Still no-one is shouting Stop
IT WAS the white nylon shirt that first drew my attention; I could see the man wearing it through the windows of the cafe where I sat with my coffee. The blue suit and gleaming shoes, what remained of an Elvis quiff — oiled back and not a hair out of place — and the white nylon shirt straining to contain a paunch that took money to put there. He was home for the Races.
He had a friendly, open face and as he scanned the passers-by it struck me that he was hoping to spot someone he knew, perhaps someone from the old days who would have a drink with him and maybe give him a lift into Ballybrit to kick-start another memorable session.
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