The North

Two men sit in a room across a well polished table looking out to an expanse of green through high windows.

"Another Jaffa Cake, Ian, to go with the Orange Pekoe?"

"No thank you, Martin. Herself the Baroness is at me to lose some more weight."

"Lord, you would not want to upset her now, she is a powerful woman."

"Martin, I would rather run naked down the Falls Road wearing a nipple ring and a green white and gold turban, drinking from a flagon of the devil's buttermilk!"

"I thought Gerry came up with a fine tribute to George Dawson. He has a way with the Gaelic that can sometimes bring a tear to these sad old eyes of mine.!"

"I didn't know you had such an appreciation of the Erse, Ian."

Each man falls into a companionable silence and looks out across the castle lawn as if into the future.

In the distance each can hear music.

Ian picks out the faint strains of a fife band playing 'The Sash' but Martin just hears the lilt of the uillean pipes as they flow through the notes of 'The Derry Air'.

And cut!