Mick Flaherty had supped more Guinness than enough and had stumbled out of Quinn’s bar and into the Sunday afternoon air.
As his drunken eyes squinted to adjust to the light, an ambulance went by at great speed. Blue lights flashing and siren blaring, it roared up the street with Mick in full flight running after it.
A hundred yards, 200, 300, almost a quarter of a mile he tracked it until suddenly, lungs and legs giving out, he fell into the gutter.
Then with his very last ounce of breath he roared: ‘You can keep your damned ice cream!’