Forcing the imagination into work
There were always radios on in our house in Clonkeen Road, Blackrock, where I grew up, always a voice coming from somewhere in the house, or a patch of music, or a newscast echoing through the kitchen. I never thought all that much about it – the radio was as much a part of life as the thrum of traffic outside, or the milk bottles rattling outside the front door, or the early morning high-pitch of the milkman's cart as he went on his way through the suburbs of county Dublin.