Her husband never told her she looked nice, or pay her any kind of compliment. For him, she was there and that was where it was normal for her to be. So when the other man came into her life she was literally a sitting duck.

She did not stand a chance. He was kind and thoughtful in a way her husband had never been. He asked if he can help, he seemed to actually listen to her, he looked at her as if she was someone special, someone to be appreciated and adored, not merely tolerated and put in her place.

He was good looking too, in that simple human way not in the soap opera star kind of way. So, without knowing how it happened Fionnuala found herself on the verge of having an affair.

She huffed and laughed at her own ridiculousness. Women like her did not have affairs, she was too old, too provincial and too set in her ways to do anything of the sort. Her husband hadn’t noticed anything, not when they went to the pub, not when they went shopping or went to the church.

He knew the other man, of course he knew him, everybody knew everybody, in their small village, but he was so confident that his wife was his that he never even bothered to question the other man’s niceties.

Who would want her? A middle aged woman, normal, with no exceptional features or talents. Barely knew how to cook, he would laugh, she was a good mother though, he had to give her that. What he would call a mother with a talent for it, she was just amazing with the children, taking care of them, educating them, organizing everything for them.

Of course, it was easy when he provided her with everything, but still, she did well, he had to give her that.

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Three times a week, in the afternoon, Fionnuala would walk to the leisure center and swim for one hour. It was her passion and it was what kept her strong to care for all the people and things that needed to be looked after in her life.

Strong mentally and physically. Water was her element. She would often say that she should have been born a fish … the other man said ‘A mermaid most likely … a beautiful, dazzling mermaid.’

She blushed and swam away quickly. She blushed later when she revisited the memory, snuggled under the duvet and battling insomnia.

She’d known him for a long time, but they never went further than the weather. Just recently he had started to chat to her, to ask her things, show up in church or at community events.

Soon Fionnuala found herself looking out for him in the street. She was surprised how easy she found it to talk to him. He watched some of the same shows as she did, seemed to like to read and was very knowledgeable about some of the things she was interested in.

As the months passed Fionnuala developed a very inappropriate friendship with the other man. Oh no, she did not cheat on her husband, but she thought about the other man and sometimes would wonder. ‘What if?’

The phone rang. A video call from Maureen, a good friend of hers, who was so well connected in the village that she knew everything, sometimes even before it happened. She had a knack for it Maureen.

‘Are you sitting down?

Their conversations were like a continuous one, they never said ‘Hello’ or ‘Good bye’.

‘Maureen!’

The phone laughed at her.

‘Fine! You will absolutely not believe this!’

‘Hmmm …?’, Fionnuala was folding laundry in the kitchen.

‘Siobhan has run away with that pool guy, you know which, the one that swam there, Sean his name is.’ Maureen’s voice was delighted.

Fionnuala had to sit down.

‘What?’

‘They had been having an affair for some time now, it seems they were planning this escape together for months. She took all of her family’s money. Her husband is in bits. I am sure your husband will tell you everything tonight. They are best friends right?’

They chatted for a bit, Fionnuala working hard to hide her true frame of mind and blaming her absentmindedness on a cold. When the phone went silent she burst into tears.

He had been having an affair with another woman all along! She felt so stupid, so ridiculous … so lucky!

The sitting duck had dodged a bullet.

God All Mighty!

When her solid husband came home he was all shook up.

‘You will not believe what happened!’

She pretended she had no idea.

‘What?’

‘Siobhan took all her family’s money and ran away with the electrician. You must know him, he was always there at all the events and church... She just emptied the joint account and ran with him … Can you imagine?!’, it was obvious he couldn’t.

Fionnuala continued to chop vegetables working hard not to give herself away. She startled when he came very close to her and watched her intently.

‘You would never do that, would you?’, he sounded pleading and worried.

‘I mean we have a good life, we love each other, our children …’

Her heart melted and felt so lucky again.

‘Oh come on, don’t be so dramatic! I am not Siobhan! Go wash up! The food will be ready soon …’

He gave her a big hug and went upstairs to change into his house clothes and wash up.

Fionnuala said a quick prayer and felt gratitude for her normal, settled kind of life, and for her unromantic husband she could count on.

Some things are more important than others … or so she thought!

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All sorts of sayings and fragments of things she had read were swirling around in her head throughout the day, while, unconsciously, or not so much, she was evaluating her life.

The soul has started packing a little bag.

She really liked this one, although she was not sure where she had read it. She could see her soul, all dressed up in its traveling outfit, for some reason her soul had a Victorian traveling dress and a big carpet bag in which it had shoved all the things it thought it might need. Her soul was childish and pretended to be ready for an unknown journey.

The mirror cracked from side to side.

This was definitely the lovely Agatha. She could not remember off the top of her head the meaning of the mirror in the story, but for her, for her childish soul it felt like a waking up, like the shine, the light was gone and illusions were shattered.

This is the winter of our discontent.

Shakespeare of course. She did not know if it was accurate but it worked for her. She felt the chill of dissatisfaction while looking around at what she had accomplished, while going through the inventory of all the dreams she had abandoned along the way. No, not content, not content at all.

Just going through the motions.

This was another random, unidentifiable one. She was going though the motions, she was doing what she needed to do, but somehow all she felt was irritation and dissatisfaction.

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She had read in a paper about a celebrity wife, meaning, the woman was the wife of a famous man, she was not famous herself, just by association, so this woman suffered from deep depression, so much so that she got herself into one of those special clinics.

While cleaning the windows the image of the woman floated in front of her eyes. She had seen the woman countless times in the papers and on TV. She was beautiful, she had a gorgeous husband, an amazing house, all the money in the world…

And still even she had to go away for a while …

God works in mysterious ways.

She truly believed that. Many times that saying proved itself to be true. She never spoke about her beliefs, she did not want to have to defend them or explain them. They were hers, private and intimate. She had read, in another paper, about a study that showed that people that had a system of belief, whichever, had less anxiety than people that did not. Makes sense, she thought to herself while putting the vacuum away.

She went to change to go to work. Her body felt like an alien in recent times. The changes of middle age were so fast that her mind could not keep up. But oh well, we go through the motions … no other choice is there? Thank God for our health!

In the little supermarket she worked in she stacked shelves, she swept the floors, she was a cashier, she did what needed to be done. Gladly. She thrived in action, it kept her mind busy … well, of course, except the different random things popping in unexpectedly.

She’d seen this movie with a guy that took early retirement and then found it hard to cope. She imagined she would be like that, and this thought gave her renewed energy to perform her tasks.

You got this.

Sure do!

And she smiled to the unsuspecting customer she was helping with their shopping.

‘You have a good day now!’

‘Thank you you too!’, the customer replied and then on their way out pressed the green, smiling face on the customer satisfaction machine.

She saw that and was pleased beyond measure.

Job well done!

Yaba daba doooo!

Where are youuu?!

I have found you!

Sure have!

And she smiled to the next customer in line.

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How can things go so wrong so quickly? His mind still had difficulties comprehending the enormity of it all.

Just a few years ago Robert was a respectable father of two, husband to a loving wife, proud business owner, pillar of his small community.

Then feck all happened!

Corona came, hotels like his were empty, money dried out, the American wife decided (as soon as she could travel), that she and the children needed to visit her parents in San Fran, and then never came back.

Their huge house was sold, the money divided and then squandered, and now he was a well into middle age, hotel owner living in a small room in the back of his reception desk, at the center of what was now a bad area of town.

Before Covid it had been a nice and clean area, but then, with people isolating and only the unsavory characters roaming about like they were immune to the virus, it quickly became a meeting point for all sorts of people Robert would have never dreamt to interact with.

And so, day by day, he became more and more part of a dark world of dark and aggressive people. He would justify his allegiance telling himself that he needed to keep the hotel afloat, it was his only source of income, his only possession, his only hope.

It is at this point in life where we meet Robert now. He is at his Reception desk trying to make ends meet with a pen on paper, but as much as he stretches his meager takings he has to accept it will not be enough to cover the month’s bills. Nobody warned him life can be this taxing …

‘Hello!’

Robert did not look up, he was so absorbed by his own damnation that he did not hear the voice of the person greeting him, only when she got close enough to cast a shadow on his paper, did he realize somebody was standing in front of him.

Faced with the unusual appearance he was lost for words.

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‘Hello? Can you hear?’, the old woman waved a gloved hand in front of his eyes as if she was checking his sight.

‘Yes … I am sorry, can I help you?’, she was for sure lost.

‘Well, yes I hope so …’, and he saw a faint hue of pink under the very white skin.

‘It seems you have the cheapest rooms in the area and I am in need of one … for a longer period of time … I cannot pay much … but I can help around here …’, and she passed her hand through the air over the dusty furniture and not so clean carpets.

Robert almost laughed with disbelief. Didn’t she know where she was?

Didn’t she see the overgrown grass, the bikes lying around on the drive, didn’t she smell the dust and grime, wasn’t she put off by the impossible to ignore decrepitude of the hotel?

‘I am sorry’, he tried to be as nice as he could. ‘I am not sure you want to stay here, it is not a … very safe place …’, it was the best he could come up with.

‘Oh honey, let me make you a cup of tea and tell you all about it.’

Somehow she had spied where the kettle was in the little office behind him and moving a lot faster than he thought possible, in no time she was installed in a chair with a hot cup of tea and her large bags next to her.

Her name was Joanna Barry, and she was recently made homeless by the council house she was living in being taken to be upgraded … apparently …

‘And they did not give you any alternate accommodation? They must have!’, Robert was appalled on her behalf.

‘Well, they did, of course they did, in Dublin! Can you imagine? Me? Who has lived all my life on the West Coast to have to move all the way to Dublin city? I would not survive a month there! Makes no sense! They did it knowing most likely I will not go … so I grabbed my bags, filled them with what I could and at seventy-five I am finding my way in the world again.’ She sounded determined but sad, and looking at her, this little Miss Marple fallen of an old story book in his dark and dirty reality made Robert feel even sorrier for her.

They drank their tea in silence.

‘I have to be honest with you … I am not sure this place here is any better than Dublin… ever since Covid my clients have become quite rough and not nice people … I mean, I would not have my mom live here if I had a choice …’

‘But I don’t have a choice do I?’, she stopped him.

‘Look I know you are a good man, give me a chance. I will earn my keep, I am a very good cleaner, I love bringing things back to their old shining self.’

Robert did not have it in his heart to turn her away. They agreed. She would get a room in the staff quarters (which were empty and damp, but at least she was safe there) not to mix with the so called customers, and she would not come out in the evenings when the lounge was taken over by the usual clientele that treated the place like it was theirs.

The first few weeks, until Joanna got used to the place, everything went ok. Better than expected even. In the mornings she would busy herself with cleaning the lounge, she even went into some of the rooms and aired them emptied the trash. She was indeed very good at cleaning and seemed to enjoy it.

One morning when Robert sat at his Reception desk he was shocked to see that it was also gleaming and smelled nice. Joanna came out with a fresh cup of tea for him. He almost felt bad for the little money he was charging her. He could get used to that. But the day passed too quickly and the mobsters, as he called them, started to gather.

They had their own table in one of the corner of the large room, where they could sit with their back to the wall and have a good view of the entrance. The were led by this large guy everybody seemed to fear.

Robert made himself small behind his desk and let them make themselves at home. It had the appearance of a night like any other until a huge row erupted all of a sudden.

The large guy had grabbed a youngster by the throat and was yelling at him something about food. It had all kicked so suddenly that Robert did not have time to react when Joanna passed him in her house coat and went straight to the fighting duo.

‘What is the meaning of this? Let him go! He is a quarter of you!’, her voice was so surprising that the large guy unsure of what was happening loosened his grip for a moment. Just one moment as, soon after, his eyes were covered again in malice and he was seemingly playing with the youngster.

‘If you are hungry I can cook for you! Just bring me what you want!’, her confidence, and mostly her offer seemed to lead to a change of heart.

‘You know how to cook?’, the large guy seemed suspicious.

Robert was watching the entire scene in disbelief.

‘I will cook you the best meal you ever had!’

He let go of the boy and pulling out a large wad of money gave him four fifty euro notes.

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‘Give him a list of what you need for Colcannon and steak. I need to run out for two hours, but I will be back mind you, so you would better deliver you old hag!’

Oh and how did she deliver!

Joanna made the best meal the large guy had had in months. He was instantly hooked and each day following that one came about asking her to make him this or that dish.

The young boy she had saved had become her official aid, and as it turned out he was very apt in the kitchen and transformed to a totally different person.

The knock out news came, when, one evening, the doors of the hotel flung open and a screaming banshee holding a small bay came in.

‘I want to see your floozy, the one that keeps you fed and away from your family!’

The large guy went all red and stuttered in front of, they all understood, was the mother of his child. She shoved the baby into his arms and put her hands on her hips commanding fear if not respect.

Joanna shuffled silently from the kitchen.

‘Oh my God, it is so nice to meet you! He never stops talking about you and how you have made him the happiest man in the world! I only serve food when they have a lot of work to do and it drags on. Why don’t you sit down dear, you look exhausted, let me take care of you! Bring back some shine to those cheeks!’

The banshee melted into Joanna’s care, the large guy, who had never mentioned his family was stunned and grateful, Robert was starting to wonder if maybe there wasn’t something uncanny about Joanna.

Things went even further. The banshee and her bairn started coming to the hotel daily. She would keep Joanna company in the kitchen, the baby was lovingly cared for by all the group, the large guy started to be nicer to everybody, and Robert’s hotel was being caringly done up. It seemed all those gangsters had other skills he never thought they might. One was a plumber, another a painter, they even had a carpenter. Trades they slowly had given up because of this or the other.

Soon, an entire community formed around the hotel and Robert found himself one morning that he had plans. At first he was surprised himself by the ideas swirling in his head, but then he just gave in, it was so nice just to have the slightest glimmer of hope.

Joanna came to join him at the desk bringing a slice of pie. He loved pie, and kindly smiled at her amazed by the difference she had made into all their lives.

‘Are you ok?’, her voice was soft and motherly.

‘I am, are you?’, he was still not used with somebody caring how he was. Loneliness can leave deep marks.

‘I am great! The boys started cleaning the back garden! Wait till you see it! An oasis!…’

And on she went chatting about this, that or the other, while Robert looked around the old hotel in disbelief.

The place still leaked when it rained, the wallpaper still peeled in places and half the chairs did not match, but for the first time in years the building sounded alive.

Cups clinked in the kitchen. Somebody laughed upstairs. A baby cried somewhere down the hall and was instantly shushed by three different voices.

Joanna kept talking happily about flowers for the back garden while while she dreamily sipped from her tea.

And Robert, who had spent years believing life only took things away, realized that sometimes it also returned them.

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He had loved in the past. He had loved and lost a stunning blonde beauty who was as beautiful when she woke up as she was when she went to bed. She was everything and he loved her to bits.

Gary did not mind that he had to work to keep the house, to pay the mortgage, to buy groceries, put petrol in the car, vacations, everything. It was all worth it just to have her be his wife, to be in her company and enjoy her airy, almost ethereal way of being.

Right after the Celtic Tiger years he’d managed to buy the house, a huge house, five bedrooms, three bathrooms, living, dining and a huge kitchen. Quietly he was preparing for that big Irish family he had always dreamed of.

Ethel loved the house, she was enthralled with the bright rooms, the high ceilings, the airy spaces. They were happy. So happy.

When coming back from work Gary would notice that the house developed little pockets of untidiness, but as the house was so big these were barely noticeable, so he ignored them and continued to enjoy his life of bliss.

As time went by, the pockets extended into whole sections of rooms that were dumping ground for all sorts of things, ranging from clothes to magazines, sometimes the odd cup or plate. Gary loved his amazing wife and was sure it was just something temporary. He started to work on the sections during the weekend trying to prevent them from taking over the space.

While Gary was busy sorting out the house, Ethel would go into town shopping, would have lunch with her friends, would complain about her boring husband that only cares about mundane things.

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It wasn’t long before Gary was exhausted, spread thin between work, the home and meeting his wife’s ever changing demands. When he asked her for help, she complained that it was all too much while dumping a fresh batch of shopping bags on the floor and slumping in an armchair.

‘All too much! I cannot cope!’, her voice sounded truthful and Gary felt like a beast for asking that of her.

Work became really busy and Gray was exhausted when he got home. His dinners consisted mostly of canned beans and butter on toast. Soon the house was overrun with objects, untidiness, and dare I say, dirt.

Gary was heartbroken and felt like a stranger in his own life. What he did not know was that his wife was feeling the same, and one harsh, cold morning he was faced with the reality of it.

‘I am moving out!’, Gary’s heart crumbled into his chest and fell out becoming part of the chaos around him. And that was it. She left with a resounding slam of the door.

Gary’s life shattered. His heart was broken and his house was full of the debris of a life too painful to think of.

Somehow he managed to continue working, he was driven by this idea of hanging on the house, the only real, tangible and reliable thing in his life. So he worked for it and this purpose kept him alive. Yes, yes, alive, because dark, predatory thoughts often clouded his mind.

One evening, when he was coming back from work, stuck in the front door he found a little flyer advertising cleaning services. The name on the flyer did not sound Irish, but when he called the number he was surprised to be greeted by a thick Eastern European accent. The woman on the phone sounded just like those very dramatic Dracula accents that gave her a strange, surreal feel. She made him smile with her business like manner.

They agreed to a trial week to see if they got along and if he was happy with her work. Gary offered her slightly more than she was asking and he could hear the surprise in her voice. He did it because he was afraid otherwise she would just run out the door when she saw the mess his house was in.

She did not run, but after taking a tour of the house, Agatha, told him in a very heavy R accent that she could not do all the house in one week, but that she committed to the kitchen as that was, in her view, the dirtiest and the most important room in the house. Ah, and one bathroom. Hygiene was very important. Hadn’t he learnt anything from Covid? And she gave him a stern stare.

Gary agreed and smiled to the determined woman in front of him. They had a deal.

As it turned out Agatha did not have other jobs so she agreed to spend the full working day in his house. It was almost like magic what she was doing. After spending some money on many cleaning products Gary never even knew existed, she got to work. In two days the kitchen gleamed. Soon after, his bedroom and the ensuite were done, and in what seemed a very short time the entire house was spotless.

Agatha had put out for him bags and bags of things that he needed to sort out through and Gary just took the decision to take them to charity. The charity chops were delighted with the countless clothes and shoes they got.

When it was all finally cleared out and Gary came home he was surprised to see how relieved he felt. Like a heavy cloud had lifted. The house was a joy to be in, to inhabit and to make use of.

Agatha informed him that now that the work was so much lighter, if he wants she can reduce her hours.

‘No! I have a better proposition for you. Please work full time for me. I am happy for you to move in and I will not charge you rent or anything, your pay stays the same. Just maybe you can also cook some food … do groceries, what is needed. I will provide budget of course.’ Gary had started to omit articles like she did.

Agatha looked at him weighing his offer.

‘No sexual services you hear! I am a strong woman!’, and she flexed her arm showing an impressive bit of muscle.

Gary almost choked with the shock of her directness.

‘No … no other services needed …’

And they shook hands on it.

That was two years ago maybe, and ever since they developed their own unusual relationship. Agatha never behaved as an employee, she was more a keeper of the house and a carer to Gary.

Gary discovered that he was coming back to himself. He had time for hobbies, for friends, for vacations. He was thriving in work as he was free of worry. It was like the world had found that very fragile balance of well being and the universe allowed Gary to enjoy it.

One Sunday afternoon, after lunch, when Gary was napping in his favorite chair in the living room, he heard a key trying to open the entrance door and when that did not work, loud banging followed. Gary jumped up confused just in time to see Agatha running in the living room from the kitchen.

‘Are you ok?’, Agatha nodded and pointed to the door.

They both went closer and Gary took out his phone to check the outside cameras to see what was happening. To his shock it was his ex wife. They had gotten a divorce which she had swiftly agreed to, as she was engaged to be married with some Baron or other, and was keen not to lose him.

Both Gary and Agatha were staring at the phone looking at the disheveled woman banging on the door and yelling his name.

‘Garyyyyy! I know you are in there! Let me in! I love you!’

Gary took the easy way out and hid in the kitchen with Agatha.

‘She will go away … let’s have a cuppa …’

Agatha complied. She had seen weirder things.

‘Who is she?’

‘She was the perfect wife.’

And that was all, with that short statement Gary released himself from his past and felt grateful for his present.

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The train rolled rhythmically on the tracks. So far so good.

She’d managed to wake up, get dressed, leave the house, catch the train. The hard part was done. Now she just had to go through the motions and allow the day to flow in its well known routine.

Fog filtered the orange sunrise above dark green fields. She wished she had the words to describe the beauty she saw, but she did not, so she just internalized it and let it rejoice her heart.

Sometimes the world was too beautiful, other times it was too scary, and all the time it was overwhelming.

Sandra smiled to herself slowly closing her eyes just to jolt in high alert in the next second as she felt movement on the seat in front.

In the morning, when the train wasn’t crowded, she liked to spread her things across one of the table seats. The only downside was the seat opposite.

Usually nobody sat in front, so she always expected to be alone. This morning though she was surprised to see another passenger sit in front of her although there were plenty of other empty seats.

She would have moved herself, but she already had her book out, her water, her coffee, some crackers. She would have looked like a mad woman if she had started to shove everything back in her backpack and run.

She made herself as small as possible and pulled her things closer to her side of the table to make space for the unwanted companion. It was only polite.

‘Oh, no don’t bother, I am good!’, and he smiled a perfect smile at her.

Sandra was surprised by his voice and tone, she hadn’t expected him to sound so… so… good. She smiled and withdrew in the depths of her seat, trying to hide behind her bulging backpack. With the corner of her eye she spied on him.

He was not necessarily attractive in an actor kind of way. He had slight features, looking oddly similar to a hawk.

Sandra often associated people with animals or characters from movies, and her fellow passenger felt like one of those magical creatures in the Grimm TV series. A human that turned into some strange, mythical creature and, when they turned back to being human, that was when you really saw the resemblance to their inner creature …

‘No way!’, Sandra was startled by his sudden exclamation and gave out a little squeak.

She peeked from behind her backpack and saw him holding out her book. Oh wait no, it was not her book, it was his book, just that it was the same as hers.

‘No way!’, now it was her turn to be all surprised.

What are the odds?

Slim to none!

Two people reading the same Roald Dahl short story collection.

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‘That is … unusual …’, Sandra pushed herself up and now was looking at him still holding up the book.

‘Do you love it? I love it!’, his passion for the book enchanted her.

‘I love it too!’

It felt like the most random thing, like the universe had put all its other affairs on hold just to focus on them two.

Shortly, Sandra found herself pouring her heart out to the charismatic companion she was enthralled with. Sandra found she could not contain her enthusiasm, while all the time she was just repeating in her mind ‘Don’t be weird! Don’t be weird!’, but she was, she knew she was, she just did not know how to control it. Plus, he seemed not to mind it at all!

The man smiled and nodded and approved and chuckled and made all the right noises while giving all the right signals. Sandra was on cloud nine. He might be the one.

The announcement came that in ten minutes they will reach Connolly Station. Her station. His station. The last station. She could not let him go.

‘I would love to meet you after work!’, she blushed all over, she could not believe she had uttered the words. He was meant to ask her, girls didn’t do that. How could she be so forward? For sure now he will run for the hills. She was just too intense. Sandra almost crumbled inside when she heard him speak.

‘Sure, that would be great! What time do you finish?’

Sandra felt her heart leap.

The last minutes of the train ride they made plans on where to meet and what time.

Sandra was walking on air as she walked away from him and waved good bye.

‘Malachy! What a beautiful name he had!’, Sandra thought while wishing the day away.

After he was sure he was out of sight Malachy shoved the book in his backpack and took out his phone. Forty three notifications from various dating apps and instant messaging. He crossed the street and walked into a small, bohemian cafe.

‘Morning Maire! Same as always please.’

He sat at his table in the corner and took out a big appointment book. With an ink pen he wrote in it:

Sandra, May 14th- has potential, expensive bag and phone …

He closed shut the book when he felt Maire approaching his table.

‘Here you are love!’ He nodded as he greedily eyed the large steaming coffee accompanied by a huge almond croissant.

Maire felt the day had started.

The young man would come in almost daily, have coffee and a croissant, write in his big book, spend hours on his phone or watch the train station. Maire liked him. Clean and polite, made no trouble.

If only all young people were like him …

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It was now almost twenty-five years since he had stolen it. He kept it hidden in his side of the wardrobe, covered by old, messy clothes that nobody ever bothered to sort out. They had an understanding, each of them managed their own side of the wardrobe, so Evie never looked through his things.

Sometimes, when he was alone in the house, he would not risk it when she was home, he would dig it out and look through the things in it. He knew them all so well, over time they had become like sacred objects, so much so that when he went through them he would carefully touch them so as not to damage them.

It was the bag that had changed his life. It stood as a marker of the before and after of his life. The moment that had put him on the path to become the man he was now.

For the longest time he could not think about that day, about that moment. But then, as he settled into his own life, as he became more stable he dared look back, and accept what he had done. Accept, but not forgive.

He was young, he was a stupid boy of seventeen, from a family that did not have too much time for him. During all that time spent outside, he had made some unsuitable friendships, bad people that were just too happy to take advantage of the strength and youth of an easily manipulated young man.

He was so foolish. He pretended to be strong and sophisticated, sometimes his pretense was so good that he would believe it himself, but he was just a child.

During that time he did some drugs, he beat up some boys and he stole, he stole a lot. From shops, from markets, from people. He stole so much that he had come to see himself like a sort of super hero thief, that could do what ever he wanted and he would never be caught.

One day, him and his mates wanted to go to Supermac’s, but they did not have the money for all the things they wanted. That is when he, the big man, the outstanding thief, said he will handle it. He will get the money. The others encouraged him noisily.

He watched and waited for a bit, and then, he saw her. An oldish woman coming out of the bank and wearing one of those old bags, with a very short strap that just goes to the elbow, easy to grab and run with.

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He did not need to think or plan for too long. He jumped off the bench he had climbed on, walked quickly until he was right behind her, grabbed the bag and ran. It was all so quick that nobody had a chance to even understand what had happened.

The old woman started yelling and, unexpectedly, ran after him. He found out only a few hours later what happened, when with their bellies full they strolled back into the center of town, the bag long thrown behind the wall of a derelict building.

It seems the old woman ran after him in the street and was hit by a car. It seems she did not make it, but that while breathing her last breath, there on the wet asphalt, she said that she forgave the person that had done that, that for sure they must need the money desperately. And then she died.

The tragedy of the situation became national news. Her last words were repeated on TV, on the radio, printed in all the papers. Everybody was talking about it, analyzing the situation, expressing opinions on what happened, the state of the nation, the inability of the guards to protect the citizens. It became this national feverish concern and there was nowhere he could go to escape it.

The money he had stolen were long gone, it was not even that much, and the meal he had eaten at the expense of the woman’s life was making him feel very sick. So sick that a few weeks after he had to be hospitalized.

When he felt better he thought about confessing, but he could not, he was so afraid of being locked up anywhere that he just could not.

In the hospital he met his first male nurse, a good looking, strong man and he was puzzled of his choice to do a woman’s job. The nurse explained that he would have liked to be a doctor, but he was just not smart enough, so he became a nurse and he loved it.

‘Helping people and supporting them when they need it most is a very good feeling!’, the nurse told him.

That is when he had found his career. From then on things just seemed to fall into place.

When he came out of the hospital he went and looked for the bag. Her found it where he had thrown it and took it home. A reminder of her, of the woman that gave her life for his.

Over the next twenty five years he helped hundreds, if not thousands of people. Each Christmas their letterbox overflowed with grateful cards from people he had helped over the years, but, despite all this, sadly, he could never feel the joy of fulfillment as he never really forgave himself for that stupid act that had led to her death.

Another day, during the holidays, when the number of patients was way too large for the number of staff available in the hospital to properly care for them, a woman came in to the emergency desk saying that she does not feel well, something feels wrong with her heart.

‘I am sorry to bother you … but I am all alone and did not know where to go …’

The busy receptionist shoved a form in her face and signaled to her to sit down.

That is when he was passing through and, with the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the woman’s trembling hand holding the pen, the grey skin, the shallow breathing. He went to her and without asking for permission grabbed her wrist. Her pulse was racing.

‘Come with me!’

She followed in a daze of confusion.

He sat her in one of the little cubicles set for screening and quickly connected her to a heart rate monitor. Supraventricular Tachycardia, he was sure, no time to waste. In such a fast movement, that looked to her like a magic trick, he connected her to an IV line and in a matter of seconds she went from feeling like she was dying to no pain at all.

She felt so stupid, bothering them for nothing, but as she was to find out later from the doctor, what the nurse did actually saved her life.

When he visited her later in the week she was doing well.

‘I don’t know why they don’t let me go home! At first they barely paid attention to me and now I cannot leave!’, she was genuinely annoyed.

‘We just need to monitor you for a bit. Please don’t stress yourself, that is bad for your heart.’

She smiled at him.

‘Do you know, that is what my mother used to tell me. I never listened …’, her eyes drifted to the blue sky outside.

‘Did you lose her a long time ago?’, from her sad tone he knew her mother was gone.

‘Oh yes, tis twenty five years ago now. But you know, it never goes away the pain, the emptiness, you just learn to live with it, it becomes part of you.’

‘I am so sorry …’

‘You might have read about it, it was big news then … she was run over by a car when she was chasing a thief that got her bag … she became famous then. All forgotten now. Are you ok?’

His blood ran cold into his veins. The universe does have a very dark sense of humor.

‘I am so sorry … for your loss … I …’, he did not have words.

‘You are kind! Thank you! My mom would have loved you! You saved my life!’

And she saved mine. He thought miserably to himself. That is when he felt this uncontrollable urge to confess, to tell her everything, to come clean…

‘I hope they burn in Hell, the thief I mean, that took her away from me!’

Her voice was so full of hatred that his words got stuck in his throat.

‘I am sure they will, if they haven’t already …’

The doctor came in then and he stepped out.

Maybe it was true, maybe he will burn in Hell, this meant he could live his life now, if his punishment was guaranteed anyway, and maybe, just maybe, all the good thoughts of the people he had helped, or even saved, will grant him a lesser kind of Hell.

Just maybe … somehow these thoughts gave him an unexpected feeling of lightness of being and knowing that his punishment was guaranteed allowed him to let go of his burden of guilt.

God works in mysterious ways!

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This was his second time of opening the document and just staring at the whiteness of the screen, at the little blinking line that waited for him to write something on the vast page.

His mind was as blank as the page he stared at, its emptiness reflected into his own mind.

No words would come, no ideas would form, he was nothing incapable of bringing himself to become something. To write himself into existence.

He forced himself to write something, to start an idea. Sometimes it worked, sometimes he would start jotting down disparate ideas and, somehow, like magic, they would fuse and would become a story or an article.

Other times, like now, he was so bogged down in his own self that he could not make sense of anything or string a story along.

He felt, at the same time, empty and compact, empty of ideas and meaning, compact like a big lump of coal that does not reflect light or being. He was in pain.

The pain of feeling stuck in yourself, unable to be who you want to be, who you desperately wish to be, who you need to be in order to fully live.

He took out his notebook and looked over ideas he had written down when out and about.

Snippets of images, of people, fragments of ideas that he had felt, then, would be worth developing into full blown stories.

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None spoke to him.

He was not ready to give up.

Let me understand. Let me understand myself.

He tried to listen to himself.

Silence. Just the throbbing heart of frustration. The frustration that he could not do what he most wanted to do when he wanted to do it. To write himself into existence.

He glanced at the clock. Soon he will have to go to work and he will not be able to write anymore.

He felt a pang of jealousy for all those writers he had read about that could just sit down and write, just make things up easily. He was not like them. Oh, how he wished he was!

Why was it so difficult for him to do something he desperately wanted to do? It made no sense whatsoever!

One of the shelves in his small library was overflowing with Stephen King books. More disillusionment! He was way too old now to even write half of that! Time ticked by uncaring!

Why did he still want to write if he could not?

Because, when he did manage to write something, he was so happy, so pleased, like he had meaning. Like he was alive.

Time’s up!

He shut down his laptop and got up. With a heavy sigh he knew he will try again, again and again until there was no more time to try.

Maybe tomorrow …

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Although it now caused him pain, he’d kept the clock that had saved his life. Often he would go back to that morning in his mind, analyzing every little detail, looking for meaning that just was not there.

Pól had had great difficulty getting up. He could still remember the heaviness of his limbs and the fuzziness of his head. The drinking he had done the night before had left an obvious mark.

He crawled into the bathroom, skipped the shower as it was just too much effort and went into his tiny kitchen for coffee. After the first fuzzy cup and two cigarettes his mind started to slowly turn its inflamed and imbibed cogs.

Through blood shot eyes he looked at the clock. Seven thirty. He still had time for another quick coffee and a cigarette. Pól felt like he was a straw man, and decided he definitely needed the strength that bit of extra caffeine and nicotine would give him. He had time.

He enjoyed his second cup even more than the first, he could savor this one. The first one was about survival, this one was about living.

Finally, feeling more like a functioning human being, Pól stepped out in the cold, Irish rain. The freshness of the morning felt good and it made him that bit better.

The factory Pól worked in was across the small town he lived in, occupying most of a large industrial estate. Pól biked to work, and the cold wind cutting across his face as he pedaled his old Raleigh, helped him sober up.

He was, maybe, five minutes away from the factory gate, when the loudest noise he had heard in his life made him stop short, almost falling off the bike. The noise was followed by a huge flame shooting up to the sky, and then quickly, smoke started to flood the air.

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Pól was in shock, and just stood there, pinned into place, just looking at the enormous blaze which was accompanied by loud crackling noises. Soon screams could be heard and Pól snapped out of it. He got on his bike, and rode straight into the industrial park.

Past the gates he could see that a huge fire had taken over a large section of the factory he was going to. Workers were streaming out covered in dust and soot. Some were screaming and some were obviously hurt.

‘It must be what hell looks like...’ Pól could not help the thought from forming in his mind. He got off the bike and started randomly helping people, trying to get them away from the burning building.

It took the firefighters two whole days to fully put out the fire. Many people were hurt and a few lost their lives. Pól was recognized for his help and selfishness of throwing himself right in there to support his fellow factory workers with no regard for his own safety.

Pól was seen as a hero by everybody but himself. When he got home that evening he saw that the kitchen clock was stuck to seven thirty. The battery had run out. His laziness and drunkenness had saved his life, and it was not fair. Worthy people had lost their lives in that fire, he should have been in their place. Pól sunk into a black pit of depression.

Pól stopped going into town because he could not stand seeing the admiring eyes of the people. He could not answer their niceties. Didn’t they know that he should have been there? That he had cheated death and now he was unworthy of living.

One night, it must have been a good five months after the fire, when Pól could not find any relief in sleep, he put his coat on and went walking about in the cold night, under a beautifully lit sky.

Pól walked and walked on the deserted streets until he got to a small graveyard. He knew the graveyard well, it was so old that most likely there were no more bones under the weather beaten stone crosses. The graveyard used to belong to the old parish church built in the 16th century, now itself just a bunch of ruins.

That was how Pól felt, like the ruin of a human being, and, somehow, his own perceived decrepitude, made him feel connected to the old, crumbling church.

Pól sat on a worn out stone and listened to the wind, looked at the light of the moon falling on the abandoned church, felt the air sweeping over him and for the first time in a long time he felt able to breathe properly. Tears started streaming down his cheeks, and soon, they were accompanied by loud sobs and muttered words.

‘I am not worthy, I should have been there instead of them …’

Pól’s words and sobs were carried away, and his tears dried by the wind. He did not know how long he had sat there, but with the rising of the sun Pól found that his spirits were lifting also. A small, shy voice whispered inside of him:

‘It was just not your time …’, and Pól understood that there was no meaning to be had, it was just that simple.

In the coming days Pól thought a lot about his own time, the one that he had, that he was in, and he felt overwhelmingly lucky. Pól thought a lot about his life and the things he used to enjoy before life’s drudgery had taken over and he had forgotten what joy was.

Pól was determined to make the drudgery bearable, if not even enjoyable. He did not have it in him to become a life coach, or an influencer, or a mindfulness instructor. Pól had to work for his living and that is where his change started.

Pól decided he would be really good at his job so it did not stress him out. Then he decided he would focus on it when he was in work so he would not think about it when he was off work.

When not working, he tackled boredom by taking his old Raleigh on the road and enjoying the beautiful scenery all around him.

And Pól, he would help anyone who needed it, because Pól felt he needed to repay the world for his life.

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Lucy scrolled mindlessly through the ton of beautifully bright photos, from which people of all sizes and occupations were smiling back at her, projecting their happiness and fulfillment on the things they were, obviously, selling.

‘I am not that person …’, Lucy muttered to herself while looking at them being so happy, in jobs they loved, content with their looks and satisfied with their world.

If there was one word, that Lucy would have had to choose to describe herself, that would have been dissatisfied. She put down the phone and looked back in time.

From as long as she could remember she was never happy, or not even content with what she had, the world around her, and most of all her own person. She smiled to herself. For sure there are some good pills for that! Would she want to use them though? Not so sure.

Lucy had been like this for more than forty years, she did not want to turn into somebody else, but sometimes she did wonder, what it was like to just be content with your lot, to be satisfied with life’s little pleasures and just be, without always questioning everything and assuming everything was bad or evil.

Lucy was exhausted of so much introspection. She did not even know why she was bothering with it, it was widely known that it never led to anything good. Just even more heartache. As if life was not already difficult enough!

Sitting on the living room couch, flipping through the channels trying to find something to watch, Lucy heard a little noise at the kitchen door. It was an old door, which she had kept as it looked so antiquy that it gave the kitchen a lovely feeling.

Lucy could not see a person through the little, high window of the door so she assumed it must be the wind or something…

‘It will go away …’, she told herself going back to the TV.

It did not though. The noise became louder and it actually felt like somebody tried to open the door.

In her mind, Lucy went quickly through the possibilities. Her garden was fully enclosed so it was not very likely that a thief was at the door. Lucy knew what she needed to do, go upstairs and look out through the bedroom window to spy what was going on.

Pleased with her own quick thinking, she climbed the stairs and in a heartbeat she was staring at the empty back of the house.

‘This is ridiculous!’

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There was nobody there, but she could have sworn she had heard something and she had seen the door handle move.

‘I am sure there is a pill for that …’, she amused herself while coming down the stairs.

When she turned to go in the living room, she was shocked to see that the back door was wide open and, from the outside, a very bright light was flooding the kitchen.

If she had had heart problems she was sure she would have had a heart attack, but as she did not, Lucy had no other option but to face the strangeness of the situation.

She was not sure what to do. Go back upstairs, lock herself in the bathroom and call the guards? And tell them what? There is this big light in my garden? They might fine her for calling the emergency services without reason or for trying a prank. No, she was on her own, and she was a grown up woman.

Emboldened by the certainty that there was nobody outside, Lucy grabbed a broom and slowly approached the door. With every step she took, she could see better through the light until, when she was fully outside, she saw that it was the sun reflected in a metal bowl that had been knocked over.

Lucy gave out a relieved, embarrassed chuckle.

‘For f***ks sake!’

As she went to the bowl to pick it up, a little kitten came out from behind and started meowing at her.

‘What in the world …?’

Lucy was stunned by the unexpected, tiny apparition.

The kitten was mainly black with just a few white patches on its paws and belly. It seemed so happy to see another being that it just stared at her meowing as if trying to tell her something.

Lucy deeply disliked cats, they were smelly, left hair everywhere, had fleas, ate birds, horrible little creatures. She needed to get rid of it.

‘How did you get in here?’, she asked the little cat talking back at her.

‘You must go!’, somehow Lucy thought that the cat will turn around and just leave, which of course it did not.

She decided that if she went into the house, the cat will have no other option but to go away. Bad plan. As soon as Lucy closed the door the cat positioned itself on the door mat and started meowing even louder.

You guess what happened next. Lucy picked up the cat, wearing gardening gloves of course, and went to throw it over the fence. A loud barking could be heard from the overly excited dog in the next garden.

‘Oh c***p!’, that is when Lucy heard that little voice in her head, while looking into the eyes of the little kitten whose life was literally in her hands.

‘I am not this person!’, and she knew that indeed she was not.

‘Fine, whatever!’

Lucy looked up online the closest animal shelter and, reluctantly she drove there, with the kitten temporarily named Kat.

As they got there they met a family that was looking for a young cat, of course the mother fell in love with the beautiful Kat. She really was a cat lady, she confessed to Lucy proudly.

In the quietness of the living room, while taking out her phone to enjoy a bit of mindless scrolling Lucy thought about the day. She was not one of those people, happy and content, but, with a tiny feeling of well being nestling comfortably in her chest, she realized she was not that bad either.

And she felt just that little bit content.

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There was a world where people were living in rooms. That is all they could afford, just a room somewhere. No houses, no apartments, no flats. Rooms in houses, with one bed and a cupboard. If they were lucky they were old houses and they had a sink in the room too. That was luxury. Those were more expensive of course.

The people wore yellowish shirts and brown suits, the men, and dark, thick dresses, the women. Always their clothes matched their foot wear. They were clean, washed in common bathrooms, and their clothes in common washing machines.

They worked normal, tedious jobs which most of them did not like, but enjoyed. It was a privilege to have a job, to have a paycheck, to have a title. People were called by their title, if they had a job of course, if they did not, out of consideration, they avoided to attach any title at all.

For example, if someone addressed a seamstress they would say:

‘So kind of you Seamstress O’Brien!’

But, if they spoke to a person that did not have a known job, they would say:

‘So kind of you fellow human being!’

Unusual indeed, but the people put so much value in having a productive role that they were openly disapproving of those that, in their view, did not contribute.

They liked artists, they did, but it needed to be art they understood and in line with their sensibilities. For example they would have deeply disliked Picasso and all his phases, too cubic.

The people’s idea of fun was to sit around and talk about their insipid jobs, eating brown food and drinking brown ale.

What characterized the people the most was that they were content, even the fellows (the short for fellow human being), were content. These lived on the fringes of society, but they were safe and had the needful for survival. Whenever a fellow moved over to the other side and found a job, they were genuinely happy for them. A fellow has to do what a fellow has to do!

The people lived in a quiet world, reading event less articles in yellowish news papers. They kept their distance and their decorum, they courted for two years before becoming married, had at least one child, and at the most two (when possible), and they educated their children to become as boring and uninteresting as themselves.

The people cared for each other deeply, they kept promises and were kind. They always assumed positive intent and this shaped their view of the world. They were patient and welcoming. They supported each other and considered it a small personal win if they managed to get a fellow, woman or man, into productive work.

The people were convinced that everyone must contribute and support each other.

As the human being is such an unexpected and uncontrollable force, of course there were people that were born different from their parents. These children would rarely abide by the rules of the sedate world of the quiet people, and would often leave in search for the bright lights of the cities they knew existed.

It happened often that, these children, that had left disgusted by the insignificant and mediocre lives of their parents, would return needing the quiet life to calm their nerves and find a bit of balance, after the demanding world of the big cities, where everything was possible, good or bad.

Their parents would find them a room, help them find employment and would secretly enjoy their return. They loved their children and having them close was a joy.

Sometimes, it happened that these children, now all grown up, would have difficulties adapting to the old life. Sometimes, their parents, out of love, would share with them, secret worlds and places hidden in little boxes or libraries. A beautifully illustrated book, a painting hiding behind a faded family photo, a cake recipe they would cook behind closed doors at very special occasions.

The children were dumbfounded! How had they not known?

‘When you are very young, when you do not know how precious the order of the world is, we could not share with you our secret, you might have blurted it out in the passion of youth!’, they would explain.

Some understood, some did not, but they all rejoiced to find out their parents were not as beige as they thought. Often, having that little secret was enough to support them while finding they way.

The world of the quiet people goes on, slowly spinning around with all the other worlds, on this big, beautiful planet of ours.

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Alfie was woken up by a whiny voice somewhere in his vicinity. It was just too early for that s****t! He snuggled more into his sleeping bag and hoped the person will just go away. They did not!

Alfie cursed having chosen his sleeping spot close to a bench, but there was such good hedge coverage that he could hide right behind it and the base of a large statue and nobody could see him there. He’d snapped up a lovely tent sheet on Moore Street and he’d made a nice, dry, cozy bed, protected by the wind and the rain.

The voice went on. Alfie had no choice but to peek out from behind the statue to see what was going on. He could spot on the bench a tallish man, dressed for work, by that Alfie understood coat and shirt, he was oblivious that nowadays anyone can go dressed almost any way in work.

The man had next to him a steaming cup of coffee and a sausage bap. Alfie’s mouth started watering. He could do with some breakfast and sausage baps were his favorites. Not to mention that coffee was the liquid of the Gods, next to tea of course. Beggars can’t be choosers! Alfie told to himself and laughed inside at his own wittiness.

It was so cozy and warm in the sleeping bag that Alfie decided food was just not worth it right then. A nap would be good! Bap, nap, the essence of the world in a few letters … tea … Alfie’s survivalist stream of consciousness was interrupted by the whiny voice again.

‘I am telling you, I can’t go on like this! I need more respect! They never listen to me in meetings! I am sure they laugh about me behind my back! I can barely get them to do the minimum needed! Such ungrateful little p***s! All of them, the women and the men!’

Alfie was starting to get annoyed.

‘You are an ungrateful little p****k!’, he thought to himself watching from under his sleeping bag, behind the statue. At that angle Alfie could see the man was well dressed, had good shoes, comfy with bouncy soles. Alfie would have loved himself some of those! He wiggled his toes remembering the hurt caused by the a size too small shoes he had now.

If only the man had let him sleep! But instead he went on and on! Now he was doing something like breathing exercises breathing in the noisiest way possible! Alfie could not handle it anymore!

Like a leopard, he sprung from behind the statue, and in a heart beat he was sat on the bench next to the man, now shocked with fear.

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‘Lovely morning we are having!’, Alfie used his most seductive voice and his words sounded almost like a melodic hiss. He could see the man was immobilized by fear, but knew that he will snap out of it quickly, so he needed to take advantage of this suspended moment.

‘You know your coffee smells delicious! Could not help notice! And that bap! Shame to let it go cold!’

As he was talking he expertly picked up the coffee and the bap touching both to make sure there was no doubt about the owner.

‘This is a gooood cup of coffee!’, he let out after having a sip. ‘Want some?’, the sweetness in his voice made it sound like he was very generous to share.

The man, his phone now in his lap, watched Alfie incredulously.

He made to get up, but Alfie was strong and in a fast move pinned him to the bench.

‘Oh no, don’t go! Stay a while!’, Alfie could see the man looking around desperately for support, but it was just too early for that. And anyway, people rarely intervened, most often they would hurry away pretending they did not see anything. Sad, but that was the world they lived in, and Alfie was used to being ignored and avoided.

‘Thanks for that! I always say, breakfast is the most important meal of the day! And lunch, and dinner, and any snacks you can find …’, with the corner of his eye Alfie watched the man and his trembling hands. He felt bad for him! But still what lovely shoes you have grandma ….!

‘So … what do you do?’, Alfie felt it was his duty to ease the man into the events that were to follow.

‘*&^%$£ …’

‘Wha …?’, Alfie wondered if the man was foreign, but no he was not he was just complaining on the phone a few minutes earlier. Alfie decided he did not like the man. No point in dragging it on.

‘I like your shoes! What size are you?’, his voice was now that of a business man doing a transaction.

‘10’, the man was barely able to say the number.

‘Oh!’, Alfie’s eyes lit up with satisfaction. Nothing worse than finding some shoes you like and they are not your size.

‘Would you consider a donation to the poor?’, Alfie hoped no pressure would be required.

‘Ahhhh sure …’, the man made to pull out his wallet and took out a few coins.

Ohhh bless him, he is a bit slow!, Alfie thought to himself and eased his feet out of his old, extremely dirty shoes.

‘Tz-tz! The shoes!’, and he lifted his ugly socked feet so the man was clear about what he wanted.

‘My shoes!?!’

‘And he gets it!’, Alfie started to get bored with the man’s slowness. ‘And faster cause my feet are getting cold!’

Alfie got his feet closer and the man impressed by his size and swiftness undid his shoes and handed them over. Now that he was close Alfie could see the man had a really thick wool coat on.

‘And the coat!’, no more time for niceties.

The man made to run but, Alfie’s grip was so quick and strong that, he was like a fly caught in a net. With his new shoes on and the coat Alfie felt like a new man.

‘Quality stuff this! You’ve got good taste!’, he almost felt like dancing.

He took out the man’s belongings from his pockets. He had no need for his keys, phone or cards. He was not a thief! The clothes were survival tools!

When he was handling the wallet he could not help but see the lovely, orange outline of some fifty euro notes. He took them out.

‘For the poor!’, and he winked.

The man was now trembling and barely could make eye contact. Alfie felt generous.

‘Listen, because you have been so charitable with the less fortunate I will share with you a bit of old Irish man wisdom. It’s not what’s said, it’s what’s heard. Cheers!’

Alfie disappeared behind the statue, picked up his backpack and his sleeping things and off he went. He needed to disappear before the man had the chance to come to his sense and scream for help. As he walked away Alfie did not hear any screams, maybe the guy was slow at that too.

What Alfie did not know was that, the man was still there on the bench in his socked feet, trembling and cold, but somehow at peace. He held his keys, phone and wallet tightly feeling relieved he was still alive.

While Alfie was taking his things the man had gone, in his head, through all the horrible scenarios of potential outcomes. And all the time he could see his family’s faces hurting and in pain. He was relieved for himself and for them. He did not want that kind of trauma for his children or his wife.

‘Said vs heard, that is an interesting point!’, he thought to himself while walking on the damp sidewalk to his car. He put on his gym shoes and climbed in, happy he had gone all out and had bought heated seats. He sat there in his warm, locked car eating the chocolate he kept hidden from his wife and as a bribe for his children. The shops were opening and soon he will head into the office.

New shoes first. He had not felt this kind of joy since he was a teenager and he got his first paycheck for stacking shelves in Dunnes.

‘What an unusual, horrible man …’, he thought about the strong, dirty thief that had robbed him.

A few streets away Alfie was using his easy earned cash to buy himself a proper Irish breakfast. A man’s gotta eat!

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Jimmy’d stopped telling his children about the old days. He was tired of them rolling their eyes at him, of his wife’s disapproving looks.

‘Times are different now! Let it go dad!’, his son would say, briefly looking up from his phone.

Jimmy agreed. Times were different now, but it was important not to forget how different they can be.

Jimmy was worried about his children. He felt they were soft, they had no fight in them, they were all about entitlement and relaxation.

Sometimes Jimmy felt it was his fault, he should have been tougher.

‘No honey! We are privileged that we could provide for them, give them this beautiful childhood! Life is hard enough as it is!’, his wife knew what he meant.

‘I know, I am just worried they will crumble at the first sign of difficulty!’, he sighed with all his might.

‘Well, if that happens we will be there for them …’

‘You know we will die at some point right?’, as he said the words he felt bad.

‘Hey, no need to be snappy! I am just trying to help!’

In moments like that he would withdraw in his shed and would remember the times he survived. Jimmy was so happy he had survived! Even all these years later he could not believe he had! Maybe that should be enough.

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He had made it, he had a family, a place of his own, maybe he should just count his blessings and stop pestering his family with his long past demons.

Maybe if he kept bringing them up, he was just giving them more power over him. Maybe he was afraid to let them go, they had been with him for so long …

Sometimes, he would have a little whiskey from the bottle he had hid in the shed, and he would remember the really bad times, the ones that had made him who he was now.

‘Look at me Ma!’, and he would drink to the memories.

One of the things that had really driven him was the hunger. This was no metaphorical desire for a better life, it was the actual pain of being hungry, when your body screams for something, anything.

Jimmy still felt the taste of the biscuit he was given, and he remembered how he would not bite in the biscuit, he would just munch at the side in tiny bites, making it last as long as possible.

The hunger, the wish for survival, the cold of poverty, that is something he would never be able to forget, and something he would never be able to fully share with his children, maybe not even his wife.

That animal instinct that emerges when all your humanity is stripped away, and all that remains is the will to survive by any means necessary. When you pray to all the gods, to any god, just to carry you through!

His wife was right, he would conclude after enough whiskey, the children were lucky they did not feel that. As little as possible people should have to feel that. Just look at him, fifty years later and his life was still dominated by the hunger he felt as a child. His children were free and that is how life was meant to be lived.

Free from the fear of hunger.

‘Still, they are so soft…’ Jimmy thought.

‘They only care about eating and sleeping!’, he told his wife when she warned him that she wanted a quiet dinner.

‘You have to let them find their own way … as you did yours …’, her voice was calm and relaxed.

‘Fine! I will be in my study!’, he kissed her briefly and left.

‘Find their own way!’, he scoffed at the idea. ‘They couldn’t find their own nose if it wasn’t in the middle of their face!’

He used to live with hunger, now he lived with fear. Fear that his loved ones will not be able to face life’s challenges and cruelty.

‘Maybe they will be lucky … maybe they will not face any challenges and maybe you can help with that …’

Jimmy’s mood shifted. He could make sure his children were lucky, he could support that. He took out a pen, found a notebook and he started to map out the lives of his children, working to identify turning points where a stroke of luck might be needed.

‘This will be a bit of a challenge …’, he whispered to himself enjoying the prospect.

That evening dinner was pleasant for the first time in a long time. Jimmy, uncharacteristically, asked his children questions, listened to them. He seemed to actually take an interest and, taken by surprise, they were happy to share.

Getting to know them was the first step in Jimmy’s plan, and it seemed to work out better than expected. Maybe there was hope yet …

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My reading tastes are quite varied, and I have curated my little library so that it contains something to cater to all my whims. Because for the past few months I had mostly read crime and mystery books, I felt the need for something else.

While browsing through my books I stopped at Patricia Scanlan’s ‘The Liberation of Brigid Dunne’, mainly because I felt the need for an Irish writer and an Irish story, plus a bit of a breather from investigating murders. More recently the book was published under the title ‘A Family Reunion’.

I found my copy of the book in a charity shop and I was over the moon to find a signed one. I love signed copies and have amassed quite a few from various writers I like.

At first, when I started the book I was a bit confused about the structure and the characters, but then, the more I read, it all started to make sense and it became very interesting.

I will not give too many details about the story, as I really want you to read it if you think it is for you, but I do have to touch on some points if I am to write my post about it.

The book revolves around four women and it spans over a long time, from the 1950ies to the 2000. It tells us about their experiences over time, what they faced, how they grew and transformed, shaped by the society they lived in and the expectations made on them.

Now, it is well known the impact the church had on the lives of women in Ireland ( and in many other places I am sure) and how women suffered being subjected to the strict rules of the church and society.

While reading the book, I could not help but think about how women in Romania also suffered during communism, particularly because of the regime’s emphasis on large families and population growth.

During the communist period it was illegal to use contraception or stop a pregnancy. In 1966 Nicolae Ceausescu introduced one of the harshest pronatalist policies in the world with Decree 770. The decree banned and made illegal stopping a pregnancy, eliminated access to contraception and framed reproduction as a duty to the state.

The aim was rapid demographic growth, as a larger population meant more workers and more power, women becoming essentially instruments of state policy. It went so far as women being subjected to mandatory gynecological exams at work, surveillance to detect pregnancy and it was illegal for doctors to assist with stopping pregnancies.

This led to a huge increase in unsafe procedures, thousands of maternal deaths were recorded and a rise in the numbers of abandoned children.

The full story and its details are horrible, and it is a generational trauma that is not spoken about. But we know.

I suppose that’s why Patricia Scanlan’s book resonated with me so strongly. The pressure of society and religion on women is not abstract to me, it’s something I recognize from the lives of the women in my own family, who lived under a system that enforced reproduction and denied them real choice. They had to navigate structures that rarely asked for consent, only obedience. If you did not obey the alternatives were jail or death.

I looked it up and sadly I see the book was not translated in Romanian, I think it would be a good seller in Romania, but it might just be me. Anyway, if anyone wants to publish it I would be more than happy to translate it, let me know.

The book is an interesting read even without the societal and religious interpretations, so I do not want to paint it as a dark novel. It is entertaining and it flows very well. You can see the care that went into it and that it is written by an experienced author. It is confident in tone and structure.

I recommend it as, for me, it strikes a great balance between introspective, informative, and entertaining. I really enjoyed it, and it made me reflect on things long buried, which is exactly what a good book should do.

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They’d arrived at the hotel that afternoon and, of course, there was some mix up with the rooms. They were not given rooms one next to the other, but on different floors. Deborah agreed to take the one on the lower floor, it was her sister’s moment and she wanted to make sure everything was great for her.

After they checked in, it was just a storm of activity, moving things from one room to the other, minding the children who were were naughtier than ever, as they felt the grown ups were not paying attention.

When dinner time came Deborah was exhausted and excited at the same time. The hotel they were staying in was unlike anything she had ever seen, glitz and glamour, but also style and elegance. It felt like a dream that, their little family, from an unknown little town, in a tiny country was there part of such a huge event.

Deborah was so proud of her sister, and beyond happy for her mother, that she was getting the chance to see one of her children she had fought so hard to raise, being so successful, and for her nieces that they could see their own mother being celebrated. It was truly a remarkable moment for all of them.

As it goes though, even remarkable moments have their prosaic preparations that need to be handled and organized. The award ceremony was the day after, so the plan for the arrival day was to settle in, and then go enjoy a wonderful dinner in the hotel three Michelin stars restaurant.

When the dresses were all perfectly lined in the huge wardrobe, when the details were all ironed out, Deborah waved good bye to her sister and they agreed to meet in the lobby. That is the only solid detail Deborah can remember, as afterwards it all became strangely unreliable. She had thought about that moment many, many times afterwards, but as much as she tried she could not understand what happened after.

She went in the hallway, closed the door behind her, and walked to the elevator. In front of the elevator there was this actress that she had admired all her life. The actress was accompanied by another woman pushing a large trolley, from which sparkling dresses hung in perfect order.

Deborah was stunned, and stuttering, she signaled she will take the stairs.

‘Just one floor …’

The two women smiled placidly as she disappeared behind a large door marked Stairs.

Deborah was in disbelief, she had actually seen that actress in the flesh. Deborah had seen her in movies all her life and she was so beautiful. So small! All the women here seemed so small, more like girls than grown up women, although some were well into their mature years. On the telly you could not tell they were so small …

As she was thinking these Deborah descended stairs that seemed to go on forever, just as she became aware of it she saw a door and went through it. She stepped out into a well lit corridor. As she walked on, it opened into a small lobby lined with mirrors reflecting the light from, what seemed like, thousands of lights hanging in low chandeliers.

This was not her floor, and, as she was thinking about checking on what floor she is, Deborah realized she does not remember the floor her room was on. She had her room card in her pocket, but she as had left the little cardboard sleeve with the room number on it behind it was of no help.

Deborah felt panic rising inside her. How could she not remember her room number? Or the floor. She felt in her pocket for her phone, but it was not there. Looking down at herself, it dawned on her that she was wearing leggings and a flimsy vest with flip-flops, in this luxurious lobby. Thank God there weren’t people around at that time!

Deborah decided to go back to the stairs and up one floor to her sister’s room to get her phone and remember what room she was in. This gave her strength to control the trembling of her hands and to push down the need to throw up.

As she retraced her steps Deborah found that the stairs she was looking for were not where she remembered they should be. Some beautifully dressed guests passed her by and she could not help this feeling that she was almost naked and needed to hide. She spotted a couch in a corner and walking close to the wall, she went and sat down.

The coolness of the leather felt comforting as, in a strange way, it was grounding her in reality. She was not losing her mind, she just needed to settle down, take deep breaths and it would come to her. The couch was huge and she felt almost hidden sitting there with her arms crossed to cover her body. The passers by seemed too absorbed by their own persons to notice her. That made her feel better.

As she sat there she was able to come up with a solution. She could go to reception and ask for her sister. Her sister’s name she could remember very well. Yes, she could do that. She had options.

As she was sitting there working hard to keep herself composed, Deborah was brought back by a loud screeching that ended with the word ‘Auntieeee!’

One of her nieces came running to her.

‘Auntieeee! Mommy sent me to bring you your phone!’

Deborah felt the happiest she had ever felt, faced with the cheerful, little round face of her nice.

‘Oh love!’, she hugged her tight, but her niece was very impatient and wiggled herself out of the embrace.

‘Like my dress?’ the little girl was beaming knowing all too well how beautiful she looked.

‘I love it!’ Deborah could feel herself calming down.

‘Come auntie! You need to get dressed too! What are you doing here anyway?!?’, of course the little girl did not wait for an answer, and she took her aunt’s hand and dragged her through the labyrinth of corridors to her room. Deborah was amazed how the little girl had remembered all the winding corners and similar looking turns, but was beyond grateful for being saved so graciously from her moment.

This is how she would think about that episode from then on: her moment.

A moment that she never shared with anyone, that she kept hidden deep inside her, and that made her do some weird things her family would tease her about.

From then on Deborah got this habit of always carrying a little notebook with her. Notebook in which she made all sorts of little notes about what they were doing and when. She never read what she wrote, but it was always there in her pocket next to her phone, which had a fifty euro note neatly folded and hidden behind the plastic case.

Sometimes the moments that shape us remain hidden forever, never fully understood.

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She held on to the railing tightly trying to ground herself in reality with its help. She could feel tension building up in her forehead, and felt as if her nostrils were closing in, allowing just a tiny amount of air to flow through.

‘I am ok, I am ok, I am ok!’, she repeated to herself working hard to stabilize her emotions.

Instead of trying desperately to breathe Pamela decided just to stop trying, and forced her self to stop breathing. She managed to count to 11 and then the body, by itself, overriding her state of mind, drew in a huge gulp of air. Pamela was able to walk to a low wall in the back of the office building where she worked.

She looked around. She was safe there. Nobody could see her from the building, and, people coming out usually followed the street towards the little park close by.

Pamela had this urge to just go to the bus, go home and hide there for a good while. She still could not believe what had happened. When she was called in her manager’s office she was sure it was to be promoted, or at least congratulated for how she had recently dealt with one of the most impactful escalations her team had had to deal with for some time.

She was happy, she was cool, she was there, and then, boom!

‘The team has grown so much that we decided we need a Director in the region and we have hired you a new colleague. We need you to train and mentor them to get ramped up quickly as they will need to attend the company wide meeting in HQ in a month. OK? OK. Thank you!’

Pamela was fuming!

She had been with the company for more than four years, given it all she had, and they did not even open the role or inform them, they just hired somebody new that she was supposed to train and mentor, asap! The audacity!

She felt like slamming the door, screaming, leaving, just to show them what they were missing, but she was too old for all of that. She knew better.

At fifty-two Pamela knew she was not so much in demand on the job market. She often read on LinkedIn horrible stories of people in the same age bracket as her looking for jobs for months and months and having difficulties finding anything.

No, she could not be rash. She had to swallow her pride, hide her frustration and just go on. She needed the job and could not afford to be cheeky and to endanger her position.

‘That is the way the cookie crumbles!’, she told herself encouragingly. ‘Life is not meant to be fair! Roll with the punches! It is what it is!’

She was too old to have dreams of winning the lotto or of an unexpected inheritance, it was all up to her, and that was that.

Pamela felt her heart rate settle and air started to flow a bit better through her lungs.

‘I’ve been through worse! I can do this! Keep your eyes on the ball!’, she was better than this.

Pamela got up and walked back into the building determined to manage herself.

Best laid plans …

When she got to her floor and to her desk the first email she saw was the announcement for the new hire. The mirror cracked from side to side … It was not a new, new hire, the role had gone to one of her newer and more obnoxious colleagues.

Pamela felt the tension rise in her forehead and her throat closing in.

‘No! Stop it! You matter! Your work matters! Don’t be stupid!’, she snapped out of it and exhibited a huge smile on her face for anyone to see.

Pamela was too old not to know better, so she did what she had to do and just got on with it. Keep your eyes on the ball!

Was she still frustrated? Oh yeah, for sure. But that is just the way the cookie crumbles!

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The Ox pranced about the meadow proud to show all his might and handsomeness.

‘What a good day to be alive!’, the Ox told himself, as he watched the other animals watching him in awe.

The pastures were lush and the sparkling stream bubbled away at the edge of the forest. To sum it up, the world was just right.

As he was prancing about, the Ox’s beautiful scenery was suddenly tainted by a large Irish wolfhound lying under a sumptuous tree, and making pain filled noises.

The first instinct the Ox had was to go round the tree so as to avoid any conversation. But then, a little voice inside his head said, ‘You are The Ox, you do not avoid anything, not only that but you should tell that smelly old dog to move along and stop dirtying the meadow!’

Encouraged by his own arrogance the Ox approached the whining dog.

‘Ahem …’ and followed it by a polite throat clearing.

The huge grey Dog opened blood shot eyes, and looked up at the well built Ox throwing a shade on him with his large bulk.

As the Dog made no reply, the Ox went on.

‘I say, in the village below there is bound to be a human to help mind your … whatever is wrong with you …’

The Ox stopped there convinced the Dog will take the hint. What animal wouldn’t?

The Dog though did not do what the Ox expected, get up and go, but he let out a low growl, that was enough to signal to the Ox that he would better put some distance between himself and the oversized Dog.

‘Yeah, all right my dear fellow! Feel better!’

The Ox left allowing the other animals to admire him while grumbling to himself about that dirty old Dog. Honestly, some animals!

The day passed in the blink of an eye and soon night covered every corner of the meadow.

The Ox found a lovely, comfy spot and settled in for the night. Just when his sleep was sweeter, he was woken up by unusual sounds, and he was shocked to see that he was surrounded by a pack of terrifying looking wolves.

The Ox did not get too much time to contemplate his faith, when one of the wolves attacked him going straight for his throat, but just at that same moment the old Dog appeared out of the dark night and jumped on the attacking wolf.

The Dog fought the wolves away and the Ox just got a few scratches, but was otherwise safe and sound.

In the new day the Ox was so grateful to be alive! Just imagine, his perfect little world could have been no more, if the Dog hadn’t saved him! The Ox was an honorable animal and he felt he was completely in debt to the old Dog, so he went to express his gratitude.

The only reply he got from the Dog though, was the same low growl as the day before. But the Ox was not easily deterred, so he made it his daily duty to go and visit the Dog.

The Ox would bring water, would provide shade when the sun was too hot, would just chat away to the Dog until an unusual bond formed between the two.

As it turned out, the Dog was just not used to interact with the animals he was quietly guarding. In time though, they both found that, everybody has something to give, even if that might seem doubtful at the first glance and, true friends are sometimes found where pride least expects them.

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The Blue Tree had been living on the high cliffs towering the waves ever since it had been a tiny sapling. It had formed there, it had grown strong there, its sparkling crown of blue leaves had been shaped by the strong winds blowing in from the harsh sea.

The tree was happy there, it did not know anything else, and to be fair, it did not need anything else.

Each spring the tree was full of translucent, lush flowers, that, as the seasons progressed, turned into seeds with frail wings that the wind carried away, leaving the tree barren again.

In its first hundreds of years, the Blue Tree just went on with it. It was what it was, and it could not be helped. Then though, as time passed and as the flowers were fewer and the seeds less and less, the Blue Tree felt their parting more and more deeply.

It wished at least some of them, or even at least one of them, would catch roots close to it, so it would not be so alone facing the colder and colder, the harsher and harsher winds.

The coast it was growing on though was far too stony for a small seed to catch, so the Blue Tree just continued living through its challenging and demanding days.

Time lost meaning and purpose as the Blue Tree felt too old to flower and bloom. During storms the lonely tree wished that lighting would strike, or that the high cliffs it was perched on would crumble to the sea.

None of this happened though, but what did happen was that one day, one undesired and unfelt day, an unexpected event took place.

The tree was used to the sea birds flying and puffing around, but they never came close to it on account of its very dense branches, in which they could catch their wings and be stuck. That had happened a few times in the past and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience for either of them.

On that day though, the Blue Tree felt a large shadow above it. When the shadow moved, it could see it was a huge seagull gliding on the wind with barely any need to flap its enormous wings. The Blue Tree decided it did not warrant any attention, so it went back to feeling blue.

The seagull landed close by in the most elegant manner and started to walk in small circles around the tree. When the Gliding Gull got close the tree could see that it seemed to be almost as old as himself. Its wings were huge, yes, but they looked well worn and worked.

The Blue Tree took the intrusion as an unexpected distraction and watched the Gliding Gull watching it. After some time, the large bird flew in the tree and, by weaving a few small branches together, created a makeshift nest and stopped for a rest.

The Blue Tree was beyond puzzled. It had never seen lonely gulls, they always seemed to belong to a colony and most often flew in pairs. It could not ask the gull though so it just enjoyed the company the bird provided.

That night a huge storm hit the cliffs. The Blue Tree was not bothered, it had been through so many and it had always weathered them out. It was careful though with the bird hidden inside and it did all it could to protect it.

When morning came the Gliding Gull emerged from the safety of the Blue Tree making happy noises and then gliding away.

The Blue Tree felt empty and its sadness deepened. It had been so nice to have a purpose, to have something else to care for than itself.

The sadness was not long lived though as, in the next days and weeks, the once lonely cliff top was welcoming a large colony of seagulls. The gulls brought with them grass, seeds and twigs, making for themselves nests in the nooks and crannies of the rocks.

Along with the young gulls little plants started to grow, and the more things they brought in to nest in, the more the vegetation took shape.

The Blue Tree towered over them all and, one day, it was ecstatic to find that a few saplings of his own seeds had caught into the new soil and were showing up. The Blue Tree felt new life flowing through its veins, new energy which led to it proudly raising its branches to the sky.

When the Blue Tree rearranged its crown, it became just that bit taller and it caught a glimpse of a hill far, far away. A hill that glowed and sparkled the most beautiful shade of blue it had ever seen. An entire hill, or maybe even a mountain side, covered in Blue Trees, which it knew, were its seeds grown up.

What the Blue Tree did not know was that, the trees that had grown from its seeds had saved an entire human town found at the bottom of the mountain. The roots of the Blue Trees had stabilized the soil, and when storms and floods came the trees protected the world below. Because of this the humans saw the Blue Trees as sacred and tended to them, cared for them, grateful for their life giving gift, and would often share their seeds with other fellow humans.

The Blue Tree did not know all these, it was just happy to finally know that its seeds had caught roots and were growing well, and in this knowledge the Blue Tree found peace.

The Gliding Gull would often come and spend time with the Blue Tree, two ancient beings leaving their indelible mark in the world.

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Waking up a stray ray of light falling on her arm drew her attention to the red scars marking her. They did not hurt anymore. There was a time when she was young when they needed constant care, but now, in her old age they no longer hurt.

In fact, as she lay there looking at them, bright in the morning sun, Maire wondered when had she got them. The realization that she could not remember surprised her. They had been a part of her for so long, and her life had been so long that now she was at a point where she did not really know when and where she had gotten them.

Maire stood up abruptly as if pushed by an invisible spring. She pulled the covers from her legs and looked at the extensive scars covering them. Some looked like cuts, some like burns, some were just caused by years and years of walking. They were normal scars, usual scars, that every witch got in the course of their life time.

With every spell, with every interference, with every working, witches got a mark on their body so they never took their meddling lightly, and they made sure that they thought carefully before weaving their magic into the human world.

Tears started flowing down her cheeks. Was death close? Was she passing into non existence? Maire never really minded the pain of her scars, but she was now panicked by the prospect of forgetting her history, her past.

Desperate, Maire decided to make a list of all her scars, and to try to remember when and where she got them, at least some, if not all. The memories must be there for sure. Not even witches can wake up one morning and forget it all.

The list was so long that Maire had to continue well into the afternoon to catalogue all her scars. When she was done, she was ecstatic to find that, she remembered where most of them came, and the more she remembered the more she felt like coming back to herself.

By midnight Maire had a complete list of scars and their causes. She was all right, she was not losing herself, moreover, Maire could remember some scars that now were invisible to the eye, scars that had been hidden by other fresher ones.

Some scars were deep and grave. Others made her smile. She had been reckless once. Certain. Fierce in her need to matter. There were marks she would not choose again, and others she would defend still. Youth had not been foolish, only urgent.

She ran her fingers slowly along the pale lines crossing her skin. They did not accuse her. They did not demand remembrance. They simply existed, as the world existed, as the seasons turned without seeking permission.

The list lay open in her lap. She read it once more, then folded it carefully and set it aside. She did not feel the need to memorize it. The knowing had settled somewhere deeper than thought.

Maire laughed then, softly at first, and then with a fullness that surprised her. Not because she had conquered death. Not because she had understood everything. But because she no longer felt compelled to.

The scars no longer felt like sign posts. They felt like weather, passed through, endured, survived.

Outside, the trees bent in the wind. Somewhere a child would fall ill, a quarrel would rise, a roof would threaten to fall. Once, she would have felt the tug of it, the old heat gathering in her palms.

Now she remained seated. Power moved through her, vast and patient, like deep water beneath still ground. She did not reach for it. She did not push it away.

Death had always walked near her path. It did not trouble her now.

There was breath in her lungs. Warmth on her skin. Time ahead not to conquer, not to hurry, but to inhabit.

She leaned back in her chair and let the world unfold without her interference.

And for the first time in centuries, that felt like enough.

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Sometimes things would get stuck into his head, and they would just turn, and turn, and turn inside it, until they made him dizzy and confused.

This time it was mercerized cotton. He had had no idea this fabric existed. Cotton was cotton.

One day though, in a charity shop he found a: tag on, great looking, dark blue t-shirt, that fit him like a glove. The t-shirt felt sturdy without being thick, and it had this eye-pleasing sheen to it.

‘Polyester!’ he told himself, being disappointed before reading the label.

George looked up the label and read: 100% cotton.

No! Cannot be! What trickery is this?! The fabric felt like anything but cotton. He read the second label, under the first one, and there he saw the mention mercerized cotton.

‘What in God’s name is that?!’ he had never heard of it.

He bought the t-shirt, it was too good (and new, well with tags on), to risk leaving it behind. He knew himself, he would think about it for weeks if he did not buy it.

The new notion of mercerized cotton was floating in his head, slowly expanding to fully fill it.

On the bus home he looked it up online. It was indeed a thing! Because it was more expensive to obtain it was usually reserved for high end clothing. Ohhhhh! He pulled closer the bag containing his new t-shirt. George felt his like for it growing steadily.

Looks more refined; Increased strength; Holds color better; More dimensionally stable; Silk-like sheen; Cleaner, crisper finish; High-quality

The words floated in front of his eyes and his appreciation grew.

By the time he got home George was in awe of the beauty and finish of the t-shirt. He could not believe that he had never known mercerized cotton even existed.

He washed the t-shirt (could not wear it unwashed, his skin would have broken out in hives) and, as expected, it washed wonderfully well.

When it dried, George touched it trying to come to terms with the look and feel of the fabric. He could not believe it was indeed cotton. Magic!

He could remember only one time when something caused a similar state of disbelief. When he had washed a lyocell shirt and it had become, from supple and soft, all rough and difficult to handle.

George had been sure it was ruined, that he did something wrong, but then, when it dried, it turned back, amazingly, to soft and wonderful, from fibrous and rough. Lyocell was also a strange and wonderful fabric.

George loved his t-shirt so much that a pang of pain shot through his heart. He only had this t-shirt, this one t-shirt made from mercerized cotton, if he wore it and something happened to it (stains, holes, tears) he would be so upset. George decided he loved it too much to wear, so he packed it nicely, and safely, and put it in the wardrobe.

He needed to find another one. If he had two, then he could wear the wonderful t-shirt without fear of anything happening to it.

George looked up online mercerized cotton t-shirts, or other garments for that matter, and was surprised to find that there weren’t that many. The ones that were available, were very expensive and way out of reach for George.

The longer the search became, the luckier he started to feel that he had found that t-shirt in the first place. Not to mention that it was in his size, with tags and at a cheap polyester price. He knew there are some expensive polyesters too.

A few months had passed since George had bought his t-shirt. Now, he was well accustomed to the term, and whenever he was digging for treasures in charity shops, he also checked the t-shirts that seemed plastic, you never know when a mercerized cotton one might pop-up.

George’s obsession with the new t-shirt turned into appreciation, and he finally decided to wear it to a company event where he was hoping to make a good impression, to maybe be considered for a promotion…

Putting on the t-shirt felt like a religious experience, like Superman putting on his suit. Mercerized cotton felt indeed special and it made George feel special, happy, well dressed and confident.

Increased strength; looks more refined; More dimensionally stable; Cleaner, crisper finish

At the party, unexpectedly enough, people did comment on his t-shirt and he explained all about mercerized cotton, about the chemical process in which cotton fibers are treated with sodium hydroxide (caustic soda) under tension, and how it was developed in 1844 by John Mercer.

They were impressed.

And they were won over when George told them his mercerized cotton joke:

‘Mercerized cotton is cotton that went to finishing school.’

‘Oh George! You are too much! We have a new project starting next month, let’s chat about it!’

George nodded, his heart beating hard against his mercerized cotton shell.

It was all about the fabric indeed.

His own fabric.

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Guillermo del Toro, who else?!

As often as possible, I like to buy as a souvenir from the places I visit a tarot deck, or two … I have done this in quite a few places and I enjoy this meeting of two worlds, remembering the trip and enjoying the new tarot deck.

Of course this means that over the few short years since I have come back to the tarot I grew myself a nice, little collection. Topped up as required with decks I find online that I just cannot resist.

I picked up Tarot del Toro on my trip as a memento and as an interesting object, unsure if it is a usable tarot deck. It was very well sealed and I could not look at the cards. It was a bit of a risk as I looked at the reviews online and they were mixed. The comments said that while the cards are nice, the quality is so and so, with some cards being imperfect.

I took a chance and bought them. My initial reaction when looking at them was that of disappointment. While a lot of work had gone into the major arcana and the court cards, the pip cards are just symbols, and sadly I do not know how to interpret them very well. So I was disappointed and put them aside. Meh!

A few days passed and I felt drawn to the deck again. I took out the little booklet that comes with them and read through it. It won me over.

It was great to find out that Guillermo del Toro and the artist that drew the cards, Tomás Hijo, are genuinely interested in the tarot and it was not just something they did to do something else ...

The little book provides insight on how the deck came about and the creative process. It also introduces Don Miguel, the tarot reader whose experience and knowledge have been used to provide the spread information.

The deck is focused on the major arcana, but having the whole picture makes it not feel so … lacking ambition as it did at first, and maybe it is my own weakness that I can only read the Rider-Waite-Smith minor arcana. I will invest a bit in my skills and learn the minor arcana without images also.

The Tarot del Toro deck feels nice. It has a good size, the cards are sturdy and shuffle well. They feel like they will last a good while even with habitual use. They can be used for tarot reading especially if you are a more experienced reader and know many of the usual symbols, as the del Toro cards can sometimes be a bit obscure if you are not familiar with del Toro’s work.

The deck is moody and magical with great colors and artistic talent. It is a joy.

I would not recommend it for beginners but it is one for the collection for sure. It can also be used for narrative drawings and mediation. It broadly follows the Rider-Waite-Smith structure, but visually reinterprets many archetypes, you will be able to recognize the The Fool’s journey, major arcana structure and suit correspondences.

It is a deck that has personality that is for sure, and it is not just pretty. It combines the beauty of expression with the darkness of del Toro’s mythical creatures and the magic of tarot symbolism, so I do heartily recommend it.

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