Dances With Wolves

Something on the news tonight about a jockey up in court for pinching air hostesses bottoms on a flight from London. This story cheered me up more than I care to admit.
The chap must have been one hell of an optimist.
Air hostesses are the most unattainable women in the western world.
And here he was going after more than one at a time with a strategy that surely throughout human history cannot have produced many positive results.
It was a grope and run.
Never known to work.
Not even at a race meeting.
Okay, okay.
Maybe in Russia. Yes maybe in the remoter ice bound regions of Russia and possibly parts of Outer Mongolia too, latching on to a buttock is still regarded as the heights of gallantry.
But everywhere else...
Yer man must have been congenitally insane.
I'm telling you even at the best of times air hostesses don't want to know.
The ones on Irish airlines are all suffering from Flying Hatchet Syndrome anyway. And the good looking ones on British Midland are all dating the pilots.
As far as passengers go, they've got a through put of 500 a day. So it's going to be hard for any of us to stand out. Whether it's a stylish quiff, a witty one liner or a bum clutch, they've seen it, heard it and felt it all before.
It is true that air hostesses may occasionally look nice, but this should not be interpreted as connoting availability in any shape or form.
Better to sit back and enjoy the flight.
Ye cannae change the laws of physics laddies.
'Nuff said.

meeting of worlds

The Plotters

Evening at the Chateau de Healy. Mammy Healy and my Yogic sister Marie are gathered round the kitchen table in conference. Enter Heelers stage left.
"Hello, hello, hello," sez I breezily. "What devilish schemes are you hatching?"
They eye me disdainfully.
It is a fairly impressive feat.
Simultaneous disdain.
"We are talking about having a Kris Kingle for Christmas this year," the Mammy informs me.
I look momentarily confused.
Marie proceeds to explain what a Kris Kingle is.
"It is a way of cutting down on Christmas present costs," quoth she. "Everybody in the house puts their name into a hat. We all draw a name. And we only have to buy a present for the name we draw."
Bloody hell.
So that's what they're at.
Trying to ruin Christmas.
Again.
Last year they came up with a plan to eat Christmas dinner at Marie's house. This year it's an ephin Kris Kingle.
Why do you mock me oh Lord, why do you mock me?

for mademoiselle eva boudard

break of day

leafen wood enwintered
by a soft ice surplice
fallen forth on timbers
in a fronded fretwork charabanc
that neath a network braided
steaming cattle breathed
earthen kingdoms frothed
into dying into life

on with the motley
rejoice rejoice

Strolling in the garden of my father after midnight. Paddy Pup is scuffling in a pile of dried leaves somewhere up ahead. Jessnut is at my heels. I can see stars through the branches. The constellation I call Orion's goat seems to be following us. I am savouring the illusion of a goat made of stars stepping lightly from tree top to tree top.
And so we go on.
Sheepdogs and James, alone in the garden with the night, the wind and the stars.