Let the Irish entertain you.

17/08/2024

Scared.

They walked down Ball-alley Lane, glancing from side to side cautiously as they see the unseen in the darkness of the shadows.
The yellow glowing streetlights are dim, barely showing them where they should and could not step as the ones who went before them had left a trail of fear.

Each took slow, silent steps down this narrow lane of fear.

They were close by; they could feel them but could not see them, they felt it in the pounding of their hearts, and the sweat that dripped down their long faces before stopping on the ends of their noses.

They felt it in the heaviness of the air as it seemed to thicken with the tension of a storm that has yet to break.

They were silence as they came and there was no way to stop them.

They froze as a blinding flash of lightning broke right above their head and they for the first time could see shadows move back into the darkness.

Their heart skipped a beat as they saw the silhouettes vanish again with squealing cries.

As the blinding light faded back down to the dull, yellow glow, they blinked and looked around, nothing could be seen, it was like the place was abandon.
They shook their heads as if to clear them and continued their cautious slow walk down the lane each afraid to be a foot away from the other.
They paused once again as they heard the patter of feet with long nails scraping the ground behind them.

They held their breath as they the sounds got closer.

Even if they wanted too, there was no turning back now as other were guiding them.

They stifled a shout of alarm as they felt long claws crawling over their shoulder and backs.
They held their breath, heart pounding as the foul breath of the creatures filled their nostrils.

They did not dare to turn and look at the creatures, knowing they might panic, they must not panic they knew, or it would all be over.

They closed their eyes, allowing the blackness to bring down their blood pressure while behind them, they felt the sticks of their guides huff and puff for them to get a move on.

They heard faint inhales and exhales of air from the creatures as they took deep breaths, then the sky opened, releasing a downpour, soaking them through.

Them with sticks seem to know but one line that they repeated over and over again behind them it came from the darkness, move, come on, move.

The only words that they understood as they opened their eyes and locked them with the darkness of the creatures standing all around them.

They knew that their time was ending, when the rats gave them a Guard of Honor through the gates of the Slaughterhouse.

Copyrighthayesp. 2018.

15/08/2024

A story, we are all in.

One that took you further than the limits of your ego, your heart space, experience, family and friends.

One that you can rely on as you depend on character references from people who do not really know you to establish who you are or might be.

One that lay moral adherence down on a magic carpet for you to ride and fly to the other side, catch the hide of a horse that smiles as it runs over the waves where time has stood still, and still you return to go the wrong direction, to the horse it still feels right.
The sword keel at its brave spirit, but you watch been abused.

Feel the words, go through the phases, grow, broaden your horizons so you can return to where you started after you have gathered knowledge and understanding of things, they told you that you would never understand, and were never meant to know.

Shift your life from a navvy of understanding to bliss only to find that the dust settled on your backbone means you now need to redefine all the things you have learned over your years knowing it is all warped in grace and the peace that only come with the years and the roads you have travelled.

Now as you finish reading another of my stories, and you even read the Prologue of that this writer wrote as a hint to sew the seed of wonder so that you might even follow him.

Then you remember that somewhere in his stories he did mention your name and deeds for he knows that makes you immortal and you will be one of the greats.

Copyrighthayesp. 2018.

14/08/2024

Johnny McMahons Barbershop.

When I first stepped out of our front door in Knockanpierce, I am blinded by the sunlight as I reach for my dad’s hand.
It is the first warm day for a long time; it is so unexpected Dad made me wear my overcoat.

Yes, Dad and I are on our way to the barbershop, Johnny McMahons down at the other end of Silver Street; this was where dad gets his hair cut, I am feeling grown up.

It is about time we got that mop of yours cut, my dad said, pointing at me with the three fingers that held the woodbine cigarette.

I might even get my own cut he said, smiling as he always did when we were about to head off on another venture.
Johnn McMahons barbershop is in the front room of his home of where the lives on Silver Street.

I just follow Dad into the den of knowledge, where the old and young mix and share the stories of the day and a lot from the past.
I have always loved this place, it is like nowhere else with its smell of ci******es, hair oil and the stale booze of the few who need to know who won what on the horses.

It is a place of wonder where the old tell of the days gone by, and the young talk about the future and all turn towards the door when it opens, to see what face is braved enough to enter.

Old white and Black photographs of the great men who had lived on the street and them who left it and some who went on to do great things in faraway places line the walls and look down on all.

Its three barbers chairs are bolted to the floor and look like they come from another time, why does H, G, Wells Time Machine jump into my mind as one of the old-fashioned chairs is adjusted with foot pumps that hiss and chatter to my level.

Under the large mirrors are sinks with a shower head and long metal hose attached to the taps, not that anyone ever uses them, hand-mirrors, and plastic combs, some in a pint Gunnesses glass steep in water, shaving mugs, scissors, cutthroat razors, hairbrushes and, stacked neatly in a pyramid, and tubs of Jet-white.

Along the back wall, sit the customers, reading and talking about the headlines on the papers as the cares of the world are put right as the great smile down on them from the photos taken long ago.

Johnny McMahon breaks off from cutting and takes a drag on his cigarette, sending a wisp of smoke like the tail of kite into the air as the looks at me with the word, next.

Then he places a wooden board covered with a piece of white leather across the arms of the chair, so that the does not have to stoop to cut my hair, the chair would not rise to the level he needs, still a small child in the eyes of all present.

I scramble up onto the board as if it was keeper hill to see the world at the same level of the men who came before me and who will come long after I am gone.

Looking in the mirror in front of me Johnny says, jeepers at the rate you are growing up, you will not need this board much longer.
The day is coming that you will be as bad as the lot behind me, he says with a wink and smile.

Great I said under my breath, wanting to grow as fast as I could, I turned to give Dad a look, forgetting that the can see me in the mirror.

Dad, Johnny said I could be sitting in the chair soon, not on this board.

So, I heard, Dad replies, not looking up from the paper, he will charge more hen, so slow down with the growing up.

At least double, said Johnny, winking at me and brushing his neat moustache.
As Dad looks at me in the mirror, he gives me a smile, and says the last time we were here, you had to be lifted, now you climb it yourself, that day is coming fast, maybe too fast.

They do not stay small for long do they, Johnny McMahon said as someone makes a move for the door, just a bit of business across the street was said.

Before the door closes again.

All the men in the shop nod in agreement, most not even looking up, I nod too, a bit like benediction during a high mass.

In the mirror, I can see a small thread sticking out of a long cape that Johnny McMahon has swirled around me and folded into my collar with a wedge of hand towel.

Occasionally I look up as Johnny moves around combing, snipping, and combing and snipping and a stop now and then to give an opinion on whatever the men were discussing,

As I tried to cope with a hair that was trying to go up my nose.

For a time, I feel like I am in another world, noiseless except for the scuffing of his shoes on the floor and the snap of his scissors as men talked about things out of this world, the sputnik spaceship.

Sleepily, with my eyes closed my hair falls with the softness of snow and my nose gets itchier, I need to scratch but afraid to move from the mummy position I was wrapped in.

I think about the comic book that Dad said they would buy me, in Harris, I want the one about Samson having his hair cut by Delilah, and I wonder if my strength will go like Samsons, and I will have to leave it for another few weeks before I will be able to move the pillars in Knockanpierce.

When Johnny McMahon finishes, I hop down from the chair, rubbing hair from my face as it joins the hair into the hair of others, a mix of greys and whites of the men who have sat in the chair before me, some it seemed were in no hurry to go home.

For a moment, I want to reach down and gather up mine; to separate them from the others, they were a part of me.

The street seems to be getting dark outside, the shop, winter, things change fast as I now know why my dad had made sure I wore an overcoat.

let’s get some fish and chips in Laddie Boland’s to take home, surprise your mother, and the rest of the family, says Dad and turns down Silver Street.

I am excited and I grab dad’s hand.

He puts his great big fingers gently around mine and I am surprised to find, Dad is holding a lock of my hair.

Copyrighthayesp1982

13/08/2024

Hit man.

I know, and you all know how this will end; so, if you do not want to continue, I will understand.
However, if you feel the need to go on, I cannot stop you.

I will tell you one thing it will not be fun for this is not what you will not talk about with your family around the dinner table.

They may ask, but you know, and I know it is a taboo subject and no one is going to cross that line.

Nevertheless, there is always that one who needs to know and does not understand the word no, he that will not take a hint.

So, did you kill anybody?

I can feel my heart sink into my stomach and with those five words bring back the memories, I have tried so desperately to forget came flowing through my mind.
Images, faces, and places all forever burned into my subconscious.

How I got into this situation was the same for us all in the business: we wanted to be heroes to our families and give them the things that our fathers were not able to give us.

Granted, now and then there is that one person down on his luck – who is up to his knees in debt.

They told us all our worries would disappear if we just signed on the dotted line.
We needed a way out and could not think of any other options.

Even then, in the back of our minds, the idea of ending another fellow’s life without consequence, maybe even praise, had to influence our decision in anyway.

For me I could have chosen a safer job...

Anything but killing, but why fix the damage when you can inflict damage.
You are a joke making sure someone gets away with a crime...

In the end, all we really want is to live well...

For weeks, you wait for the right time and you could feel the hostility in the air, as you are growing tired of the boredom, all you wanted was a real reason to use the gun again.

The world inflicts this insanity among its killers.
Train a fellow to kill, or let him learn the hard way, and then let him go wild and clean up behind you.

We were all normal once-upon-a-time, eventually everything fades to grey, and I cannot remember what exactly normal is anymore.
At this point, I realize I had crossed the point of no return long ago...
I could not see what I was shooting at, but it did not matter.
The screams lets me know I was hitting something, though, and it felt good.

The lesson I learned that day is that positive Identification is not always necessary.
Before I get ahead of myself, let me explain.

Those bastards thought they could run and go where it was safe, well, your God is not my God, so your God cannot judge me.
Out here in the real world, life is a gift, and you must be willing to take that gift away from others without a second thought...
Out here or standing by a road with a shovel can get you killed.
With my adrenaline pumping I guess I did not notice what time it was... it just slipped my mind, all that matter is the target is eliminated; mission complete, time to be paid.
The weight fell off my shoulders.

I finally got the one I was looking for and I felt good now that it was over...

Tomorrow when I am home, others will start to investigate, I have my story, and I will stick to it...

Copyrighthayesp.2001.

12/08/2024

We kissed.

That day when we first kissed was rainy and I had no cap, japers one could get their death in the weather outside the Café on Castle Street.

When we went into Laddies chip shop, and I ordered two Orange Fanta’s, it was then the skies seem to get darker.

We talked about everything, and nothing, except the risk we were taking, what if someone was to see us, she would be barred from going out for the rest of her life and it would not be safe for me to walk down Silver Street.

Then she changes her mind and wanted a Coke as we kept our heads turned away from the window.

I needed a wee.

Then it started, the rain banged against the window, and we were able to sit upright as no one would be able to see into the café, anyway we had moved to a corner table and put our school bags on the table in front of us.

The rain-washed the street and hid us, the rain hid our whispering as we confessed all the stories about all the boys and girls on Silver Street.

We felt safe in Laddies café as it got darker outside, and we were able to touch each other’s hands as we pulled them away whenever we heard a sound.

We left Laddies café together, but letting the world think we were not, I walk ahead and she a few behind, why I don’t remember.

The rain was now our rain, stopped, but the footpaths were still wet, the scented air felt clean and damp as my toes in my left shoe started to do the breaststroke and squeak.

We walked like strangers when it should have been side by side; our hands in our pockets so that no one would even think we were together.

Light could not shine between us as the darkness of the sun and moon that had fail to show up.

We rounded the corner, dreading the moment that would separate us as it approached.

Then we saw them.

We saw the couple, but they did not see us, so wrapped in their violent hurt.

She was up against a wet building, her umbrella forgotten at her feet.

He was against her, only just holding back his anger.

We could see whatever words they traded are lost because their anger made us averted our eyes and walked faster in fear and wonder.

Their fighting if you could call it that, was private, not open to be understood by others.

Their nervousness joined us; it surrounded us like the damp air.

Now our bodies moved as if we were not together with a shame we did not understand.

The air now smelt as if one was standing behind a bus with a knackered engine.
The quarrelling couple had become a downer and encircled us, and we felt it.

We walked faster as the quarrelling seemed to follow us and surround us.

We when reached Ball-alley Lane, we knew, we would separate, we would turn back to our own lives as we walked along Silver Street as the falling rain and facelessness of the people, we bump into fail to see us.

We stopped, for a split second, we turned and faced each other.

We kissed that day for the first, and last time, she picked up her school bag and ran away just as the couple who had been fighting were happy enough again to share a bottle of cider.
We were lost in the things that life throw at you, and it would be years before we would be able to smile at each other again.

Copyrighthayesp. 2017.

11/08/2024

Thursday.

The day we think about the weekend.

Hello so this is Thursday, and I am standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom wondering why so few write about it.

Hurry up, your coffee is getting cold, she who must be obeyed shouts over the in-house communication system, well from the bottom of the stairs.

Okay, okay! I’m coming, I shout back and start to get dressed as some fellow on the radio breaks into a song.

What’s another day, well year, but as things are the way they are its best to think of life is one day at a time, oh that’s another song.

It’s a bit like been in a hurry to go nowhere and still we rush everything.

Normal, I am trying to forget what that means, does it mean slow, or will it be a different normal, people are now starting to talk about this, but none know what it will be like.

If I were an alien and it was my second visit to this world of ours, would I notice the changes that have been made over the last few weeks, or would I look at the trees and wildlife and say, things are improving here, will I come more often.

Don’t worry, I say to myself as I put my foot on the step at the top of the stairs, surprise you are about to enter reality and face another day.

They can tell us lies, they can make up things, but that will not change anything when we sit with an empty chair at our table, for each family will then know the truth.

What kept you she who must be obeyed asks as I sit beside her, somethings don’t change.

Well, what are you up to today she who must be obeyed asks as I fight with the hard butter, so far, the butter is winning as the bread falls apart in lumps as it refuses to spread?

I look as if I am planning my next move, I will paint the time machine I answer without looking away from the butter that is now making its way to the other side of my slice of bread, it’s all going to fall apart I say to myself.

A bit like this world.

Again, she who must be obeyed says as she sips her coffee, you spend more time cleaning and painting that then you do here in the house.

It falls apart as I try to lift it towards my mouth, and when I get it here, I have more butter than bread, it tastes nice.

I think I have a bad headache; it came as I was thinking about all the painting I need to do, it’s time to revisit my plans for the day.

You could hose down the drive, she who must be obeyed says as she starts to clear the table, that was her first hint, no letting me get comfortable.

Thats tomorrow’s job I answer without looking up.

Then it came as fast as a bullet, you said that last week, it’s always tomorrow and you always have something to do in the time machine.

Look I said without raising my voice, I have things for the past and stuff I might need in the future all to be sorted out, then a good sweep out and start to paint its doors.

She smiled as she looks at me, it’s a garage not a spaceship.

As I open the door of my time machine, then I say, sorry, she does not understand what a garage can mean to a fellow.

Copyrighthayesp. 2020.

11/08/2024

10/08/2024

King of the road.

I was scared, frightened, and to be honest petrified when I reached the car, I jumped in and waited, and I thanked God I was on time.
I knew that is the way things are and I should know as it is my fifth time and if I do not get it right, I will have to do it again, and that will make it six.
I was starting to calm down; until I look again at the windscreen to see a large red L and it was letting the world know I was not to be trusted behind a car wheel.
I looked up at it with the same fear I had the first time I stuck it there, to be honest I felt sick as I waited for him who never smiled to come and put me through this torcher they call fit to drive, well my driving.

It is still stuck to my windscreen not caring about my feelings.
To me it looked ugly as a cold sweat started to cover my body, God, help me please, I will never ask for anything again.
I pleaded; I need to get it off my car.
No answer, not a sound, I was on my own.

Oh no it is getting warm in the car as I looked at the thing stuck to my windscreen and it with no feelings.
I need a toilet, f**k it, I must stay here he might come out of his den at any minute and fail me again for not been on time.
Oops, there is a fear in my eyes when I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror; and the thing is still stuck to the windscreen.
This had gone way beyond a joke and now I was getting mad, God I hate this waiting.
I will give him a bit of my mind when he gets the time to turn up, how long more must I wait?
Two minutes to my test time.
There was no reason for this I served my time, every Saturday morning for two hours driving around this town trying not to be seen with this thing stuck to my windscreen.
I was starting to calm down even with the thing on the windscreen still looking at me, God I am nervous.
I looked up at the sky, where are you when I need you, I shouted in my mind, I am terrified.

YOU PASSED.

It was now over, but still, it is there, and I cannot get it off my windscreen.

Someone will help me to make the big change I now have to make; I must take down the L and put up an N?
With relief, I turned there is herself smiling and telling me she can get me covered on her insurance.
Finally, I can go out alone and travel the roads of this land knowing that I will never have to do it again.
As I change the big red-letter L to N, I become another King of the road.

Copyrighthayesp. 2018.

09/08/2024

When they’re gone there gone.

I am just leaning down to turn the lamp off when she speaks.

Okay, this is what happened, where do I start.

I am staring at a lampshade that I got cheap from T-max, end of line, it was on the clearance rack with a reduced ticket on it, I had it under my arm as if it was a long-lost friend.

Now as all lampshades do, it has one job that is fuse the light and to hide the bulb that is starting to look its age.

But the downside to this is, the light is still getting through, as if the lampshade did not exist, now I must ask myself what is at fault here, is it the bulb or the Lampshade?

Look, says my brain, you gave this lampshade to do one job, and you trusted it to do it and that was to fuse the light coming from the bulb and that was to shade it, and up until today with the one I have just taken down I have never had to complain.

Even as I am talking to myself in the hall mirror, I got cheap in Dunns store, I can see my eyes are like glowing fireballs, oh I know if it was a mirror, if I had got it from Harrods I would get the same reflection and that would be my red eyes.

Maybe I do not understand what I am saying, should I get another mirror or a lampshade it might help to stop all this confusion, I wonder.

Well, it was about then I pull the plug on the lamp and that made the shade go dark and then I was unable to see the light shining through into my eyes.

I still do not understand, how things look better in the shops.

The shade has tried to put the blame on the bulb, as shades always do, and when they can’t get away with it, they say there are at least forty shades of different colours out there.

As for the bulb, I have known this bulb for quite a while and it has never let me down, it has lit up the bathroom for years, so it must be the Lampshade, so I will be keeping an eye on it.

Anyway, the lampshade is new to us, and it is having trouble fitting in, it doesn’t even go with the wallpaper or the carpet. it goes with nothing in the room, but it was on sale.

So, I am willing to ignore all the tantrums until I see what has been reduced in T=max, or Dune's and I just might find something that will offset this lamp that has forty different excuses for not doing what it is supposed to do.

Copyrighthayesp. 2019.

08/08/2024

Sean MacDiarmada had complained to Tom Clarke that after Patrick Pearse’s speech in Glasnevin Cemetery in 1915 at O’Donovan Rossa’s grave, the ranks of Irish Volunteers and Cumann na mBan had increased substantially but that Pearse had ‘no right to reach out and grasp the honor due to others’. Clarke’s response to MacDiarmada was ‘Sure it doesn’t matter who gets the glory so long as the things are being done.’

***Quick added note to give this some context which in retrospect I should have added to the original post:
The quote is referring to Pearse being more moderate up until 1913 while Sean and Tom Clarke and others in the IRB had been organising years before. Pearse was only sworn into the IRB in December 1913. In my opinion it doesn’t paint Sean in a bad light at all but rather shows that Pearse was late to the game and people were mistaken to see him as a figurehead as a result of the powerful speech in Glasnevin. It is Tom Clarke whom they all agreed should be the first name on the 1916 Proclamation. The 1916 Rising could never have happened without MacDiarmada and Clarke and Joseph Plunkett. Everyone played their part and gave their all. Hope that helps clear up matters a little. I should have added this 2nd paragraph to the initial post for context as some of the comments below may not have seen the fuller picture I had intended.***

08/08/2024

One is enough.

Deep into that darkness peering, I stood there, wondering, fearing, dreaming, dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. – Edgar Allen Poe.

A shiver crawled down my spine as I squinted into the shadows; the never-ending hallway seemed to grow colder, and denser.
I couldn’t see where I was going, the darkness was deep, would I ever see light again?
It was so quiet; the silence was deafening.
Goosebumps covered my arms, hello, is anyone here, hello, my whisper yelled into a hallway of nothingness.
My breath came out ragged, in the background rain was drumming down on the roof; the winds nonstop scream seemed to be at war with the rain.

Dread struck me as I remembered something, rule one in every horror film: the evil lurking in the blackness kills.

Rubbing my hands up and down my arms, attempting to fight away the cold that is trying to kill me, Lads, if this is a sick joke, it is not funny, silence answers.

I straighten out my arms in front of me, trying to feel my surroundings; my hands contacted a wall, hold it, there is something, a handle, it’s a door.

A spark of hope ignites within me; at last, a way out.

wherever it is going so am I.

I twitch my wrist, twisting the handle; I take a deep breath and fling open the door.

Quiet and darkness meets me.

I take another shaky breath and drag my feet forward, my heart, beating loud and fast.

My shirt collar is stuck to my neck with sweat; I run a finger around it.

Cmon, put on a strong voice; never let the enemy know you are scared.

H-hello, what a pitiful excuse for a man’s voice.
I swallow the growing lump of fear in my throat as horrific and terrifying burned into the back of my mind, fear never letting me out of its deadly claws.

The darkness is mimicking my fear, critical with hatred.

Ahead I see a door, slightly open.

I stumble towards it like a fly to light.

The hair on my neck stands up, there’s nothing behind me.

Do not turn around there is nothing there.
Footsteps behind me, getting closer.

I run to the door, knocking everything down in the rush.

I slam the door shut behind me, closing my eyes; I calm myself.

Then the word, surprise, and all the lights come on and my friends all appear from hiding, happy birthday to you, James.

For f**ks sake it is not my birthday, someone somewhere f**ked it up on Face Book.

So, forgive me if I do not look happy. It is a pain in the ass having two every year.

One is enough, ask the King.

Copyrighthayesp. 2001.

07/08/2024

A Silver Street man.

Stop gawking at yourself, you spend more time looking in the mirror then you do washng yourself.

Donal would raise his right eyebrow a bit like James Bond and smile, not bad for a Silver Street lad been called Bond.

Ok, so he looked after himself and never had a hair out of place.

Why don’t you keep your bed made and as for them socks under it, they stink?

This was life at home, but he knew the same things were said to everyone who lived on the Lane.

His father did what every other father on Silver Street did, went to work in England, the wire-boy was everyone’s best friend on Saturday morning.

He did not bother talking much to anyone, his best friends flew over his head every time he walked up the lane and his dog followed him no matter where he went, some said he could talk to the animals.

He could sit on a branch of a tree and see the far side of the world; he was a daydreamer.

He had a high, breathless, amused voice that made everything he said sound important.

There was one good thing he would say to himself, he would be off to England to live and work when he became sixteen, like his dad did.

It was some sights, walking around the streets of London, where the buildings were higher than the trees back home on the Lane, here all people are in a hurry.

Everything about him had on extra side to it, one for home and Ireland and one for this country that the became a part of him, England.

Sometimes when alone, he would remember the Lane and the carefree life he had back then, Ladies for chips and the knickerbocker glories that they made in the café.

The café was small and shaped like a small milk bottle, and on what would be the cap, was where the chips were fried.

The loved the smell, thinking about the place he wondered if anyone remember him.

One Friday night as he washed himself, he knew it would be his last time before he caught the boat to join his father.

Here in this armchair near the fire he remember the faces of all who lived on the Lane and most of them who lived on Silver Street.

As he made his way through the car park of where he was about to start work, he wondered how long it would be before he would be able to buy one, a car.

The sat at his working bench crossed legged as he examined the bolts been made by the big machine he was sitting behind, this was his first job in his new country, a factory worker and doing much the same as he did back home for a few bob more.

He sat at his school desk knowing that in a few hours he would never have to hear the words of the men in dresses telling him he would never be any good.

He watched men of different colours and wondered why they left their homes in the sun to come to England and work in a cold factory, and then the put another bullseye sweet in his mouth and said to himself, like myself, more money.

The fellow in the dress wagged a finger at him and said, God help you, you are nothing but a daydreamer.

His wife called him for dinner, and as he sat at, the table she said, do you know what, you are dreaming more about Silver Street those days than you did in your whole life.

Oh, him, that dope, he was never any good and never will be, so keep away from him over there, have nothing to do with him, she was talking about some lad who had gone and never came back.

Stay home, we will get by, they will give you your job back if you ask them, I will go over with you.

Mother we talked about this; I need to make more so we all will have more.

He sat up, dam I have been daydreaming again of home, it is like it all happened yesterday.

Did you get the paper he asks his wife, I did she answered and there is no racing today, she said smiling?

His heart began to pound as his fingers seemed to run up and down the racing page, a few bob each way, it keeps him going he tells everyone.

He went into the kitchen to say goodbye to his brothers and sisters, see you at Christmas he said to them all, the younger ones cried while the older ones turned away, they did not want to be seen crying.

My sweet he said to his good wife, if I win a few pounds, you will be all over me, he was smiling.

The last time you had a few pounds your dad sold a pig; she said smiling as she plugged in the kettle.

Donald sat back in his chair, remembering it, he smiled as he took a deep breath, ah Silver Street it gets into your blood, and you are stuck with it for the rest of your life.


Copyrighthayesp. 2019.