Granny Doyle squinted at the video in front of her. 'Ah, you didn't need to be bothering with this nonsense! ... Would you look at the cut of them!' Granny Doyle said, examining the box. 'Yer man Flatley prancing about in leather pants and that one beside him, flailing her arms about like she's drowning! It's a great gladness that Mammy didn't have to see this like!'
... John Paul loved the craic and the chat of the porch: the jokes with Mrs Nugent and the challenge of making Mrs McGinty smile and the treat of seeing Granny Doyle happy ... The porch brought insulation, chat that could swaddle her, while she sat quiet enough in the middle, content to pass the day discussing the gall of Fiona Brennan (parading about in poms, as if she invented Irish dancing!) and the cheek of a Divorce Referendum (it couldn't pass!) and the general goodness of John Paul (a great lad, isn't he? John Paul was a great lad, at least in the porch, where he liked to see himself reflected in the eyes of the old ladies, a boy bringing presents to his grandmother, the kind of figure who might one day summon the future through smiles and dry ice, the breaths of audiences stolen clean from their bodies at the sight of such brilliance: a hero.