Red Room Where the Writers Are

A fifty year old man was shot to death in Dublin the other day and a thirteen year old boy was arrested.  Apparently the victim had been unable to tolerate anymore abuse from a group of youngsters who had gathered outside on the street and were throwing eggs and shouting abuse at his house.  I can imagine how incensed he must have been and decided to try and give the bullies a scare by running after them.  Maybe he called the cops but they must have weighed up the severity of the call and decided that it wasn't really a big deal and so, decided to only pursue the ''real'' thugs and burglars. Sure, what's the big deal about a bunch of kids having a bit of innocent fun?  Now, that man is dead.  I didn't get the newspaper today. It's way too depressing. Ireland is going down rapidly into a recession with dioxins detected in the meats and rising crime filled streets and drugs on every corner  and in every living room and dinner party. Years ago we had our own ''innocent'' youngster experience when we moved here.  We were known as the ''Yanks'' and  the local punk or rather red neck population would stand outside on the road and call in obscenities and yes, too, throw eggs at the house.  We often called the cops. They DID come out and one of them even had the audacity to say that ''they're only lads, they don't mean to be trouble''! The ''lads'' grew up and over a year ago I read in the newspaper that one of them had been arrested over a ''homophobic incident''. He got off, pleaded guilty and PAID  the victim a substantial sum of money. But where is the justice there? I must believe that what goes around comes around and maybe someday the ''lad'' in question might come up against a force greater than his despise of homosexual men or Yanks for that matter. This evening I think about that man who had the innocence to run after that thirteen year old boy, how his evening was disturbed, maybe he was just settling down to read the newspaper or watch the Sports Channel on TV with a nice cup of tea or a glass of beer....And right this minute as I pen these words my own son, as a matter of fact, he is thirteen, is doing his homework, studying the Bronze Age for his Christmas exams on Monday. His head is bent to the book.  I am going to go tell him he must always bend his head to the books.