Remembering Jim

The Hirshfeld Centre was damaged by fire in 1987. So what better use could there be for the charred remains than to house the chain-smoking, smouldering passions and incendiary tempers of a crowd of FÁS-funded GCN production staff? Those cracks in the facade were less the result of fire and more the result of the office door being repeatedly slammed as we stormed, raged or flounced out of the office.

One morning in 1994 the door opened gently for a change and a shy, dark-haired young man came in for the first time. This was Jim. Our eyes met over the top of a green filing cabinet.

I was naturally quieter and shyer and as such had been consigned to a life in the archives. However, like many of my colleagues I contained hidden shallows and thus it was lust at first sight.

Jim’s first job that morning was to ring round our advertisers. He sat next to me and I continued melting with each, “eh – excuse me?” whenever he couldn’t catch what they said to him. Although I never heard him sound so polite ever again, the deal was done and I was smitten.

We sort of danced around each other in those early months. It was clear that our feelings were mutual but neither of us dared to say, let alone do anything about them. On quiet afternoons we would sit around Larry’s desk poring over the personal small ads, which he was in charge of, trying to match each other up with someone else while inwardly sighing, “Choose me!”

From his shy start, Jim grew in confidence and his intelligence, unsentimental outlook, passionate championing of each and every underdog and sharp and irreverent sense of humour marked him out as a talented and sensitive writer.

Eventually I could stand it no longer. We found ourselves alone in the coffee room one day, wreathed in Brief Encounteresque steam from the Burco water heater which was kept continually on the boil and I said something like, “Before we all grow up, get married and have kids, do you fancy going out for a date?”

So, our first date turned out to be a pub quiz at The George. When our table won (neither of us ever win anything) we knew that this was something special. I carried him home in my teeth and made spag bol. The rest is history.

Earlier this week I played my whistle at his funeral service because I knew I wouldn’t be able to say anything. We loved being ‘us’ – and we were right: It was something special. Thank you GCN for giving me the chance to say something about those far offdays. And thank you Jim for opening that battered door into my life just when you did.