Saturday Night and Sunday Morning
Saturday nights were something back then before Nuala got married and I was less than four – all the shoes laid out, polished the night before – lined up, stretched and empty like our stomachs, Nuala’s work with help from us, the younger ones, the smell of Kiwi polish sharp against our fast. All-night fasting was pre-Vatican Two so before ‘64 or maybe it was ‘68 when the rules were passed. The high expectation of the ironed dresses laid out with socks and cardigans, Nuala’s suspenders and stockings – it was pre-tights. On Sundays after Mass we ran like mad down the road before a dressed-up crowd pursuing us to the bar for Cadburys and Guinness, Powers, Time and Bass.