"Well, brother. In the arms of Bacchus last night?"

"What?"

"Did you fill up well last night?"

"And if I did? I'm not the kind of yo-yo to sit around like the artsy-fartsy crowd talking about the state of the world."

"Like me?" Iseult said.

"Like your pals, anyhow."

"Did you hear about the Irish homosexual, brother dear? Preferred women to drink."

"Nothing personal, I suppose. You want me married off like the Ma, is that it? "

"Arra no, stay home and look after your mother," she replied.

"You're cracked, so you are. When'll the parents be home?"

"Half past twelve."

"An Inspector Kilmartin will be calling for the Da on the blower."

"Matt, did you read that someone told Gay Byrne to eff off on the 'Late Late' last night?" Served him right, thought Minogue. Byrne and the rest of them were a crowd of yobboes.

"No, I didn't. What prize will the fella be getting? For his candour I mean," Minogue said.

"Now would you lookit," Kathleen said quickly. "I suppose he got a rise out of this fella. Liam Cullen. You know, that painter who makes a religion out of being from Dublin."

"Well, they're your crowd, Kathleen. Good Auld Dublin," quipped Minogue. He inched the car into the line-up leaving the church carpark.

"Well, Dublin or not, there was no call for making a show of us with the language," Kathleen added.

"They give the name of the young lad killed the other night.

Inside in Trinity College. Jarlath Walsh. He's not a Walsh we know, is he now, Matt?"