Gráinne Daly

Reflections of a Redhead

Nothing speaks money like an absolute beaut of a young one walking hand in hand with a pot bellied aul fella in chinos. His wisps of blonde hair tossed about in the Monaco breeze, her neat coiffure stayed perfectly in place under a veil of lacquer. He had the usual air of money and power …

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I heard a story this morning that made me stop and wonder. It’s the kind of story that binds one to secrecy. Names, dates, places – they’ve all been cast to the jail of the unspoken. Suffice to say, boy meets girl, they become happy together, boy then tells girl that he has another girl …

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There are two occasions during which I think with crystal clarity –  when I’m out for a walk or when I’m in the bath. On account of living back with my mother at the moment so as to fund my habit (writing that is), I no longer have the opportunity to soak in a bath. …

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The Gaza Strip – they’d sort it out. The legacy of destruction handed down through generations in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict would be no challenge. Where American diplomats have failed and legions of skilled negotiators have tried unsuccessfully, the Dublin mafia would strut into town and sort it all out. Mark my words, there’d be a …

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I have a problem, a weakness of some sort. It may be pathological, it could even be genetic, although I have no grounds for suspecting the latter. I stray – constantly. One minute I’m working on something, a piece of prose, a letter, whatever, and the next minute I find myself staring wide eyed at …

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It’s landed upon us without a warning this year. Stealthily arriving earlier than usual and hushed amid all the din of last week’s snow. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about it until a kind hairdresser reminded me yesterday. “Did you forget it’s Mother’s Day this weekend too?” she said. “I did”, I said. But …

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Surely there can’t be many people who can walk down Raglan Road or its neighbouring streets and not wonder to themselves what the world is like inside those grand homes. I’m guilty every single time. This morning was no exception, as I made my way through a frosty Dublin 4, eyes fixed on every beautiful …

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The ‘where were you when x happened…?’ awareness hangs over all bad memories. We all remember what we were doing when 9/11 struck, how we discovered a cheating partner, where we watched Thierry Henri’s hand ball and depending on your taste, how we heard the news of Trump’s election. Memory is rooted in those moments …

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