Big city Christmas with Daddy Grinch


“Get your maulers off me oranges” — Moore Street in the rare old times

My Dad and Dublin never used to get on. As a child, though, I remember the special hatred he reserved for our annual *December 8 family trip up to the smoke. 

But here he was now, asleep in my bed in my Rathmines flat after a great night out in town with his old Garda buddies.

I had slept in a camp bed borrowed from a friend. It was early morning and in the gathering light filtering through the curtains I could discern the tousled track of white hair running around his bald head, and the red tip of Dad’s right ear above the blankets.

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