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A month ago, I was crying on the bus after my shift. Today, I'm writing this. I don't even know exactly why I'm writing it. Probably because if I don't, I'll either explode or completely break down. Or both at the same time. I'm not the type to complain. I never was. My dad worked at the Ford plant in Cork until they shut it down. And he never moaned. My granddad worked on the docks; he lived through the worst times when everything was closing. He never complained either. That's not how it works around here. You work hard. You keep your head down. And you get on with it. But last night, on the bus home from work, I cried. I was just sitting by the window in my hi-vis jacket, absolutely filthy after twelve hours on the roads, and the tears just came on their own. Quietly. I turned my head to the window and hoped nobody saw. I don't know if they did. I didn't give a shite anyway. Here's what brought me to that point.��Who I am My name is Declan O'Connor. I'm 41 years old and I'm f
