What manner of summer this, grim rain clouds set low, moodily oppressive, unlikely to budge. Feeling more than a little sorry for myself as I run my warm finger in a slow slalom down along the foggy dew patch that my breath has stamped on the window pane.
An assorted cluster of umbrellas pitched hard against the drizzle and buffeted by garrulous gusts of wind commands my attention to activity in the cemetery across the street.
At first mistaking sharp suited gravediggers for lingering mourners who grab sturdy shovels and begin to lay the earth over Paddy. Not even making seventy, felled by a dicky heart and he an undertaker himself.
To witness a man going beneath the ground forever, the ultimate antidote to self-pity. And I with beer to look forward to and some fresh bread to enjoy, the everyday unappreciated, unacknowledged lottery win, until moments such.
When you become for a while at least, a man awash with joy.

(c)Daniel Mallen