In the small hours of last Monday morning I received a call so alien in nature, that I found it difficult to associate its content with reality. It was like I was involved in the rehearsal of a play, or performing a reading of a movie script.
The previous Saturday night, a friend of mine for 30 years, who’d just turned 49 less than a month previously, went to bed and didn’t wake up. I look at photos of him and I still can’t connect the face with what’s happened – like I’ll go back to work after this sojourn in Italy, and arrange a lunch on Dublin’s north side somewhere with him.
Anyway. You’ll be missed, Mick. Just do us a favour: get us a good seat at Morton’s, and eyes off the lounge shtraff. I saw them first. RIP.
Our Man In Volterra 