This Man's Life: Talking to the dead in Dublin, and hearing Macca's dirty jokes in Munich
I talk to dead people. Looking for guidance. Looking for answers. Sometimes on my lunch break at work, I take the Daniel Day - the Luas - up to Harcourt Street and walk to Mount Jerome cemetery in Harold's Cross for a quick chat with my parents.
You must think I'm crackers. And often times, when I am having the chats with my late mum and dad, I do too. And in truth I'm sure there were lots of times when they were alive that my parents thought I was well and truly crackers too. I have actual proof of this...
Some 28 years or so ago I was in the family home in Churchtown one evening to write a speech for an art exhibition I was opening the following night in town. I had a flat in town but I was spending more time at home than I was in my so-called new lodgings. I was a hopeless case. I would throw out clothes and buy new ones rather than wash them. I couldn't cook. I had long hair down to my waist. I was drinking too much. Tumblers of brandy in the Shelbourne with Jonathan Philbin Bowman. I was two stone overweight. I hadn't a penny in the bank. And I was spending money like it was going out of fashion.