You’re told never never go to the post office to cash one of those money orders for anyone or you’ll lose your job forever. But what are you supposed to do when an old man that was in the Boer War hun- dreds of years ago says his legs are gone and he’d be forever grateful if you’d go to Paddy Considine in the post office and tell him the situa- tion and Paddy will surely cash the money order and keep two shillings for yourself grand boy that you are. Paddy Considine says no bother but don’t tell anyone or I’d be out on my arse and so would you, son.The old man from the Boer War says he knows you have telegrams to deliver now but would you ever come back tonight and maybe go to the shop for him for he doesn’t have a thing in the house and he’s freezing on top of it. He sits in an old armchair in the corner covered with bits of blan- kets and a bucket behind the chair that stinks enough to make you sick and when you look at that old man in the dark corner you want to get a hose with hot water and strip him and wash him down and give him a big feed of rashers and eggs and mashed potatoes with loads of butter salt and onions. I want to take the man from the Boer War and the pile of rags in the bed and put them in a big sunny house in the country with birds chirping away outside the window and a stream gurgling. Mrs.  Spillane  in  Pump  Lane  off  Carey’s  Road  has  two  crippled twin  children  with  big  blond  heads,  small  bodies,  and  bits  of  legs that  dangle  over  the  edges  of  the  chairs. They  look  into  the  fire  all day  and say, Where’s Daddy? They speak English like everybody else but they babble away to one another in a language they made up, Hung sup tea tea sup hung. Mrs. Spillane says that means,When are we get- ting  our  supper?  She  tells  me  she’s  lucky  if  her  husband  sends  four pounds a month and she’s beside herself with the abuse she gets from the Dispensary over him being in England.The children are only four and they’re very bright even if they can’t walk or take care of themselves. If they could walk, if they were any way normal, she’d pack up and move to England out of this godforsaken country that fought so long for free- dom  and  look  at  the  state  of  us,  De Valera  in  his  mansion  above  in Dublin the dirty oul’ bastard and the rest of the politicians that can all go to hell, God forgive me.The priests can go to hell too and I won’t ask God to forgive me for saying the likes of that.There they are, the priests and the nuns telling us Jesus was poor and ’tis no shame, lorries driving up to their houses with crates and barrels of whiskey and wine, 317