Against the odds Roddy L'estrangeAs Vinny Fitzpatrick pushed his 11-month old grandniece, Kate, along the rickety wooden bridge linking Bull Island to Dollymount he should have been in high spirits.
The sun was shining this Sunday morning, a fresh south-westerly was dusting off the cobwebs from last night's stout-fest in Foley's, and Vinny, not known for his physical exertions, was "taking the air" along with a motley crew of fellow walkers, joggers, wind-surfers and golfers.
Yet Vinny was troubled. Financially, the weekend had been a write-off. Acting on advice from a sound Dublin GAA "head" he had a nibble at St Vincent's in the county hurling final but they bombed out.
Worse followed when Sunderland failed to beat Fulham at home, after which Roy Keane just smiled and shrugged and said "that's football".
Vinny was becoming cheesed off with Keane's newly-cultivated Mr Nice Guy image. He felt it was time Keano took the savage tablets and reverted to the blood-curdling, vein-throbbing ghoul of before.
If he didn't, Sunderland's pussycats were doomed; and Vinny, a Keano follower, would be further out of pocket.
As he pushed Kate along the boardwalk, Vinny admired the views. To his right, the Muglins off Dalkey, the spire atop Killiney Hill, the Sugar Loafs, Little and Great, the hump-backed Dublin Mountains. To his left, lay the strand at "Dollyer" and beyond Ben Eadair.
Kate was quiet, thankfully. She'd arrived the night before with her mother, Roisín, and grandmother, Bernie, Vinny's oldest sister. Every year, they decamped from the wilds of Donegal to spend Halloween in the old family home.
For Vinny, it was torture. His routine was shattered; he had to skip his nightly visits to Foley's, was forced to stay in on Halloween and hand out sweets to snotty-nosed kids who just stood there with swag bags attached.
In his day, you rehearsed all-singing, all-dancing acts and were chuffed to get a soft apple or a lollipop. Now, kids looked at you in disgust if you didn't hand over half of Cadbury's and Tayto combined, plus a few euro.
Still, a part of him enjoyed the Halloween tradition - he was a sucker for his sister's colcannon - and he enjoyed the parlour game where you tied your hands behind you and tried to bite an apple hanging from a string - the trick was to push the apple up against something. Vinny generally won.
But it wasn't Halloween that was bugging Vinny. He was thinking back to the Breeders' Cup races where, foolishly, he'd chased an Aidan O'Brien winner through the muck and slush of Monmouth Park.
He didn't get to Foley's until after eight, arriving straight from a double shift on the 42B, without any dinner to provide padding - a crucial oversight.
The lads were in the bar with Macker, as ever, doing the book. Vinny had a "score" on Excellent Art in the Mile, and shouted himself hoarse as Johnny Murtagh plunged late, only to miss out by a length.
That was as good as it got for Vinny. For Dylan Thomas, the Turf was a race too far, while tragedy befell George Washington in the closing Classic. By now, Vinny was down close to "a ton" and had almost a gallon of porter sloshing about, unattended, in his gut.
Keane's cuddly comments on Match Of The Day only inflamed Vinny's anger further and by the time he wall-banged home, complete with large curried chips, and a battered whiting from the Capri, he was, ahem, tired and emotional.
The extra hour in bed would have helped the hangover but Bernie, who offered Vinny the choice of either Mass or taking Kate for a walk, roused Vinny from his cot. He took the walk.
When he reached the monument at the tip of the north Bull - the stone was laid by Archbishop Dermot Ryan in 1972 and, so, Vinny felt provided a religious context to the perambulation - Vinny confronted the root of his troubles: Angie. He hadn't stopped thinking about her since their brief meeting on the bus last week. He'd studiously avoided her gaze in Boru Betting since, content to be all businesslike as he placed his bets away from her pitch.
As he and Kate turned to face the wind on the walk back, Vinny puffed his cheeks and asked himself the question that had been haunting him: did he have the nerve to ask Angie out? It was a long time - over 20 years, in fact - since he'd last been on a date. That was Sharon from the launderette and had ended in disaster in the bus shelter across the road from the garage.
Vinny had fancied Angie for some time but felt he was out of her league. Touching 50, carrying a paunch and with less than a full head of hair, bus driver Vinny Fitzpatrick was hardly Adonis.
He calculated his chances? Lunch in Clontarf Castle 2/1; Drink in Foley's (early) 4/1; (late) 8/1; Dinner in Picasso's 12/1; nightcap in Vinny's place 66/1; nightcap in Angie's 1,000/1.
A smile played on his lips as a wicked thought "Lay of the Week" came to mind. Only briefly however, as Kate, all of a sudden, began to whinge. Vinny was hauled back into the real world.
*Score = €20 bet; A Ton = €100.
Bets of the week
2pts Blackburn for top-six finish in the Premier League (12/5, Betfair) Mark Hughes' rugged crew aren't far off the Fab Four.
u 2pts Jonjo O'Neill to finish top NH trainer, without Paul Nicholls, in England (9/4 Paddy Power).
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt lay Dave O'Leary for Irish soccer manager's job (4.4/1 Betfair, Liability 3.4pts).
