential to get better so he chose option two.

 “What the fuck has it got to do with you?” he delivered it loudly and aggressively and it stopped the Good Samaritan in his tracks.  “You stand over there” he pointed to a place next to me and the man walked over to my side.

 “Michael” he shouted “take them bags and put them on the bike and go to Spritzer’s gaff with the lot.”

“I say -” protested the well-bred do-gooder.

“No mister. You say nothing. I say what happens around here so shut the fuck up or I’ll set the dog on you” said the older robber said asserting his authority. Turning back to the newcomer he ordered: “Now you can empty your pockets mister.”

“Now!”

“I haven’t got all day and I need the money to buy the dog some food. He’s starving right now so don’t try anything funny. My hand is getting tired holding him back. One false move and he’ll pounce.”

The newcomer looked dejected as his bike disappeared around the corner. He reached deep into his pockets and emerged with a packet of chewing gums and five pounds which he deposited in the villain's palm.

Our captor allowed himself a smile. He stuffed the lot in his pocket and then spun around when he heard a voice from just over his shoulder say “Ciaran what the hell are you up to?”

“Oh – Hi ya Phil” answered our captor to an older man who’d just appeared, like out of nowhere. I never saw him coming but he knew our Ciaran all right.” Ciaran was no longer that confident streetwise kid. Phil had assumed control of the situation.

“Excuse us will you?” said Phil politely to the three of us as he led Ciaran firmly by the arm to the nearby kerb where a whispered conversation took place for a minute or two. When it was over Ciaran and the dog then set off up the road, slouching along looking at the pavement but not looking back.

Phil walked back over to us. “I must apologise to you for what happened just now. You two are free to go.” He didn’t have to say it twice.

“What about our bags mister?” said my brother and Phil answered “Go on now. Stand over there at the bus stop and you’re bags will be brought to you in a few minutes.”

A few minutes later our bags were brought to the bus stop and our bus fare returned to us. While we stood waiting for the 62 bus we saw the Good Samaritan cycling away in the opposite direction. “I wonder if he got his fiver back?” asked my brother.

 

Weight Loss Fast and Safe: 10 Golden Steps to weight loss that work 1. Clear...

Weight Loss Fast and Safe:  10 Golden Steps to weight loss that work 1. Clear...:   10 Golden Steps to weight loss that work  1. Clear out all junk food 2. Weigh yourself 3. Find a diet buddy 4. Sit down for meals 5. Get a...

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Locked Down Bubbling Up on the airwaves

 Today I was interviewed by Alan Corcoran of East Coast Radio in County Wexford about our new book Locked Down Bubbling Up. It contains new original short stories and poetry written during the Covid-19 pandemic and sought to capture how the virus impacted on all our lives. Its the perfect gift for family and friends as its stories are not just about Covid-19 but were written during the past year. There is plenty of comedy and lightness of touch along with moving moments that catch the reader by surprise. I read the first part of Lesley’s poem “Lockdown” and I believe it went down very well.

The book opens by setting the scene for life in Ireland in January 2020 and then follows the lives of fictional characters whose stories are written in an entertaining easy to read manner. Its an enjoyable mix of styles and content as three very different writers interpret life in Ireland in their own unique ways and the content was written as the year progressed so reflecting the publics changing attitude to life under lockdown. The book also contains carefully selected quotations that compliment and lead into the following stories and poems. With twenty-eight new pieces and c190 pages of reading you get good value for your money.

Click here to listen to the interview

To buy a hard copy from a book shop – visit The Book Centre in Wexford Town €12

To buy a hard copy and get free delivery €13 – Book Depository

To buy a soft copy Kindle / Amazon €3 – click here

So far the book has received eight five-star reviews and its only been on release since 2nd November. Click here to visit Amazon for five of them (page down Amazon page)