It's the 60th anniversary of the single. I mean the 7" vinyl single, 45 rpm, a song on the a-side and a song on the b-side, you big babies who don't remember. None of the articles I read today sang their praises loud enough. Certain celebrities were asked about the first singles they bought but not for a moment did I sense their unmitigated joy. A few people mentioned the lovely picture-sleeves a few of the records came in. I can't remember for sure the first single I bought with my own money. I owned quite a few but I was a small-time career-criminal at the time. At least one writer on the net came up with an appropriate title for his article: "Seven Inches of Pleasure."

The seagulls announced the fog and the fog announced the rain, and here it is falling tonight.

It was only a few days ago I heard that two of my oldest friends are moving out of the neighbourhood. Off they go, hand in hand, after twenty-four years in the same house. So many things come down to a wallet tied with string, sitting fat then sitting thin in your back pocket. It won't be the same, knowing they don't live in the house I pass almost daily, and the rollicking nights over the years. And so it goes as summer approaches, two chairs empty on one particular sidewalk patio.

St. Patrick's Day is a jiggs dinner, my version being a cottage roll with turnip, potatoes, cabbage and carrots all boiled in the same cauldron for hours. And the old story is true: this mess of a meal tastes even better in the morning when it thickens and the flavours melt together. It will last for days and days as it did for my ancestors. It's unlikely the Guinness will last so long.

One of these days I should strike up a conversation with Rockabilly Boy. I see him often standing in doorways of the tougher bars east of here. No, he doesn't stand, he leans against a redbrick wall, smoking. He's got the look: hair brushed back, black leather jacket, pegleg pants, and the chip on his shoulder is a glorious thing to behold. He could be Gene Vincent or skinny Elvis or any of those guys who knew how to sneer. I'm just guessing but I'd say Rockabilly Boy is in his late sixties or early seventies. I'll bet he has stories to tell and I wouldn't mind hearing a few. After all, time doesn't always fly. No, sometimes it struts.

"Traditional olive oil soap," it says, "made in Palestine."

And later, my hair still dripping, I had a cup of vanilla chai
as Alfie dug into a plate of herring fillets.

Such is a typical Saturday morning down Deloney way.