Last night in the pub, a man told me that for the last 15 years he has been taking care of his invalid wife, who is bedridden, with one leg, and doubly incontinent. He is 73. He said that he comes to this pub after 4 pm everyday. Daragh and I have seen him, sitting at the far end of the bar, aloof, watching everyone. When the man goes home at night, he goes to his room, watches a little tv, falls asleep. And then in the morning, it begins again, and he takes care of his wife until 4, when he's back in the pub. "Sure, what else can you do?" He has S, who is his best friend, and the relief of "this hell of a life". As we walked home, Daragh and I clutched hands, squeezing at times as if to telegram our thoughts, as the crowds squealed their youth into the cold darkness of night.




<<