Forget Madonna, forget the Pixies, Happy Mondays and the Happens; forget all of them …

The most important thing to happen in 1990 was me, Cathy and our baby Lucy, moving house (well, flat actually!) from the sleepy seaside town of Greystones to the busy hustle’n’bustle of Dublin. We didn’t actually move the flat you understand, we cleverly rented a different one already in the city. But it was sill a very traumatic affair.

Before we left we had to bid farewell to all the townsfolk, our neighbours, the bars, the trees, the grey stones (bloody loads of them!), the bus stops, the footpaths … it took us fucking ages. And then of course all too soon the fateful day was upon us; packing the bags, loading the cart, whipping the donkey, emotionally embracing our friends for the very last time and promising to write to both of them. Oh, a sad, sad day (the stupid donkey & cart cost £15 – can you believe that).

Living in the city has proved expensive on a hack’s meagre wage, but once we learnt how to cut back on life’s little luxuries (like food, clothes, toilet paper etc.), we began to manage. And although I miss my old hometown sometimes, ultimately I’m glad to be out of the boring little piss-stinking, ‘loadsaboats’ seaside hole that it is.

Goodbye Greystones, hello Rolling Stones.