An Irishman's Diary

I MAY BE sharing too much here, readers, and if so, advance apologies. But for years I’ve had this dream in which I’m on assignment somewhere, very close to deadline and getting anxious about it, and yet – for often unexplained reasons – I haven’t even started writing yet.

It’s probably a common thing among journalists: I must ask at the next group therapy session. In any case, a recurring feature of the dream is that the problem is not resolved, one way or another. The deadline never actually passes. In fact, nothing much happens except that it gets even later and I still haven’t started writing. Then I wake up.

I only mention it because, recently, in a town that shall remain nameless, the dream almost came to life. It wasn’t quite as late as it would normally be. But I had a long news feature to write, and about half the time ideally required. So suffice to say that the gnawing-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach phase was already well advanced and the cold sweat phase was not far away.

Also, for reasons we don’t have to go into, I needed to write the piece somewhere with WiFi. Thus I had made my way to a hotel that looked promising. And I was just outside the door when a woman stopped me, drew my attention to a man leaning against the wall nearby, and asked if I could help him down the street. “He only lives around the corner,” she said, “but I can’t do it.” I studied the man a moment, hoping he was merely drunk, in which case I could ignore him with a clear conscience. But he wasn’t drunk. He was just old, and he had a walking stick, and he was clearly struggling to stay on his feet.

So I went over to him and offered help, whereupon he thanked me and gripped my arm. “I’m only round the corner,” he said. And then he started walking, very, very, slowly. It would be an exaggeration to say he walked at snail’s pace, but not much of an exaggeration. Each step was only a few inches, with pauses for rest every three or four.

And even as I noted this, I also noted for the first time that the nearest corner was not especially near. Furthermore, I started to experience intense concern about what the phrase “just around the corner” meant. At which thought, the gnawing in my stomach grew.

Thanking me again, the old man listed his various medical problems. It was a long list, including arthritis and thrombosis and I can’t remember what else. Then he mentioned that he should have called an ambulance earlier when he was leaving wherever he’d been. So, already looking for an exit strategy, I offered to call an ambulance for him now.

But he wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll be grand once I’m home,” he insisted. Nor would be let me phone a taxi, although I would have gladly paid for one. “It’s only a hundred yards,” he said. We had travelled perhaps 20 miniature steps at this stage.

I decided it was time to explain my situation, mentioning words like “story”, “deadline”, and “newsdesk will kill me”. But even as the words came out, I could sense they were so far from his experience as to be meaningless. They sounded foreign, even to me. And he just ignored them. “I’m only round the corner,” he repeated. “We’re nearly there.” Worse still, he now told me how somebody had passed him earlier, promising to return: “I’ve known him all me life, but if I was to wait until next week, he wouldn’t come back. It’s terrible how quick people you think are your friends can desert you.” I wondered if, in spite of his apparent distress, this journey was a routine occurrence and neighbours, like those even now hurrying by, had learned to avoid it. But growing desperate, I asked if there was a family member I could ring for help.

There was, he said, only he couldn’t remember the number. He recited three digits – I was pressing them even as he spoke – and then went blank. So instead I offered to run around to the house and ask them to come.

“It’s just that I’m under a bit of time pressure,” I explained. And although he was clearly reluctant to let go of me, he told me the address. Memorising which, with a mixture of relief and guilt, I propped him against a parked car and sprinted around the corner.

As I feared, nothing there quite resembled his directions. I tried the address on a passer-by. Blank look. Then, further on, there was a shop where they pointed me back the way I’d come. And it turned out I had passed the slightly-hidden entrance in my panic. The street really was just around the corner, or near enough.

When I found the house, though, there seemed to be no lights on anywhere. In fact, I was already reverting to plan B – ringing the ambulance – when a woman answered the door. His daughter, maybe. And as I told her the story, she nodded calmly.

This had happened at least once before, I guessed. But anyway, I ran back to where the old man was, and told him help was on the way. Then I mentioned “deadlines” again, wished him well, and left. God love him, he was stuck in a worse nightmare than mine. But this was no comfort at the time.

Back at the hotel again, I asked at reception if they had WiFi. They had, but of course it wasn’t working. So I inquired where else in town might have it, and the man on the desk thought hard.

After which, not looking confident, he suggested a certain cafe whose name meant nothing to me. The gnawing in my stomach worsened, but I asked where the cafe was. And then, just as in a dream, he gave me the directions, pointing vaguely towards somewhere in the darkness on the edge of town.