24 July 2026
1192
R. Linda:
I was given an assignment in Northern Ireland! I was thrilled to return home. I was imagining the food, familiar places, old friends, and professional respect. Instead, me sister hijacked me schedule and gave me grief over her memoirs.
I was set to stay in a hotel, but me Sissy insisted I should come and stay with her and the Dolan person (her husband) and be treated to good old-fashioned home cooking (she forgets our Mam lives with me and I get that and better back home).
To get away from her, I rang up Wolfie and asked him out for a drink and catch-up. I hadn't seen him in a while, and he was open to a meet-up, so off I went. Unfortunately, old acquaintances remembered things I hoped were forgotten, and Wolfie reminisced about them, much to my chagrin. It was bad enough that back at Sheila's, she was producing evidence of childhood incidents I had spent decades blaming on HER.
One thing about veteran reporters: they know everyone's business. I knew Wolfie knew about things in the U.K. news business that I did not. I was ripe for some gossip, but he wasn't. No, instead, he was more interested in bringing up our trip to Scotland with Weasil many years ago, and that was painful. During that trip, he disappeared on me several times because he had enough Weasil and needed to recharge, leaving me with the young whippersnapper.
The only things I remember now are that he and I drank a lot, because we were driven to it by the Weasil's antics. So a lot of it was a haze, but I did remember that no matter how buzzed I was, the Wolf never got in that condition. He was always sharp, no matter how many Scotchs we had. So he remembered things I did not. He enjoyed watching me facial expressions as he brought up Weasil shenanigans that were perpetrated on me without me realising most of them.
The one-sided conversation was enlightening to say the least. I felt like wringing Weasil's neck if I could only get a hold of that slippery character.
 |
| Proof to Weasil that Wolfie and I met up AND he told me everything! |
I was in Ireland to do a story on the rekindled Troubles. I had me interviews set up and asked Wolfie if he could get me access to his friend who worked for one of the big news agencies to be me photographer. He put in a call, and one Brendan was at me beck and call. Then I asked if he had an editor available, as I had a deadline and wanted everything I took back to Boston, polished and complete (to impress Cruella and me job security). Yes, he could arrange that too.
We went over to where he used to work (he's retired), and he got us in. I met an Editor who was accommodating of what I wanted, but he communicated entirely in terms of deadlines.
"All right, Mr. O'Sullivan, you bring in your copy by 2. Corrections by 2:30, photos by 3:00, headline finalised by 3:30, we'll get it rolling for Boston by 4 and if your story misses any of those, tomorrow's apology is due before sunrise."
I stood there speechless. OK.
Later, Wolfie told me he was joking, but I don't think he was.
The Chief Editor introduced me to the copy editor, a bespectacled woman who was all business. She'd take care of me. Wolfie took me aside after and said, "She notices every misplaced comma, but never notices where she left her glasses."
Oh, goody, one of those. While she was chatting with us, Wolfie felt inclined to mention I was an expat and told her not to divulge too many secrets of the trade. I know he was joking, but she looked like he was not. Uh oh, I thought, me copy might have more commas than normal and read as something totally unrecognisable. This raised me tension level to the point that I might not make the deadline.
As we were leaving, we went by the sports desk, and wow, what a loud bunch. I thought the group at me newspaper was bad; these guys were louder than all the Boston guys combined. I even glanced to see if THEY had folders, and no, no, they did not. They had the same crushed and rolled-up paper balls strewn all over the place. A few were tossing them like basketballs at trash bins.
We met up with Brendan, and Wolfie left us to the assignment at hand. I did notice the photographer seemed to be in the wrong place until the perfect moment. He had a knack for seemingly wandering not too far, but far enough to give me angst that he wouldn't get the photo I wanted.
By the end of the day, Brendan had somehow managed to photograph exactly what I needed without ever seeming to be where I wanted him. The copy editor had removed enough commas to build a small picket fence (I got nervous and comma-ed everything just about), the editor barked another three possible deadlines at me, and finally me and the story were ready to wing our way to Boston.
I thanked everyone for the help and later said to Wolfie, "You've got a fine operation here."
"Aye," he said. "We try."
I paused before adding, "You know, this whole trip wasn't exactly what I expected."
"Ni?"
"I came home expecting comfort, nostalgia and maybe a bit of professional admiration."
"What did you get?"
"A sister producing evidence of crimes I'd successfully blamed on her for years . . . a friend reminding me of every embarrassing thing I'd forgotten . . . and an editor who measures time in thirty-minute increments."
Wolfie grinned.
"Sounds like home to me."
The annoying thing was, he was right.
I flew back to Boston with a good story, a notebook full of interviews, and several fresh reasons to hunt down Weasil. Unfortunately, Weasil has always possessed an almost supernatural instinct for disappearing just before justice catches up with him.
I'm beginning to suspect that's how he has lived this long.
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