It wasn’t my idea to come back to Dublin. It was taken out of my hands by some bearded characters standing in the freezing wind on an airstrip in Russia. They had a compelling argument but I thought I was winning them over. That was before they drew out the sawn-off shotgun.
I learned a hard lesson that day: Don’t argue with bearded characters from northern Russia after you have declared your love for their daughter.
Landing in the emerald isle was a real blast. I walked into the Gresham to get myself a room and was escorted off the premises fairly sharpish. After trying everywhere else in this crusted city I was left, somewhat disheveled, with a duffle bag and a smile on the front step of the Maybury Hotel. It’s more a dingy lean-to with cheap pints than a hotel. The lovely Lorna (73) with the great arse settled me in a corner, where I watched the room for a while and deliberated the situation.
Welcome home. Sure.
