Old habits die hard and, occasionally, I still chain my bike to a lamppost near the International Bar in Wicklow Street - a scene of eventful evenings back when I had hair, and when excitement wasn’t having two digestive biscuits with my Ovaltine at night.
It was while doing so some years ago that I heard familiar lines emanating from the tiny theatre above the bar. Curiosity, and the fact that I’d written...
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