On the great day, a local had invoked St. Anthony’s Brief:

…flee you hostile powers….the lion of the tribe of Judah The root of David, hath conquered…Alleluia.

Saint Anthony wasn’t available that day, the only alleluias we were familiar with were mangled versions of Leonard Cohen’s classic by X Factor wannabes.

Recession my arse.

Swine flu continued to stalk, slow but deadly, across the land. The death toll higher than the government would admit. But hey, they had good news: we’d only a year to wait for the vaccine.

And just to add a kick in the balls, they said,

“It will be administered according to priorities.”

Meaning the likes of me, and such, weren’t on the top ten. I passed down by HMV, who were touting Season Three of Dexter, the serial killer who only kills the bad guys.

Maybe we could import him.

Then down past Abracadabra, the home of the drunkard’s beloved late-night kebab. I turned at what used to be Moon’s shop and is now the posh Brown Thomas, selling the latest Gucci handbag at the amazing price of only three thousand euros.

I doubt my late dad ever saw three thousand pounds his whole wretched life.

Passed Golden Discs, now closed (the lease had run out), and reached the Abbey Church. Recently renovated, it looked much the same except the price of a mass card had skyrocketed. I dipped my fingers in the holy water font, blessed myself and headed for St. Anthony’s altar. I lit a candle for Malachy and for my legion of dead and departed. The rate those I knew were dying, I could open my own private cemetery, issue loyalty cards, and, why not, air miles.

You want something from Saint Anthony, it’s real simple,

“Pay him.”

I did.

Shoved a large note in the slot and momentarily was lost for words,

So many dead.

The best and the brightest as always. I prayed for a little girl, Serena-May, who still tore the heart out of my chest.