The days are getting shorter. The nights are getting darker. The seasons are passing quicker. And it’s that time of year again. ‘That ad’ is playing again, the dead-of-night scene always reminding me of the hibernatory sleep that a Christmas break should, in theory, bring. If only the lights would go off.

‘Do you still write The Thursday Tipple?’ a friend who’s been away for a year texts me after he returns from a troubled place. God. It’s been longer than his stint overseas since I’ve penned a review. ‘Name the time and place,’ he offers. The blank canvas tantalises.

Strangely enough, ‘that ad’ runs through my mind virtually every morning. I cycle over Portobello Bridge ­­­­- a wonderful intersection point of pedestrians, cyclists, drivers and public transport providers; a structure where the old and new worlds of Rathmines fold into the technicoloured offering of ‘town’. When you cross it two drinking establishments catch the right eye. The Portobello Bar opened recently. Its predecessor had a bar at which I saw the same man sitting in the same seat drinking the same brew every evening as I cycled home for years. Some days I used stop to see if he actually moved, that he wasn’t some marketeer’s idea of a pint-drinking mannequin. He was indeed real, more an ad for retirement or playing the Lotto, or liver awareness. (He didn’t follow the new owners into the building.)

The second establishment is a few doors down at number 29 South Richmond Street: J O’Connell. It reminds me of ‘that ad’ because I had been sure that it was the sister-pub of J O’Connell immortalised by Guinness. If a book is to be judged by its cover, then this D8 pub was to be full of old men with more pints than teeth. It was to be a boozer that always had a locked gate covering its entrance by day because nobody would ever consider darkening the door of an already darkened pub any earlier than tea-time.

As November nudged thoughts of Christmas in my direction, I opted for number 29.

If a book isn’t to be judged by its cover, then I hereby decree all covers banned forevermore. Rather than pokey, the pub is spacious, its leather seating clean and bright (red and bright green, think a fusion of the House of Commons and the House of Lords). It is not full of old men lamenting the days when they needed dentists, but a nice mix of old and new, locals and professionals, or friends meeting for a few inconsequentials. Of a Thursday night there’ll be no shortage of space or low-decibels, to enable talk or thought. The helpful barmen will gladly ‘bring you over’ your pint, which, if black and white, won’t disappoint. The range of beers is similar to any other in town.

As for ‘that ad’, there is no connection between Dublin 8’s O’Connell’s and that in Skyrne Co. Meath . Both have history, both have pride in maintaining no-frills. The experience at the bridge also reminded me that at this time of year, at these time-pressured phases of in life, it’s important to find the time to seek out those old friends and re-fan the flame of friendship. Clouds race across the night skies. Time is marching on. Phone a friend. Get your coat and scarf on and get going. Don’t forget to keep the lights on. Happy Christmas.

Pint of Guinness: €6.20 (no charge for a dash of cordial in water; others may have done so!)