“She’d appreciate a worthy cause.”

“Put like that, how can I refuse?”

I put it in my wallet. There was a photograph, showed a young woman smiling at something off camera. Her hair in ringlets, framing a face of neat prettiness. Jeff caught a glimpse, said,

“Oh, yeah?”

“Came with the wallet.”

The night turned into a party. I rang Mrs Bailey at my old hotel and she arrived with Janet, the maid/chamberperson/pot walloper. A true creature of grace. A few guards showed and joined in. By nine, the place was hopping. I’d switched to Bush and the going was easy. Jeff danced with Mrs Bailey, I had a waltz with Janet. The guards did some jigs.

Post party. The pub looked like a bomb had hit it. I’d passed out on my hard chair. Bad idea. My back was in bits. The hangover hit low, fast and lethal, walloping every fibre of my being. I muttered,

“Sweet mother of Jesus.”

The sentry had crashed on the bar, the inevitable half pint of black at his head. Jeff appeared, greeted,

“Nice morning for it, lads.”

Sadistic bastard. He turned on the TV. Surfing the channels, he settled on Sky News, heard,

“Paula Yates has been found dead.”

Hit me like thunder. I loved that lost chick. Once heard her say,

“The first time Fifi fell off the bed as a baby, I raced to the doctor. I was beside myself. He said the only thing wrong with this baby is she is wearing too much jewellery.”

How could you not love her?

A time I heard Mary Coughlan say,

“It’s one thing to sing the blues; feeling them nearly killed me.”

Amen.

Jeff shook his head, stared at me, said,

“What a waste.”

But I knew. His expression was beloved of mothers, length and breadth of the country. It cautioned,

“Let that be a lesson to you.”

Jeff had way too much style to say that. The sentry stirred, reached for his glass, drained the dregs, then went back to sleep. In my old pub, Grogan’s, two men were in constant attendance. Each end of the bar, dressed identically