you wanted to replace that, you'd need to win the Lotto. And cold – they were always freezing. It's a bizarre
fact that the wealthy, the Anglo-Irish, all have houses that would freeze your nuts off.
Accounts for why they are always dressed in Barbours and thick woollen scarves, and of course why they're always out fox-hunting.
The Mister I had my appointment with was Mr Keating. He was dressed in a tweed suit –
no white coats for these boyos – and he treated me with mild disdain, bordering on sarcasm. He did a whole range of tests, and I
swear, like the doctor who'd examined Cody, he did that tut-tutting sound I thought was confined to the novels of P. G. Wodehouse.
Finally he was done. He put his hand on his chin and asked, 'Have you ever received a blow to the head?'
For a mad moment I thought he was threatening me, but then realized he was inquiring.
Me . . . a blow to the head. Count the ways, O Lord.
I said, 'I used to play hurling.'
He gave what might have been a smile but could have been wind. 'And no doubt, you being a macho type, you didn't wear a helmet?'
Fuck, we could barely afford to pay for the hurleys. Helmets? Yeah, sure.
He said, 'I may send you for an MRI, but I'm
pretty sure my initial findings are correct.' He paused and I wondered if I would have to guess. Then he continued, 'Your left ear, due to an injury, or perhaps simply age, is showing signs of degeneration – very rapid degeneration
– and within a short time you will be completely deaf in that organ.'
Degeneration.
What a fucking awful word.
He began to scribble on a pad.
'Here is the name of a very fine hearing-aid man. He'll fit you with one.'
I was trying to play catch-up. 'I have to wear a hearing aid?'
Now he smiled.
'Enormous advances have been made in this field. You'd barely notice the newest models.'
Easy for him to say.
And that was it.
He said, 'My secretary will provide billing.'
Naturally. That I heard without any trouble.
I was at the door when he added, 'If you feel compelled to continue hurling, do use a helmet.'
I couldn't resist, said, 'Bit late, wouldn't you say?'
* * *
I met with Eoin Heaton. He was if anything even more bedraggled than before, and the booze was leaking out of his very skin. A stale, desperate smell.
He opened with, 'I've been on this dog thing, like, day and night.'
Sure.
I stared at him. It was like looking in a mirror, all the days I'd racked up in a similar condition. We were in a coffee shop in a side street near the Abbey church. The owner of the place was a Russian who had bought it from a Basque. You have to wonder, where did all the Irish go? We may have got rich but we sure were outnumbered. The latest figures showed that by 2010 Ireland would have one million non-nationals.
Heaton had a black coffee and I opted for a latte, which is frothy milk disguised as caffeine.
Heaton tried to bring the cup to his lips, but his hands shook too much. He said, 'I should have had a straightener.'
Meaning a cure, the hair of the dog and all the other euphemisms that disguise the lethal jolt of alcoholism in full riot.
He reached in his pocket, asked, 'Would you mind, Jack?' and slipped a small bottle of Paddy across to me.
The small bottle, holding my own death warrant, looked so innocent. I unscrewed the top, glanced over at the owner, who was preoccupied, and then poured the booze into his cup. Paddy is one of the strongest whiskeys and the scent was overpowering. I held the cup to his lips and he managed to get half of it down, then did the dead man's dance of choke, gulp, gargle, grimace. He finally managed to utter, 'I think . . . think it might stay down.'
It did, barely.
Then the sea change, within minutes.
Like a demonic miracle, all darkness, it did not come from any place of light. His eyes stopped watering, a rosy colour spread across his face and his hands ceased their jig. He changed physically, his posture became erect and a note of defiance hit his
fact that the wealthy, the Anglo-Irish, all have houses that would freeze your nuts off.
Accounts for why they are always dressed in Barbours and thick woollen scarves, and of course why they're always out fox-hunting.
The Mister I had my appointment with was Mr Keating. He was dressed in a tweed suit –
no white coats for these boyos – and he treated me with mild disdain, bordering on sarcasm. He did a whole range of tests, and I
swear, like the doctor who'd examined Cody, he did that tut-tutting sound I thought was confined to the novels of P. G. Wodehouse.
Finally he was done. He put his hand on his chin and asked, 'Have you ever received a blow to the head?'
For a mad moment I thought he was threatening me, but then realized he was inquiring.
Me . . . a blow to the head. Count the ways, O Lord.
I said, 'I used to play hurling.'
He gave what might have been a smile but could have been wind. 'And no doubt, you being a macho type, you didn't wear a helmet?'
Fuck, we could barely afford to pay for the hurleys. Helmets? Yeah, sure.
He said, 'I may send you for an MRI, but I'm
pretty sure my initial findings are correct.' He paused and I wondered if I would have to guess. Then he continued, 'Your left ear, due to an injury, or perhaps simply age, is showing signs of degeneration – very rapid degeneration
– and within a short time you will be completely deaf in that organ.'
Degeneration.
What a fucking awful word.
He began to scribble on a pad.
'Here is the name of a very fine hearing-aid man. He'll fit you with one.'
I was trying to play catch-up. 'I have to wear a hearing aid?'
Now he smiled.
'Enormous advances have been made in this field. You'd barely notice the newest models.'
Easy for him to say.
And that was it.
He said, 'My secretary will provide billing.'
Naturally. That I heard without any trouble.
I was at the door when he added, 'If you feel compelled to continue hurling, do use a helmet.'
I couldn't resist, said, 'Bit late, wouldn't you say?'
* * *
I met with Eoin Heaton. He was if anything even more bedraggled than before, and the booze was leaking out of his very skin. A stale, desperate smell.
He opened with, 'I've been on this dog thing, like, day and night.'
Sure.
I stared at him. It was like looking in a mirror, all the days I'd racked up in a similar condition. We were in a coffee shop in a side street near the Abbey church. The owner of the place was a Russian who had bought it from a Basque. You have to wonder, where did all the Irish go? We may have got rich but we sure were outnumbered. The latest figures showed that by 2010 Ireland would have one million non-nationals.
Heaton had a black coffee and I opted for a latte, which is frothy milk disguised as caffeine.
Heaton tried to bring the cup to his lips, but his hands shook too much. He said, 'I should have had a straightener.'
Meaning a cure, the hair of the dog and all the other euphemisms that disguise the lethal jolt of alcoholism in full riot.
He reached in his pocket, asked, 'Would you mind, Jack?' and slipped a small bottle of Paddy across to me.
The small bottle, holding my own death warrant, looked so innocent. I unscrewed the top, glanced over at the owner, who was preoccupied, and then poured the booze into his cup. Paddy is one of the strongest whiskeys and the scent was overpowering. I held the cup to his lips and he managed to get half of it down, then did the dead man's dance of choke, gulp, gargle, grimace. He finally managed to utter, 'I think . . . think it might stay down.'
It did, barely.
Then the sea change, within minutes.
Like a demonic miracle, all darkness, it did not come from any place of light. His eyes stopped watering, a rosy colour spread across his face and his hands ceased their jig. He changed physically, his posture became erect and a note of defiance hit his
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