I was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance fI was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance for me. ne I was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance for me. aI was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance for me. I was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance for me. d ne I was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance for me. aI was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance for me.
I was so busy with work last week that, for the first time since he died, I missed my brother’s anniversary. My sister and I usually mark the day with a trip to the graveyard, then lunch with Mam. I had planned a work trip so was away in Dublin on the day itself. It’s been six years. I forget the date - but then - I forget birthdays too. I never forget him. Perhaps because I didn’t mark the day itself, I thought about Tom a lot this week. And my best mate Johnny who died two years ago. At Tom’s funeral in London Johnny had made a promise to me; ‘I’ll be your brother now,’ he said. He kept his word on that and died on me too. Although they had only ever met each other once, my two brothers, blood and soul, are utterly entwined together in my heart now. Johnny was a brilliant screen writer (his script of The Secret Scripture is shooting in Ireland at the moment) and Tom was a gifted classical musician. I have their pictures on my desk and touch their faces every morning as a good-luck talisman before I start writing. For a long time I was just angry that they weren’t here any more. I still am, insofar as they were both young and, as one friend of mine put it after he lost his younger sister, ‘I haven’t forgiven God for that particular steal.’ But this week, this year, I found myself invoking the pair of them on my new morning walk route. I have discovered a wonderful entry point to Belleek Woods. This riverside, woodland walk is, hands down - one of the best in Ireland. Painfully picturesque, it has miles of proper pathways carved through the trees. A popular spot with runners and recreational strollers like my self, its the no-brainer place to go around here if you don’t want to deal with the traffic on our busy country roads or the blistering wind of a North Mayo beach in winter. I have discovered that I can drop my youngest to school, then hang a right up the Moyne Road and be out of the car in under ten minutes. For the first twenty minutes I walk in blissful, contemplative silence. I drink in the smell of damp bark, listen to the birdsong and the rustling trees, see if I can spot a squirrel and smile benignly at passing joggers. Then I start to feel far too serene and righteous and the idea of driving into town for a well-deserved fry starts to call. That’s the time when I put on my headphones and pump out some dance music. Loud ‘rave’ music makes me feel young and cool. Even though my thirteen year old son reminds me that my 90’s dance tracks are twenty-five years old! In reality why I love this music is because I love, or rather loved dancing. I don’t do it any more. I never go anywhere that you can dance. Nightclubs? At fifty plus? The very idea! I’m in bed before they even open. All I can do now is put music on, walk fast and remember. Some of my happiest memories are dancing with T and J. Tom and I at Youth Club Discos - we had routines. In our twenties we gathered in Mum’s house every weekend, put on music and danced around in they silly, uninhibited way you can only do with siblings. Later, met Johnny in Dublin nightclubs and had those same crazy dance-offs I had with my brother. When you are on a dance floor, - experiencing that joyful freedom - you don’t realise how much fun you are having. You don’t appreciate how fortunate you are to have the youth and the vigour and the time to dance. You don’t realise that the people you dance with might not be with your forever and that you will never get this moment with them back again. As I reached the riverside picnic area I put my headphones on and picked out Blue Monday by New Order. A picture of Johnny at a wedding ten years ago popped into my head - then Tom bashing out the drum beat on the arm of my mother’s sofa. My two brothers walked alongside me, as I invoked them to dance. I even instructed them in some specific moves which they would never have done for me in real life. When I got back to the car, I had a little cry and cursed them both for being dead, especially J, after he specifically promised me he wouldn’t. Then I drove home, thanking God for my imagination, and the way it can make dead men dance for me.