It was bound to happen one day.

As much as I’d hoped the moment would never come, it did on St Patrick’s Day just gone – a day on which, like my birthday, I always feel quite special because I claim distant Irish heritage and, to be honest, it is a good opportunity to catch up with others of similarly distant Gaelic lineage, talk nonsense, listen to dreary dirges about the old country and drink foaming dark stuff.

I got on the bus late that afternoon to head to one of several (faux) Irish pubs a few stops from home. The bus was quite crowded with schoolkids and people of all ages coming home from work.

The only available seat was one put aside for people with mobility issues – seats the able-bodied (like me) and young are expected to vacate when immobile, elderly and infirm people and parents with prams board. The vacant seat was next to a grey-haired man in a green shirt, who said something like: “Sit here next to me and rest your bones, old fella.”

I........

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