The gods have been kind to me. I walk in to a 50th party of a dear friend of mine the weekend before last, (the main reason I came to Dublin this time around). Within five minutes, I’m chatting to someone I hadn’t seen in, maybe, five years, and even then only briefly; we used to see each other in my flat in Rathgar in the early nineties. When asked what I’m doing these days, I reply saying I’m in Italy and trying to find a way back to live in Dublin, but I haven’t a clue how I’m going to do it. “I’m just putting the word out, really,” says I. First words I hear in response, that I don’t think I will ever forget: “Would you like a two-bedroomed flat in the Liberties?”

Never has my gob been so smacked. There are details to iron out of course, but I believe it’s going to work out, and the flat is free sometime in August, for 3 years. Anyone who knows about how crazy things are in Dublin these days finding a place to live will know how fantastically high the odds were against me finding such a place.

So. I’m coming home.