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It was a fine autumn afternoon in 1969, the schoolyard was full of whooping children enjoying the two o’clock break. I should have been with them, but I was still in the classroom, where yellow shafts of autumn sunshine beamed through the tall windows illuminating a galaxy of swirling dust particles. I sat there trying to figure out why ‘the Master’ had told me to stay behind. What had I done wrong? I was perplexed as I watched the tall, gaunt teacher walk down between the rows of desks carrying a big dictionary. He perched himself on the upper section of the desk in front of mine and o...

Oh, how we laughed during the Celtic Tiger years. As we boarded the homeward flight with our bags of duty-free and real estate brochures, the cynics among us giggled at the 'home holiday', as they called it back then. The rain, the 'Irish salad' (a hard-boiled egg, a slice of Calvita cheese, a limp leaf of lettuce) and the pubs closing at 10pm of a Sunday night; when 'Music Lounge' meant misty-eyed ould fellas crying into their lukewarm pints, while singing some 'come-all-ye' extolling the virtue of misery and the Emerald Isle.

Oh, how we laughed during the Celtic Tiger years. As we boarded the homeward flight with our bags of duty-free and real estate brochures, the cynics among us giggled at the 'home holiday', as they called it back then. The rain, the 'Irish salad' (a hard-boiled egg, a slice of Calvita cheese, a limp leaf of lettuce) and the pubs closing at 10pm of a Sunday night; when 'Music Lounge' meant misty-eyed ould fellas crying into their lukewarm pints, while singing some 'come-all-ye' extolling the virtue of misery and the Emerald Isle.