I hadn’t meant to skip past St Patrick’s Day but I suppose I had to let a week or two pass before I could fully absorb all that happened.

Sometimes when I have an amazing day, I think of Ulysses by James Joyce, and how he charted all that occurred from the moment a man wakes up in the morning, until the moment he falls asleep that night.

I think, what if I did that, for this particular day? In minute detail. Every incident and all my thoughts, and all the thoughts of everyone I come into contact with. I would leave out the warts and all, for the sake of discretion, though Joyce didn’t.

Anyway, I woke up on St Patrick’s Day to a scream, the like of which I have never heard before. It was Fionnuala, and I bolted down the stairs, arms and legs akimbo, hair akimbo, pyjamas akimbo. Well, pyjama bottoms akimbo. I don’t usually wear a pyjama top to bed. I feel it round my neck and it tends to waken me – a dream from long ago, me stepping into a noose on a cold spring morning in a small town in Ireland; a bored crowd.

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