“What’s that?” said Angie over breakfast on Monday morning as the rain tip-tapped down and the last of the leaves were blown away.

"What's what?" answered Vinny Fitzpatrick, his potato-shaped head buried in the sports section of the paper.

“That fuzzy thing on your lip. It looks kind of weird. Make sure you wash it off.”

In reply, Vinny rustled the newspaper. He broke away from the racing results to peer at his wife in indignation.

“This ‘fuzzy thing, as you call it, is my moustache, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said testily. “I’m growing one for Movember. So are the lads. Everyone is doing it. It’s part of male health awareness.”

Angie ran her long fingers through her dark mane, threw her head back and laughed.

“Vinny, come on. You couldn’t grow a ’tache if you put down fertiliser. Go upstairs when you’re done here and tidy yourself up, there’s a good boy.”

The taunts stung Vinny, and he felt his cheeks bloom. He was tempted to rebuke Angie but he counted to ten and let the moment pass.

For starters, he didn’t want to have a row, not after the traumatic year they’d had, and also because a part of him knew Angie was right about the lack of growth up top.

Vinny had always been florid of skin and was the last recruit in his class in St Joeys to start shaving. When he finally got around to it aged 17½, he’d heard the more he shaved the quicker the stubble would grow.

At one point he was shaving twice a day, morning and evening, but all that led to was nicks of blood and a blotchy face peppered with tiny bits of tissue.

Thrown down

He’d often wondered what trick of physiognomy had left him with hair all over his back and shoulders, like a runaway wisteria, but unable to grow a decent whisker on his chops.

When the gauntlet was thrown down by Brennie over the Halloween Weekend in Foley’s, Vinny had been as enthusiastic as any of the crew. He had visions of being a walking, talking, billboard for men’s health.

It was Vinny who suggested they go further and pony up a nifty-50 for the Movember Foundation – he'd even got Old Man Foley to match their accumulated €300.

Charlie Vernon came up with half a dozen yellow tee-shirts emblazoned with a handlebar ’tache and a catch phrase ‘Do MOre For Men’s Health’. They agreed to wear them every Sunday through November and compare growths over their usual quota of pints.

Already, it was clear that Vinny was in danger of being tailed off, and the month was only in its infancy. Two-Mile Boris, their chess-playing pal from Russia, was way out in front already with a bushy walrus-style effort.

Macker had a thin Lee Van Cleef 'tache in place, Fran was sprouting a tidy salt n'pepper version akin to Fulton Mackay in Porridge, while Charlie Vernon was half-way to a 'Dapper Dan' special. Even Brennie had a march on Vinny, with a reddish-brown design that was responding to the whip.

Vinny’s wispy effort was pathetic. The few hairs on his upper lip were of indefinite shape, hue and lacked consistency. If there was a Great Shave Off, he’d be the first one eliminated.

While the lads were publicly offering encouragement, Vinny knew what the real story was. But it still stung that his missus had stuck her oar in.

A walk

With a large harrumph, he folded his newspaper, and stood up from the breakfast table. “If you don’t mind clearing up Angie, I’m going out for a walk. Catch you later.”

The morning was wild and woolly, even more so on the Clontarf seafront, but it didn’t bother Vinny. If anything, he liked it when the weather was acting up.

He headed for the Star of the Sea shrine at the end of the Bull Island Wall. The exposed causeway was no place for anything that wasn’t held fast, but proved no problem for Vinny’s waddling bulk.

He considered his plight with the 'tache. He long suspected he would never cultivate a growth like Omar Shariff, Burt Reynolds, Tom Selleck or even George Clooney in 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?'

By the end of the month, God only knew what type of wriggling apparition might lie on his upper lip – it might even resemble one of Sinbad’s slithery offspring.

For the remainder of the month he’d be the butt of Angie’s jokes, and the subject of ceaseless slagging by the lads. He had a choice. He could ride out the ribbing or cut his losses and remove the offending fluff from his upper lip. To fight or flee?

As he looked across the city he loved with all his heart, he knew what his old man Finbarr would have done? He’d have stood his ground.

On the walk back home, there was a briskness and sense of purpose about the burly bus driver as he swung his arms and lengthened his stride.

Mental note

“What was it Da used to say? Oh yeah, ‘Quitters never win and winners never quit.’ Well, that’s me,” he said to himself.

As he arrived home, he made a mental note to apologise to Angie for being so brusque earlier. “Hi love,” he said cheerily on his return.

Entering the kitchen, he saw a teary-eyed Angie sitting by the table, shaking uncontrollably. “What’s up, love?” he said rushing to his wife’s side.

Angie gripped her husband’s hand. “I’ve just been to see Bones Brogan. He found a lump, if not two,” she said in an alarmed tone. “I’ve to go to hospital for a scan. He thinks it might be cancer.”

As husband and wife held each other, there was a silence in Mount Prospect Avenue.

Tears streamed down Vinny’s face, some of which got caught on his upper lip; he didn’t have the heart to wipe them away.