Tuesday, 22 January 2008.
“You need to hear what I got to say.” I’d barely reached the top of my stairs when Old Patrick whirled from his seat next to my mailbox. He must have been sitting on the sidewalk, with his back to the wrought-iron fence. From what I know, that was risky in this neighbourhood — I assume that there’s a reason why there aren’t beggars in Fitzwilliam Square.
“I wandered into the park yesterday; the Old Drunk act works better than yer Tourist, ya know. I saw some things, but right away, this guy in a suit came from nowhere.
“He said that he had a message for ye. He knows who ye are, and that you had better watch yerself as well.
“Com’ere — there’s a sign in there that you should see. But I did not read much of it before the gorilla tossed me out. And Little Peter won’t give it a go. I said that you’d give him a tenner, but he’s wary of the place. But mostly, I wanted ta warn ya.”
I walked Patrick to a diner in Rathfarnham, and we had a full Irish breakfast. He rambled through a number of topics, as usual. He was especially interested in the American dollar, and said, “I don’t know that I want those worthless notes from the tourists in the spring.”
On this morning, the state of the US economy was the least of my concerns.