When I was a wee lad we
were just evolving from home
made bread to the replacement,
of a sliced pan,  an anaemic,
doughy, floppy, underbaked,
convenience versus caring type
of a society which has not abated.

I recall going to the Munster
final in Limerick, when Cork
were playing Tipperary. The
train stopped in Mallow, by
then, full of city fellows with
ham sandwiches wrapped in
the Evening Echo.

The reddish ham with mustard
was always visible at the cut side,
but as they began to burrow inwards,
the fatty rind made its debut.
Pulling with the teeth and holding
with the hands made it react like
elastic bands.

Milk in Bulmer's Cider bottles
with the twist cap that looked
like a spinning top, was used to
wash down the packed lunch
which was supposed to eaten at
half time.

The toilets, never enough of them,
had their own hurdle to negotiate.
Small, and never any water in the
tap, but always a wet seat from
an inability to be accurate during
the rat-a-tat-tat.

What was even more annoying,
was the glossy coated toilet paper
which would have been better off
wrapping the sandwiches, and why
no doubt those cute hures from Cork
brought yesterdays paper with them.