Even as a boy, Clerys seemed like it belonged to another era
Like many a small boy I remember gazing in wonder as my mother's order for a new pair of shoes was put in a plastic tube and sent whizzing off through a maze of brightly polished brass suction pipes that ran along the high ceilings of Clerys department store.
The assistants were all men, of a certain age, and the atmosphere was one of restrained politeness. They were serving rather than selling.
Like Nelson's Pillar and the cars parked in the centre of O'Connell Street, Clerys even then symbolised an era inexorably coming to an end.