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About Drogheda

She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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I know, I know – I go on and on. But that’s Artane, innit? Everything’s fleeting yet eternal. Lately, I’ve found myself scribblin’ notes on a cockney napkin 'cause I forgot a good thought ‘bout one bright, rainy day. I get so wrapped up in these little details. Even when I’m havin’ a meltdown, I find a smidgen of beauty in the scramble, the tussle of our everyday battles.

Death Notice of Peter Galligan (Artane, Dublin)