I can see it now. Fear it even.
I go to a pub for a meal.
And then one night, a month later, I’m sitting at home watching the telly when I suddenly notice flashing blue lights outside.
I pull back the curtains and see four Garda cars on the road.
I think I see figures stooping outside our garden gate.
I’m not sure.
But I’m not sure for long.
Because all of a sudden, there’s a bang on the front door.
“GARDA SIOCHÁNA. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP,” a voice screams in a country accent because proper gardai always have country accents.
I nervously open the front door.
There are guns pointed at me.
“Are you Paddy Murray?” a voice asks from behind a mask.
I confirm that I am.
“Did you eat in Brady’s of Terenure a month ago?”
I confirm that I did.
“We have a record of what you ate.”
I stare into space not sure what to do next.
“You had vegetable soup to start.”
I confirm that such is the case.
“Your main was steak Diane, potatoes and broccoli,” the voice said.
I tell the voice that he is correct.
“You had apple pie and ice cream for dessert.”
I confirm that that too is correct.
“I’m afraid we have to ask you to come with us.”
I get very worried. And I ask why.
“You didn’t eat your broccoli,” the voice said.
“But…” I begin to protest.
“Yet you had dessert. You know very well, you don’t get dessert unless you eat your vegetables. Your mother told you that.”
I admit what I did.
And I’m handcuffed and put in the garda van.
I’m thinking, God knows when I’ll see my family again.
And then I wake up.