We at the outerly northern limits of the province take a justified pride in being every bit as up-to-speed on current events as any other Northern Irelander. So, intent on furthering this end, I was devouring a full-page Londonderry Sentinel story about how that newspaper broke the news of the 1879 Zulu rout at Rorke’s Drift when my eye fell upon the front page of another publication carelessly flung onto the kitchen floor. The headline contained the words ‘world’s oldest profession.’ I allowed myself a wry smile.

I remembered a time when I thought that the world’s oldest profession was carpentry I blame the Bible and the Christian Brothers in that order. There are many references to harlots and strumpets in the Bible. There had to be. There was a lot if it about at the time and, let’s face it, Sodom and Gomorrah weren’t exactly spa towns.

Thus were the Brothers faced with a dilemma. The words harlot, strumpet, hooker, whore and lady of the night don’t come easily to young Brothers from Cavan tasked with explaining things to 10-year-old boys.

So, whenever a section of the Bible referred to, say, Mary Magdalen’s day-job, the expression ‘world’s oldest profession’ was utilised and clutched at like a straw. But we were still none the wiser as to what the world’s oldest profession might possibly be.

I remember discussing it with a fellow schoolboy. He opined that it might be metalwork. I pointed out that Stone Age Man wasn’t called that for nothing. He switched to stone masonry. I laughed. I didn’t realise then that I had somehow mixed the whole business up with Joseph’s day-job. Don’t ask me how. Carpentry seemed old enough and respectable enough for Joseph to spend his time at it so I naturally thought that, as there had always been wood, there would always have been carpenters.

As time when on, I realised the error of my ways. Just as well. If I’d retained my original beliefs, I would now be amazed to read that up to three carpenters can work in a single house in Northern Ireland without having their collars felt by the PSNI. It turns out that ordinary people don’t like seeing hookers operating on their streets. Let me say this to these people: it’s not the end of the world.

When I was a child in the late 50s in Stroke City, a swarm of prostitutes gathered at the top of our street on a nightly basis. And a fine body of girls they were, too. Not the most beautiful girls in the world, I have to admit, but, nevertheless, not the ugliest either. They assembled at the top of our street to intercept the sailors who were on shore leave and on their way back to the ship after the pubs.

I know that, to the casual reader, this sounds like vice, but I don’t think it did me any harm to witness goings-on of this nature. Let’s just say it prepared me for later life. The girls liked me, you see.

I was probably no more than 11 and habitually did the chip run. My mother would send me to Maggie Friel’s chip shop with a deep Delph bowl accompanied by what used to be called a tea-towel. I would purchase a vesselful of the finest greasy chips and cover them with the cloth to retain whatever heat remained from exposure to the elements. The girls would eagerly wait for my return from the chip shop. They knew that I would part in the name of philanthropy.

We chatted as a small number of the chips were consumed. I must confess that I do not remember a harsh or lewd word. I can safely report that I was uncorrupted. I became merely knowing, not corrupted.

I often think that more young boys should give chips and talk to hookers. It readys them for trials to come. I came to understand the girls rather than blindly condemn their behaviour.

There were, of course, unavoidable instances of questionable behaviour. Once, seeing one of the ladies in a doorway with her clothes somewhat in disarray, I noticed that she was idly munching her own personal bag of chips whilst dully staring into the middle distance.I sensed that something was amiss. “What’s wrong?” sez I. She seemed startled by my sudden appearance. “’Oh!” she exclaimed, pulling herself together. “Has the wee sailor gone?” He was indeed. Long gone…..