||[Sep. 17th, 2014|10:39 am]
Clearing out one of the cupboards under the sink, I find my father's stash of match books. They're a gazeteer of his comings and goings over the last decade of his life.|
He was in Dublin, on North Sea Ferries, meeting his accountant at The Institute of Bankers (motto Probus et Fidelis- which- it explains on the back of the book- "stresses the integrity of character which every banker needs"), dining at a place which advertises itself (with a not quite perfect grasp of English idiom) as a "typical Portuguese restaurant."
"What are you going to do with them all?" my mother asks.
"Start fires," says Ailz.