Galway Torture.

The music lilted out of the pubs onto Eyre Square. The weather was warm and balmy and people of all nationalities hustled throughout the city. It was Saturday evening at half past nine. Summer holidays were here and people were, for a change, enjoying the spell of good weather.

It seemed like the Saturday evenings of the Celtic Tiger days were back. People were spending money and talking about how much their house had appreciated in the past twelve months.

Andrew wished for times past. Of times that were so different. He dragged his feet wearing his over-sized shoes, clutching his jacket in his left hand. It was too warm to be wearing the overcoat. He removed his black tie.

A young couple wearing Mardi Gras beads stopped to shake his hand, clearly having a good night. Andrew told them to "fuck off" in no uncertain terms. Happy conscience-free people really annoyed him. Especially when they were a bit tipsy. He wasn't in the mood to share their festivities.

This was Galway in July 2019. Kids wore silly looking clothes and men and women were hard to tell apart. They were all idiots, following the state's advice about lifestyle choices and what to call their children. Drones, every single one of them. Only people of his age had the where-with-all to think for themselves. Thomas thought and spoke for himself, that's for sure.

Cash was no longer a commodity that people valued. Cards and electronic gadgets were all the rage. He never really saw the need for any of those fidgety things, and never wanted to learn how to use them. In truth, the technology had passed him by.

Staring up at what used to be the old AIB building on the square, he shook his head at what it had now become. Some sort of fancy glass building housing high-end electronic goods. He had worked there almost twenty years ago, when banks were king. Not so much anymore.

Scratching around in his pockets, Andrew found fourteen credits in coins. That was enough for a pint on the way home. It would be a fitting ending for the evening. A toast to his friend Thomas in his former favourite drinking hole - the Dew Drop Inn.

Wandering in and out of the crowds filtering into the square, he walked with a heavy gait towards the pub. His night of Galway torture was complete.

He hadn't visited the city in ten years. The pub was gone. It was now an apartment block of a monstrous nature. He doubted himself for a second, and checked back. No - his instinct was correct.

The Dew Drop Inn was gone for good - where was he going to toast his buried friend now?