Would you like chips with that?

Mike sits in the local chippers, a plastic microphone in his hands. He serenades me as I order my curry cheese chip – ‘Flow on, lovely river, flow gently along/By your waters so sweet sounds the lark's merry song/On your green banks I wander where first I did join /With you, lovely Molly, the rose of Mooncoin.’

There is no escape - I learnt that early on. His dulcet tones have a tendency to sound initially like the iron bars coming down on a prison cell. My head fills to over flowing with all the things I've got to do, cupboards that need to be tidied, freezers defrosted, papers that haven't been sorted for six months that suddenly need to be sorted just as soon as I get out of this place. My brain goes into panic -how do I get out of this one - and I start kicking myself for not starting that diet. So out of politeness and an inbred inability to say no, I sit down beside him, munching my chips, and he tells me tales about his wife, his kids, his love of singing and poetry. ‘Did you hear this one....’ as he starts into another story from his past, a hope for his future. He has a penchant for mottos, some few words with a moral or instruction for living, 'It's nice to be important, but it's far more important to be nice.' I think he's about the same age as my Dad - early sixties. The sense of being trapped is reminiscent of when an older relative got their claws into you as a child -- you start off feeling you're doing your duty and you end up really enjoying yourself. You've always forgotten that by the next visit though.
         I reflect on his stories, about his various jobs, the places he has sung, the people he has sung for, looking for clues, things that will tell me how he has become a person who is unafraid to be himself - a person unafraid to sit in the corner of a chippers and sing into a child's toy whilst gangs of teenagers, their boxers peeping up behind their trousers, order burgers, and young people on their way home from work order meal deals so they won't have to face empty, cold flats and start cooking.

He gives hours sitting there, watching the customers coming in and out, when the shop is quiet talking to the owner behind the counter, watching out the window for the recognisable face of a regular - someone who'll actually take the time to sit and listen to his stories and songs. Despite all the people he meets and the people in his stories, I can't help but feel that he is lonely. Why else is he there, waiting for people? A spider sitting in his web ( though I'm sure he' rather eat the chips than the customers.)

            I met him one day on my way to the Post Office. I did a double take at seeing him outside of the chippers. He was with a guitar player - the two of them busking. The plastic microphone was left at home; they'd all the professional gear. Speakers so their voices could travel all over the city streets. They were between numbers and Mike asked me would I stop and sing a song. I was about to automatically say no, I didn't sing, when I thought, why not? I sang 'Young Ned of the Hills' : 'And he sings lady love will you come with me now/ Come and live merrily under the bough. ' Nerves caused my voice to tremble as it boomed up and down the city street. A passing lady, without looking, threw in a euro. A man came and pushed a mint into my hand as I sang - maybe he thought that I'd a sore throat.  I'm not that great a singer - I wonder did the people of Cork all feel like they were trapped, that there was nowhere for them to run, only into the nearest shop, as they scuttled up and down the Grand Parade doing their shopping?  Whatever they thought of me, I thought I was great. Mike would want to hold on tight to that plastic microphone - he could have competition for it.