Saint Patrick salutes me with his cigarette

-- He's just been to his auntie's funeral in Crumlin,

"and I'm awful cold tonight, Darragh".

Short of the bus fare back to Armagh, he's

following a lead from a friend near the station.

Splitting the difference, we make our way towards

Trinity, and when the holy man considers

another banishment I remind him of a latter-day,

ersatz saint who told me to feck back off to Romania…

His eyes are so clear and bright he can see those

snakes and the irony of infinite mercy, then

"D'you know, sometimes, I wish

I were still captive..."

He leaves me at College Green, shouting his

benediction from across the street --

"Happy Thanksgiving! Happy Thanksgiving, Darragh!"