Sunday, April 1, 2012


I know Sonny won't be happy with this description but I'm get the whiff of human infestation dwelling between my walls again. For a recluse that's never a good thing.
Like back in the days when Mattie was here. And Mitch. And Bamber. And Charlie. Even old Mum. A kinda council-estate version of the playboy mansion - without the playboy. He's three-years gone next week. How times fly.

Relations at Sonny's gaf have broken down. Sonny's missus, Amanda, wants to give it on more stab. Sonny's decided, after playing the fool for so long, that he's had enough.
"We can make this work,' she'd said with one breath - confessing to another affair with the other.
He stayed here last night before heading down to the pub around two in the afternoon. For his lunch. He hasn't been back since. He's either over there now on his knees, saying he lost his mind and he'd share her, or he's on a right old Sunday bender. Leon loved those benders.

I fell asleep watching Enda's speech at the Fine Gael Ard Theis last night. Hardly instilled a confidence in much, did it? Over half the country didn't pay the Household Charge. Alan Shatter told people protesting the charge to 'get a life.'
Phil Hogan sounds like a sheriff from an old western - offering rewards to local authorities for collecting the tax off rogue citizens.
Frankie Bronson would have loved that job! Debt Collector. Back in his rogue days as a undercover everything. Wonder how he getting on in Oz?

Gustav next door called me in this morning. He'd been back up on Haunted Hill doing more shooting.
'Come. I show you,' he shouted in the letterbox before leaping back over the wall that separates our front gardens. I was still in my dressing gown - or morning robe, as I prefer to say on a Sunday. After coffee and croissants - and a big dirty fry.
I took a wander out into the grounds, hopped the wall and followed Gustav into his house.

'What you think of this?' he asked, blessing himself. He must be a Christian of some description. I took a close look. Then closer.
'Looks like a bud fruiting,' I said.
'Look closer,' he said handing me a magnifying glass. I looked closer.
'Still looks like a bud fruiting,' I said.
'You blind Irish fool,' he said. Now hold on a minute...
'April fools,' he laughed. "Look again. We could have new Ballinspittle on our hands,' he said, softening my initial vein-busting reaction to the 'fool' accusation.
I may very well be one, but I don't need reminding of it from a foreign photographer on a Sunday morning. Even on the day that's in it.
'You and me,' he continued. 'Partners in crime!'

It was then I saw the near empty bottle of vodka over by the sink. That was it. He was drunk! Holds it well I must say. There's only a dribble left in the bottle.
'Yeah sure,' I said. ' We'll talk about it during the week.' I told him that I'd to visit me Mum above at her new residence and needed to rush off.
'I come up with a plan,' he shouted after me as I left. Being in that state on a Sunday morning. Really! What's Ireland come too?

Still no sign of Sonny. He must have went home. Think I'll lock up for the night. Not that there is much worth robbing here. Back in our day it was an open house. Nobody locked doors. Everybody knew one another. Not anymore.
'Bygone days,' as me old granddad used to say.
I do wonder at times how we ended up as we are. How swift we sold Ireland out. Even if we had to bailout the established order - we don't deserve the constant jibes from government ministers as thanks for doing it.
There must be a right good sneer going-on somewhere. Maybe over at Phil Hogan's penthouse suite in Portugal?

It's like this upcoming treaty. Damned if we do - damned if we don't. Short-term gain for long- term pain or short-term pain for ???
I just can't work out the last part of that equation. I was never any use at Maths. In political circles the gravy train is a national scandal at this stage. The promises of change now just waning whispers of a forgotten general election campaign just one short year ago. Now be drowned out forever under the weight of treaty debate. There's no change coming from that quarter anytime soon.

'Just get on with it,' as Mum used to say. Frail as a petal now. I'm glad the sun is out. Glad she has a big window to let it shine in on her. Grazing in through those drapes that blend in with those magnolia walls. She's being well looked after despite the decor. That's the main thing.
She sticks her tongue in and out sometimes when a little bird stops on the sill. I saw a picture of her once as a child doing the same thing. Her and Gerty. Arms around each other. It's lying around here somewhere.

I'll give Sonny another twenty minutes. Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Ballinspittle. What was that drunken fool on about?

1 comment:

  1. Fact or fiction, you slice life wonderfully. Beautifully done.