I am rarely in a pubI had never been in Kerrybut that evening I found myselfin a pub in Traleethe smallest of talk had sent me scurryingto a cubicle in the pub toiletand I sat therekilling timepeople came and wentwhile I read graffitiin a stenchthick as soupeventually, I steeled myselfopened the cubicle doorwalked to the sink to wash my handswhen in he walked—John B. Keaneeyes hooded, nose long, shoulders slopedolder, but the samehe stood beside me at the sinkwinked at me in the mirrorreached into his suit jacketpulled out a toothbrushand a tube of toothpastestarted to talk in his heavy accent