A RUSTY TIN CAN AND AN OLD HURLEY BALL. It's early -- but how early? I guess an hour less early thanks to Daylight Saving Time. But that doesn't matter -- hell, it's wonderful. DST is another of the harbringers of Spring -- like the weird patches we've been having of warm weather. It's cold at the moment, damp and cold, but we've been reminded by the warm spells, and now by this clock-spin, that the cold always passes, and that the hissing of the radiators will soon enough give way to the voice of the turtle. We know, here in a City as eternal as the change of seasons, that no matter how awful things seem, and so matter how sad I may often feel, soon there'll be sidewalk cafes crammed with happy citizens, rollerbladers, rolled-down cab windows, and shirts open at the throat. Maybe that's why I was especially happy to bash a borrowed guitar at a friend's dinner party last night as the boys and girls sang old rock songs, and to come home afterwards and play till dawn the Pogues, and to hear again that glorious old drunk sing about daybreak in another great city,

For it's stupid to laugh and it's useless to bawl
About a rusty tin can and an old hurley ball
Take my hand, and dry your tears, babe
Take my hand, forget your fears, babe
There's no pain, there's no more sorrow
They're all gone, gone with the years, babe
So I watched as day was dawning
Where small birds sang and leaves were falling
Where we once watched the rowboats landing
By the broad majestic Shannon