For starters, at this late hour on this particular day, I am stone cold sober. Never a specific need of a reason, and without guarantee that sometime after the clock strikes again, it all behooves me to make this quick, at least under 45 minutes. More for the time stamp than the bottle, mind you.
No, my grandfather's nickname was Paddy for some reason, perhaps because he drank, I couldn't say; and it is also doubtful I would have understood an explanation, as French as he was. And on the other side, German, though lineage does indicate some Anglo in there somewhere. So I will leave it by stating a distaste for green brews.
And I suppose I should be grateful that a more formal moniker was attached, although the shortened version readily rhymes in the ten-year old mind. I was not built for speed. But young minds test fate, and misjudge patience as passivity plus distance of a reach, the grasp of a bale-bucker. It ended soon enough.
I have a patch of hair quite lighter than the rest, and once the mind of others was developed enough to make associations, I acquired my own nick. "Spot." That was fine back then. But you know, you'll always be seventeen years old in your home town. Don't.
A certain level of sophistication occurred about the same time I decided I was going to be a poet or philosopher, still folks insist the shorter and familiar, family in particular. And farmers.
Today I have another name, one truer than than a button pleading, "Kiss Me! I'm Irish!" and answer to it readily. And in ten short days, if you see me, holler it loud, clearer than bells, and prepare to lose your green to me.