About to leave a pub with sixteen minutes to go until midnight, I ask the bar-lady who is clearing glasses from tables. She is wearing a purple fleecy top with a zip and her short dark hair is tied back into a ponytail. She is Irish and seems pleased to oblige.
'Do you want me to write them down for you?' she asks when I am having difficulty in grasping the pronunciation. I tell her that I have a pen. 'I've got some paper', she says. She tells me that the second part of her middle name means goddess of hope. 'My first name is Bronagh', she says. 'which means child of sorrow'. I ask which is more fitting to her experience of life. She considers. 'Probably my first name', she says. She laughs.
As we say our goodbyes she reaches up to kiss me on the cheek. We pass again at the door. She laughs and we high-five.
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