I had an after school job at the Mace supermarket on the Glen Road, Belfast.
I can answer that question “Where were you when JFK was assassinated?”
I was on one of my delivery jaunts, on a “Granville” bike. I remember
Overhearing a passer-by telling a man across the street what had happened.
“Kennedy? Shot? Where?”
“In the head.”
“No, where was he?”
“Seen that in cowboy pictures. Lot of gunslingers there, you know.”
I knew it was fairly important news but I was preoccupied with my own fate
At the jaws of a yapping dog behind the railings of a house in Fruithill Park.
I was scared stiff and could not pluck up the courage to open the squeaky gate.
Luckily, after tense minutes the owner joked: “His bite’s worse than his bark.”
She called off the dog and beckoned me up the driveway. I delivered her box
Of groceries, she put a half crown tip in my sweaty hand – big money back then –
And I scarpered before the dog was let loose again to bite lumps out of my arse,
Legging it, knowing that oil-free hinges would squeal the mutt back into action.
I had escaped with my life. Unlike the poor President.