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There's a thing I like about living in Drogheda. Neighbours. I know them. Any time I lived elsewhere (though Waterford and Rugby were for much shorter times than Dublin) I never knew them apart from to possibly say "Oi, gerroff our wall! And stop hitting Ian with sticks!" And I'm a bit sad this evening.

Years and years and years ago, back when I was helping dad with the odd house, we papered a house down what was then a little lane that led to the best blackberrying spots around here. The lane is now a housing estate, no more blackberries on this side of the tracks. The owner of the house has been missing for a while, presumed dead. And for the last few months person or persons unknown have been filling the derelict, boarded up house with tyres. And tonight the tyres burned. And burned. And filled the air with smoke, black and thick and acrid.

I neither know nor care why they burned the house, this sort of destruction angers and saddens me at the same time. But not so angry that I didn't say a prayer as I heard the ambulances screech down the road. And I don't know where to stop, so I'll stop here.

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squeefulfish

November 2012

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