He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

Dada taught me cards.
Sitting in his suit of pants and vest.
A fistful of joker-red hair strewn across his brow.
His big belly like a cannon ball.

Dada has stories from Calcutta
wrapped up in his big belly.
When he belched they would unravel.

Billy chased me round the playground
with hands full of fists

Billy yelled at me across the football pitch
with a mouth full of stings.

When Harry went away
he stole a part of Mum.
No-one warned us. 
No-one said.
We looked and looked for ages – 

It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. 
In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk 

I like to stay up
and listen
when big people talking
jumbie stories

I does feel
so tingly and excited
inside me

Once everything was big
and you were small,
but year after year your shadow 
crept up the wall 
and you grew tall.

Let me do it, let me do it
Let me blow up the balloon
Let me do it, let me do it
Let me go to the moon

I told a whopper, a fib, a lie.
Slipped out of my mouth. It was slimy, sly.

Save me, it hissed. A secret must hide.
So I opened my bag and it slithered inside.