Dad’s world with Jonathan deBurca Butler

THERE I was about to sit down to write this column when a message popped up on my Gmail account. ‘Larry’, it said.

I had called Larry on a whim a couple of nights previously. I had to go to a function in town but with an hour to kill beforehand, I wanted to see if he was free for a pint.

He couldn’t make it that night but he said he’d get in touch. So in a way I was expecting some sort of contact but this flashing screen came up just a little too early in the overall scheme of how these things usually work.