I sleep till 7. Then the dog wakes me up. 7 o’clock is not too bad. You are at least able to see the puddles and the dog walks only into every second one of them. You can’t say he is not learning though. When we get back to the village the light in the grocer’s shop is on. “You are up early Read On”, says the grocer’s wife. I yawn. “Fresh out off the oven” says the grocer’s wife, and points at the basket full of scones next to her. Two raspberry scones as usual?”, she asks. But her questions are always only rhetorical ones. I nod. The dog looks longingly at her. He gets a slightly burnt raisin scone and is instantly catapulted into heaven. The grocer’s wife scones are legend. “Where are you watching the game, Read On?”, she inquires. ( The game means the rugby.) “Not at all grocer’s wife” I say. “I am not at all into sports, you know. “Sweet Jesus”, says the grocer’s wife staring at me in disbelief. “Well, she says, we like you anyway.” “That’s very kind of you grocer’s wife “say I and wave her good-bye. The priest isn’t coming over for lunch today. He has to visit his sister, who lives over in Cavan. He sighed when he told me. “She is quite a hag”, he said and sighed even louder. “I am sorry” I say and I mean it. It is a strange Sunday Supper Club we form the priest and I, the Jew. But I am always looking forward for him coming over after he has locked the church doors after Sunday mass. The keys alone are impressive. He has always read something I might be interested in and I always am. We lend each other books. We disagree in the most agreeable way and he is an excellent chess partner though. Unfortunately today he drives past my window, waving good-bye. “See you next week, Read On.” “See you next week, priest.” Two hours later C. and K. arrive. They are the most polite guests ever. “May I give you a hand?, Read On?” “Would you mind me helping you, Read On.” I chuckle. They even laugh at my strange jokes ( You must be very polite indeed to share my strange sense of humour. ) We eat ( baked salmon with green salad and carrot-potato puree. ) We walk to the sea side and throw sticks the dog tries to catch. Afterwards we have pear tart. “You shouldn’t have made such efforts, Read On” they say. “Don’t you like the tart?, I say?” (You really have to like my sense of humour. ) “Ahem, says K., are you planning to watch the match?” “No way” say I, “but please feel free” I say and pass my laptop over to them. They look ashamed, relieved and quite happy at the same time. Half an hour later I lay on the sofa dozing away. When I wake up, K. and C, are shouting at the screen: “Come on Ireland!” I read the newspaper and then I happily follow the Rabbitte family through their small and big adventures in Barrytown. No one makes me laugh so hard as Roddy Doyle. His dialogues. The dark humour. The very Dubliness of it all. The realism. The sadness. You easily could meet all his protagonists on the bus and would have a great time just by listening to them. “Sweet Jesus”, as the grocer’s wife would put it. ( And there still is pear tart left ). When the guests leave I walk the dog again and later while the rain batters against the window I listen to Bach’s Cello Suites and close my eyes. Here at the margin of the world, all words are paper-thin, and the silence is burning and echoing louder than anywhere else.