End Of

I was watching the TV coverage of Bertie Ahern’s resignation last night. Eoghan Harris was on saying that once the effects of the Bertie bombshell had worn off, the Irish people would go into a period of mourning.

And, do you know, he’s right. This morning, as I started my second Weetabix, in the very moment that the spoon began crushing the granules of sugar against my front teeth, I looked out into the back garden, and saw a field mouse scuttling among the ferns, and I began to blubber uncontrollably, moaning and roaring like a small child bitten by his first labrador. I stuttered into the sitting room, sobs halting my steps, and flung myself down onto the sofa, and began writhing like a salmon that had just been shot by a cruel-mouthed gamekeeper.

Now he is gone, I look back and see his marks everywhere. Like that time when my child was born, and I looked to the ceiling in the hospital and saw a builder’s grubby footprint on one of the tiles.

Bertie has left us to tread our own path. I found myself wandering in the middle of the road this morning, amidst the cars. The builders haven’t put a footpath in yet. Sure it’s only been five years.

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2 Responses to “End Of”


  1. 1 copernicus April 3, 2008 at 12:51 pm

    He was a giant. Not physically though.

  2. 2 Hugh Green April 3, 2008 at 1:26 pm

    He bestrode stuff like a colossus.


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