<<< Jun 20, 2003 >>>

The stag night weekend, in Clifden, Connemara, passed in a blur. On Sunday, despite formidable hangovers, we managed a game of football on the narrowing beach of Dog's Bay, which ended when the tide came too far in. We freshened up with a dip in the icy Atlantic. On the way home that evening, near Maam Cross, my car broke down. On Monday morning, I called a mechanic in Oughterard, who told me he was, in fact, an ex-mechanic, but agreed to tow and repair it anyhow. I posted him the key. On Tuesday morning, the ex-mechanic called me. “I got the envelope, but it was damaged, and the key was missing,” he explained. I called Fly. “Its a sign,” he said. “That I should get rid of the old banger?” I asked. “No – that the old banger is trying to get rid of you. Damn. And I thought I only had that effect on people.

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