I HAVE BEEN inundated with another request to provide further extracts from my Ballina diaries of the late sixties, and I am happy to do so.

Monday, January 9th, 1969

Thank God that Christmas with all its vulgar materialism, is finally over and that mother has at last begun to put away her collection of gaudy baubles and grotesque coloured paper hangings, though not before adding to it in the January sales.

My Christmas present to myself was an LP by The Incredible String Band. There is an attractive mysticism in their plaintive chanting lyrics they ask basic human questions about what we are part of and what we are, and suggest that this world is but a play, and we the joyful players.

There is not much theatrical experience in what passes for religion in this town.

Father leaves the room whenever I play the record it is obviously beyond his, understanding but nevertheless disturbs what remains of his consciousness.

More and more I realise I must soon travel if I too am not to become mired in small town life with the inevitable strangulation of the soul.

Tuesday

I meet Seainin at the train station he is back from UCG for a few days at home, having spent Christmas "at his books", according to his mother, a decent but innocent woman who will be pathetically pleased to launder the two enormous black plastic sacks of dirty clothes he has dragged home with him.

At my suggestion we cross the road to Jordan's for a drink. If indeed the world is a play and we the joyful players, Seainin is as joyful as any, and never more joyful than when heading for a public house; but he is also totally broke. We have four pints each at my expense, and then Seainin expresses surprise at, the fact that I am not "mobile".

Seainin clearly has an inflated idea of my earnings at the library. Still, as we stagger out under the weight of his laundry, I find myself thinking of the attractions of a small car. Perhaps it is time I sought a rise.

Wednesday

My elder sister Noeleen (24), down from Dublin on an extended break, asks if it was I and "the brilliant young veterinary student" she saw staggering along Garden Street last night, each carrying what appeared to be a dead body in a sack. I counter with the remark that at least. I don't let down true friends.

Noeleen bursts into tears. I feel slightly guilty at my uncharitable reference to the break up of her romantic relationship with Jerome the Accountant as mother reverentially refers to him, much as one might say "John the Baptist."

Even though Jerome had still not passed Part Four of his exams at the point of break up, the mood in our, house suggests that Noeleen held the winning Irish Sweepstakes ticket briefly in her hand before losing it for ever.

Thursday

I am at work in the library attempting to draw up a hit list of our chronic "books overdue" offenders when Harriet breezes in wearing a short black skirt and a leather jacket with about 30 zips in it. Fortunately. Miss Cartwright has retired for her tea break.

Old Mr O'Brien, who has been sitting in his usual corner pretending to read while staring at the door, utters a short choking sound. Harriet takes no notice and asks me to direct her to the geography section. Here I find her some time later, looking for "tropical" books recommended by a waitress colleague. After talking to her for a while I realise that she is seeking Henry Miller's dubious but certainly interesting "Cancer" and "Capricorn" books.

Needless to say these volumes do not sully the Ballina library shelves - I shudder to think of what might have happened if Harriet had asked Miss Cartwright for "Nexus" or "Plexus".

Harriet herself is not in the least embarrassed. Mr O'Brien makes further disgusting sounds in his throat as she passes by on her way out, and when she has gone I have to rearrange him on his rather damp. chair.

Friday

I meet my friend Walter the slightly confused station porter. In his innocence he can sometimes make amazing remarks. I mention Harriet in a roundabout sort of way, and he remarks, while dribbling over his Guinness, that "The b-b-est g-girls are always P-P-Protestants, but P-Protestant g-girls are not always good girls."

I should have guessed from her name, but it has only dawned on me now that Harriet is a Protestant! This explains a lot of things, such as why I feel the thrill of danger in her presence, though not why she would be employed as a cafe waitress.

Religious denomination means nothing to me but all Protestants are well off that much I know. The ones in this town are also generally speaking less retarded than their Catholic brethren. (And ecumenism might be an obscure literary form for all the effect it has had here.) {CORRECTION} 97011400033