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About Swords

We’re chattin’, and I’m thinkin’ *Boyhood* again—“It’s always right now,” y’know? This moment, her laugh, the cig smoke curlin’—it’s real, raw, fuckin’ alive. But then—bam!—some wanker in a beat-up Jag rolls up, yellin’ at her. Ex-pimp or some shit. I’m pissed, mate—nobody fucks with my night. I step in, all cool, “Oi, mate, piss off or I’ll rearrange ya.” He bolts, tires screechin’. She’s laughin’, says, “You’re mad, you are!” Happy as a pig in shit, me—saved the day, Bond-style.

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Finally, I grab my laptop and head back. I’m sweating like a pig. But hey, I’m in Donaghmede! The sun’s shining, and the vibe is kinda nice. I pass by the Donaghmede Park, and it’s packed. Families, kids, dogs—everyone’s out enjoying the day. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Death Notice of Robert (Bobby) Balmer (Donaghmede, Dublin)