SMOKE’S UP AT SHEDDY’S

Bachelor farmers are a dying breed; men who were monastic without choice; condemned to it by the long life of a parent who wouldn’t hand over the land, the lack of social opportunities, or just simply the poverty that clung like a bad smell to their shiny suits, in every ballroom from Glenfarne to Drumlish.

AN EXCERPT FROM KENNETH ROY’S FINAL BOOK

I had another endoscopy at lunchtime. Two extremely jolly, talky nurses wheeled me down to the unit, in and out of lifts, along endless corridors, me in my pyjamas, a ludicrous spectacle, quite pitiable in its way, myself indifferent to the effect having quickly shed any residual inhibitions. The usual paperwork on arrival – my file is already competing with War and Peace – and the usual question about whether any member of my family has ever been considered at risk of catching mad cow disease. 

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