En irsk opvækst: Familiekonflikt og ansvar

Trevor is blasting Thin Lizzy’s version of Whiskey in the Jar1. It’s grey and cold but not pissing down so I can

have a fag out of sight in the laneway behind our houses and listen to Trevor’s tunes. He’s the only one

with a record player and good taste on our street. Ma says his da bought it ‘cause Mr Walsh works on the

ships and feels guilty for being away all the time. I think Trevor’s lucky. He gets all the good stuff without

the hassle of having his old man around. We only have the radio in our house and it’s usually playing shite.

I’m wearing long trousers for the first time this year so no more freezing legs, looking like a turkey’s

plucked arse. Mrs Walsh made them for me. She’s great with a needle and thread and helps Ma out

whenever she can. I asked her to give them a bit of a bell-bottom, to which she said: “Absolutely not.”

I can hear her shouting at Trevor to turn the music down. Don’t see why. He livens the place up. Older

people always want a quiet house so they can hear themselves think. She’s great and all but I don’t think