Another funeral, another painful weekend. My gorgeous cousin Maeve died last Thursday. I was at the cinema, watching First Man, when my wife’s phone vibrated. It was my sister-in-law, “Phone Martin urgently.” We went out into the corridor and called my brother. “Maeve has died.” “Fuck.” “The Funeral is 10am Monday.” “Okay.”
We left the flicks and, within 40 minutes of getting home, my wife had booked flights and a hotel for me and my brother. It’s what she does.
Marty flew into Dublin from Gatwick and met me off the Heathrow flight. I had texted him from Baggage Reclaim. *Does the family tradition of the first Guinness always being at Dub airport still apply?* *It bloody better. I just bought a round*
At The Portmarnock Hotel the bar was full of family. I am one of 6. Maeve, my Dad’s brother’s daughter, was one of 5. We all holidayed together in the 60’s and early 70’s, usually on the Dublin coast, to give them a rest from Belfast, and being a Catholic family in the environment.
Much beer was supped, much bollocks spoken, many tears shed.
The next day was a blur of joy, tears and belly laughs – » Continue Reading.