change subtracted from her small, now-open clip purse. Her two thieving kids looked on. It was hardly enough to buy a few sweets in the local shop. She must have known that her two sons had stolen my Action Man FN rifle and here she was giving me a cheap payoff. I left with the two boys following after. I was glad later that, however small and insignificant monetarily it was and for whatever suspect reason the gift was given, that at least someone gave me some token to mark my spiritual occasion. “How much did you get?” was the normal persistent question on others kids’ lips. I avoided discussing it as we had no local relatives and my parents didn’t bother to bring me out on show for the post communion whoring that was the usual communion fuss. It was too suspicious that the only one to actively donate to my communion fund was the mother of the two covetous kids who took my only lamb while their barns, pastures and toysheds were full of plenty. But she at least did. As a youthful adult, I bumped into one of the two grown smirky brothers after a day at work in my local authority clerical office job in Dublin. He was neat, tidy and dressed like a bore. I was looking like I was heading to a rock gig. Now here on Middle Abbey Street he wants to reminisce. Our conversation went something like – “Oh, hello there, John. What you doing here? How's it going?” he says all nice expecting a nice chat about Cavan, our home town. “What do you want to talk about? Didn't you and your brother steal my Action Man's gun?” I asked him, finally able to say something.
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