After more than quarter of a century, I moved back to Limerick a few years ago to settle back in to life in my hometown, . Limerick is a city – it has two cathedrals and a castle, and a population of about one hundred thousand people. Nevertheless when you live in the centre, you tend to remember faces that you encounter every day – shop assistants, bar-staff, office workers, market stall holders, neighbours. Street people.

Limerick is suffering like the rest of the country through the government’s refusal/inability to address the housing crisis. It is also in the grip of an addiction crisis. You see people with addiction issues on the streets, hustling for a fix. Some are friendly. Some are cunning. Some are vile. I fell victim to he baby formula scam some months ago. I was accosted one Sunday evening by a gentleman who had seen better days. He spun a yarn about how his girlfriend had just had a baby but that they couldn’t afford baby food, and could I help him out by purchasing some for him. Alarm bells rang in one ear, but ‘hungry baby’ was the louder voice in my other year. I was shocked by the price of baby formula but bought it anyway. Feeling suspicious when I got home I googled ‘baby formula scam’ and saw the sorry explanation for this caper. Mentioning a hungry baby is a foolproof way to tug at people’s heartstrings. Muggins here buys the baby formula in good faith, then the recipient then brings it back to the shop for a refund. The following day the shop assistant who had sold the item to me said this was exactly what happened. He wasn’t given a refund as he had no receipt. I hope he found a use for the baby formula. Had I been more alert I’d have clocked it as a scam immediately. However bad the homeless crisis is in the country, babies are not going hungry. I have seen the gentleman in question subsequently. I blank him. I can’t help everyone with spare change – there are too many. He ripped me off though so my meagre wallet is closed permanently to him. It’s also closed to people who have previously called me a ‘c**t’ when I couldn’t spare a couple of euro. Who would be dealing with that type of abuse?

Then we have Kevin. Kevin (not his real name) is kind of a legend among city centre workers and dwellers. He’s a man deep in the throes of addiction but remains quite friendly and talkative. He’s hustling of course, for heroin or crack cocaine – his substances of choice – but he doesn’t get abusive or belligerent if you cannot assist. I first met him shortly after I moved back. He was always pleasant when asking for money so when I had change I’d give it to him. I had no concern if he was spending it on drugs – he has no choice in this and is going to feed his habit somehow so two euros here and there from me isn’t harming him. I first got chatting to him when I burst out laughing at his request for a couple of euros to make a telephone call. He saw the funny side too.

My friend Julie died this morning.

I met Julie in April 2002. I was living in a house-share on Chassestraat in De Baarsjes area of Amsterdam. One of my flatmates had moved out and there was a room to spare. Naturally I didn’t want to be liable for the extra rent we’d have to pay on the illegal sublet. Our dodgy landlord was a geezer named Spiro – cash in hand every month and we didn’t know his surname. I placed an advert. I don’t recall if there was much interest in the room (although seeing as this was city centre Amsterdam I imagine there was).  Julie called around to see the place. I remember the interview.

‘Just so you are aware, I am gay,’ I announced with self-righteous, pomposity.

‘Really? I would never have guessed,’ replied Julie in a deadpan manner.

We burst out in what can only be described as a cackle.

‘Do you smoke weed?’ she asked.

‘Why yes. Yes I do,’ was my reply. So we skinned up.

Obviously as we were living in a sublet there was no housing contract. I wrote the terms on the back of an envelope – 350 euros a month.

We lived together for over two years, Julie, Midnight and I. Midnight was the obstreperous feline that had belonged to an earlier tenant in the house-share. Midnight did not appreciate Julie, to Julie’s chagrin. This was nothing to do with her though. Midnight was mean. When I moved out into my own place in October 2004, I thought I was doing the decent thing by leaving the cat in her home. Julie loved that cat but she rang me to tell me that Midnight was mine and to collect her. ‘Murphy, she shits in my bed when I am at work’. In Midnight’s defence this had only happened twice but it was enough to put Julie off that feline.

We went on holidays to the Pyramids of Giza in Egypt in May 2006. We went out on the town in Amsterdam all the time. We stayed home and watched films – the execrable ‘Basic Instinct 2 – Risk Addiction’ for some reason sticks out in my head – possibly because we shouted at the screen throughout because of how terrible it was.

We were very good friends.

In 2007 she met the love of her life – her husband James – and in 2009 they welcomed their child Emma-Fay to the world. Between them they had turned our former flat on Chassestraat into an actual home that was always a joy to visit. Their wedding at the boat club near Lelylaan in 2011 was a wonderful event. I even gave a speech at it.

My head is filled with memories of events and times we shared.

I remember a Christmas at Chassestraat and the big roast turkey.

I remember her hen night where I was the only male guest and we went to a drag bar where one of the hostesses gave Julie a drag queen makeover.

I remember Julie coming to Dublin to see the finale of my play ‘An Unexpected Party’ and the gorgeous jacket she wore. This was a few years after I have moved back to Ireland – 2017 I think.

I remember helping her move to her new house while still in Amsterdam while suffering the most obscene hangover in living memory, and listening to Dolly Parton’s greatest hits as we worked.

I remember watching Eastenders with her when it was revealed that Kat Slater was Zoe’s mother. On random occasions afterwards I would yell ‘You ain’t my MUVVA!’ at her. To which she would shriek back ‘YES I AM!!!!’

I remember going to see the Chippendales in concert with her (we were ALWAYS classy birds.)

I remember visiting her in Amsterdam after I’d moved back to Ireland.

It’s a fuzz of memories when you have known someone for a long time.

I don’t know when the joke began but occasionally she’d raise an eyebrow, give me a withering look and say ‘Murphy, no matter what age I am, you will always, ALWAYS be older than me’. To which there was no response. I was four years older than her.

When she got her diagnosis it was clear that this was going to be a tough road. Sadly she died today. I am very glad I saw her in recent days. I told her I hadn’t meant for her to be quite so literal about me always being older than her.

I am happy she was my friend. I am happy she was in my life. She made the lives of people she met better. Julie was a good one. I loved her very much.

Rest in peace Julie.