c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-15–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-14–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-13–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-12–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-11–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-10–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-9–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-8–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-7–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-6–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-5–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-4–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-3–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-2–>font size=”2″ face=”verdana,arial,helvetica,sans-serif”>Paddy Smith was my companion when we were at school.
I remember the occasion when Owen Kearns of the High Walk passed away. On our way home from school Paddy and I visited the wake house.
It was the young daughter Alice, whom we knew well, who opened the door to us. As young boys might (well, we did then anyway) we brushed straight past her and headed upstairs to view Owen’s remains for the last time.
We tried each of the rooms up there in turn, without success. It was then that Alice arrived up to us, to inform us that her father had been buried two days before. We were too late to pay our respects.
Much cowed we were ushered to the street again.
It is always difficult to forget one’s early humiliation!
Especially when one has been the author of one’s own downfall!