The Past Is A Foreign Country

When my mother died I inherited a couple of boxes of family photos. The bulk of them date to before I was born and some originally came to her from my uncle on his death. My uncle arrived home to Newry when I was a child and to my young eyes he was an exotic figure. He and a friend had run away to join the merchant marine in their youth and he came back via a long, untalked-of stretch of time in London where he plied the family trade of plastering and, apparently, drank anything he ever earned. He was a sharp dresser though, with a Sinatra-like sparkle and a ready wit. He is the source of the photo I transcribed for this work, some unrecorded, unknown friend or lover, whether from London or his prior travels I have no idea but a testament to the vivid colour of a life that faded to gray once he returned home.