Heckled by blocks, bricks, stones.

In this wall I see centuries of history: the original red sand-stone of the port's first big expansion, the red-brick emendments of industrialisation, the make-and-do concrete-block gap-filling, post-Independence. As I walked the city this evening, I noticed all the For Let signs like a toxic algal bloom spreading over buildings. I only spotted this wall as I detoured away from a raucous bunch of under-dressed teenage girls getting locked on cheap naggins: but this route took me past middle-aged street-people partying on acid-cider. They heckled me as I snapped the Blip. For Let signs and cheap drinking, that's what our streets are now. Yet, as sean-nós singing seems to me to be the voice of ancestors prevailing, this wall carries layers of history; literally. We will prevail, patched up maybe, but the emendations will be as mere tremulous grace-notes from our hoarse throats.