Blinded with only a chicken roll for company I stumble back into Temple Bar and sit on the steps beside a hobo. I can’t remember what I said to him, but we got into chat anyway. He was a classic Irish blood, English heart recovering alcoholic cliché. But sound, we met as equals, like people always should. I gave him a bit of my chicken roll, then bought him a whole one.
Up walks this trendy pretty boy, leaving his gaggle behind a few yards away. He was well-meaning, I think, but his tone earned him no favors. He talked down to us, and then proceeded to give yer man a pep talk. I stayed shtum throughout, too drunk. Until he was gone and to my left I heard a vicious snarl ‘cunt’. Poor guy, misguided, you should never assume another man’s miserable. The English Heart left soon after that, I think he wanted to share the sambo with one of the other urchins. It’s rare for them not to sleep hungry. He thanked me for the roll, I thanked him for the education.
Later, I slobbered the story out to a taxi driver. Who, either to acknowledge a good turn or for fear of my safety if left unsupervised, insisted on dropping me to the door. I had told him to let me out all the way up at Foxrock because I was broke, he’d have none of it, and stopped the clock there and then.
Decency, it only costs what you have to spare.
