Pan Pipes

Always wondered what I might find behind the hoarding on this large stretch of wasteland near the wean's school.

A couple of hours after I brought him home Sam appeared with Aoife, the babysitter, and we were finally able to leave. No taxis available for booking so we trudged down (Sam limping a bit)to see if we could hail one. After waiting about 20 minutes outside the Frescati centre, another couple turned up and stood about 30 yards in front of us, so I walked beyond them and managed to hail one almost immediately. A slow ride through clogged traffic but the bus lanes helped. Sam decided to stay in the cab and head for her work-related dinner, while I made my way to the Poetry Ireland get-together in the Nat. Library. Thence to my old meeting place, Buswells, with P & E and others, where I ate a pannini, gossiped about this and that, downed a few and probably ended up sounding like the grumpiest old poetaster on the planet. I mentioned I'd heard Christopher Ricks once tell a joke (involving a goat) to a bunch of shocked acolytes, students, etc., but I didn't get round to actually telling the joke itself, which is probably just as well, even if it's the best filthy joke I know.

And so, by way of the goat in question, we come round again to Mr Pan, and his enormous pipes.