It was about six o’clock when we got to the Long Bar on Leeson Street. There were five of us: the O’Leary twins from Belleek, one thicker than the other in my humble estimation, big Finbar Laverty from some dot on the map of Co. Tyrone—he looked a bit like Superman in his Clarke Kent outfit, and had a brain in his head too—myself of course, about whom the least said the better, and the only girl on the course, Lindy Farrell from Larne in Co. Antrim. Now Larne is a bit of a hole at the best of times, in fact Larne on a wet Sunday has always been a cliché phrase for dullness, but if it could produce a girl as pretty as Lindy it couldn’t be all bad. She had a perfect face with long dark eyelashes and a pointed chin, high cheek-bones like a Chinese girl in a Kung Fu film, and the long straight black hair and even the slightly upturned eyes to go with it. But she wasn’t Chinese of course, she was full-blooded Larne, through and through. I said she had a perfect face, but I wouldn’t like to give the impression that there was anything imperfect about the rest of her. I’ll leave the details to your imagination.