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?”
“Texas.”
“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.
Phew!
I had escaped with my life. Unlike the poor President.
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