Enjoy good old days - even if you had to eat sheeps' tongues
The students were gone home. It was the in-between time. There's something very scholarly about a university without students. And there on College Road, near Cork University, was the old digs where we screamed out the window to wake up the neighbours, just for kicks.
This was known as roaring therapy, or so the one fifth of a doctor said. We shouted at the tops of our voices and men who in a few hours would be walking earnestly to work with umbrellas and brief cases called the gardaí, who had us roar for them in the cells of the Bridewell. We were left off with a caution.
For a while, I got lonesome for the old days when, with an Afro beehive hut on my teeming-with-ideas head, I could never see anything but success ahead.
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