it's all in the genes — 1 month ago
grandfather McG passed away at 96 in a cold and lonely country kitchen with a burnt out pipe and his nightly bottle of stout empty beside him, and granduncle McP got as far as 93, a reluctant resident of a nursing home, a nagon of whiskey smuggled into him on the rare occasions someone visted. My father Pat died last Christams eve of lung cancer and alcoholism when he was supposed to be in Australia celebrating my wedding, visiting Botany Bay which he’d dreamed about as a young man; he was only 62; he missed out on one half on the family genes and drew 2 short straws. Dad dieing has spurned me to change, to live as long as I can and experience life completely. He was some use after all.
“Farewell to your bricks and mortar,
Farewell to your dirty lies.
Farewell to your gangways and your gang planks,
And to hell with your overtime.
For the good ship Ragamuffin is lying at the Quay,
For to take poor Pat with a shovel on his back
To the shores of Botany Bay.”





