The Ghosts of Galway

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Sergeant Ridge.

Not for the first time, I was in a very dark place. A failed attempt at suicide, a deadly diagnosis on my health, and the continuing forward March of Trump.

I figured I would mend some fences, try to get my friendship with Ridge back on track.

And I mean if your health is fucked, surely your friends/enemies might cut you some slack.

Right?

Nope.

I phoned Ridge. The doctor had gotten in touch with me again and implied that maybe... just perhaps...

His diagnosis was off the mark a tad.

Now did I go and tear his fucking head off?

Or

Buy him a crate of Jameson?

No. I rolled the dice and stayed hopeful.

Ridge was curt on the phone, a real cold cunt.

Because I was tired, in every area that weariness can touch, I asked to meet her.

Met her in Garavans and, completely out of character, she ordered a large vodka, slimline tonic. I went with the Jay. She was dressed in a soft green sweater; you might even stretch and suggest: emerald?

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