Sheridan's book has zoomed straight to the top of the Irish bestseller charts and has just been launched over here. Nothing could be further from the charming, bespectacled (and alas, no longer curly-haired) sophisticate I ran into in a Charlotte Street restaurant last week. THE ENDPAPERS of Peter Sheridan's memoir of growing up in Dublin show a seaside snap from the late Fifties of an angelic little boy with a Little Lord Fauntleroy-ish mass of blond curls, looking in amazement at the crab he is holding as he paddles, short-trousered, on the beach at Skerries, north County Dublin.
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