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It was no country for young men. Or women…
Unemployment, emigration and do-it-yourself hair colour kits were once again a fact of life. Taxes were on the up, the IMF way and there was a cash-for-gold outlet in Foxrock Village.
But the signs for recovery good – for me, at least. I was the chief executive of one of the few businesses turning a profit in this town, a shredding company helping to dispose of the Celtic Tiger’s dirty little secrets. And I was getting plenty of love action – as the boy-toy of an attractive sixty-year-old woman who was totally rolling in it. I never imagined myself ending up as a gigolo. But, as the saying goes, where there’s a will, there’s a way-hey-hey!
With presents galore, sex on the demand and a hot meal on the table every night, life was starting to look up again. All I had to do to avoid focking it up was to keep my chinos buttoned. And, well, you can probably guess how that went.