golden moments
Evening at the chateau de Healy.
I'm sitting in an armchair in the front room.
From the kitchen the dulcet tones of my aged parents drift to my ears.
It is the eve of their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
"You're obsessed," the Dad is saying.
"No I'm not," sez the Mammy.
"You're obsessed with three things," sez the Dad.
"What are you on about?" sez the Mammy.
The Dad endeavours to explain.
"You're obsessed with the bin," he proclaims.
(He has a point there. She is constantly ordering us to bring the bin to the end of the avenue where the refuse people collect it. Then she issues an order to bring back the bin. Then she normally has a few jollies over the course of the week between refuse collections, telling us to bring things out to the bin. Or in from the bin. Or whatever. Hours of endless fun.)
"You're obsessed with the banks," continues the Dad.
(Again he has a point. The Mammy is no fan of the great banking institutions of the Republic of Ireland. She misses no opportunity to excoriate them. For their corruption. Their incompetence. Their rudeness. The problem for the rest of us in the Healy family is that my sister in law Jackie, who is married to my brother Tom, is a senior manager with Allied Irish Bank. Jackie is also the one who arrives at the chateau most days to serve up dinner for us. She is also the one who gives the best Christmas presents, ie ones that actually cost money. She's also the one who remembers birthdays and makes 'em worthwhile. I'm referring to cash again. Listen bold readers. You don't want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. But you get my drift.)
"And you're obsessed with my plant," cries the Dad, ending with a ring of triumph in his voice.
(Ah. This last was a cry from the heart. The dad has installed some sort of a fern on the kitchen window sill. It has been there for a year. The Mammy likes it less than the banks and refers to it more often than the bin.)
After the Dad has finished listing the Mammy's obsessions, there is silence for a moment.
Just for a moment.
"That bloody plant," snorts the Mammy. "It's taking over the place."
She chooses not to dignify the other charges with a response.
Instead she joins me in the front room, where it is the work of an instant to evict me from the armchair and seize the television controls.
"Did you hear your man?" quoth she. "He's as mad as a brush."
I'm sitting in an armchair in the front room.
From the kitchen the dulcet tones of my aged parents drift to my ears.
It is the eve of their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
"You're obsessed," the Dad is saying.
"No I'm not," sez the Mammy.
"You're obsessed with three things," sez the Dad.
"What are you on about?" sez the Mammy.
The Dad endeavours to explain.
"You're obsessed with the bin," he proclaims.
(He has a point there. She is constantly ordering us to bring the bin to the end of the avenue where the refuse people collect it. Then she issues an order to bring back the bin. Then she normally has a few jollies over the course of the week between refuse collections, telling us to bring things out to the bin. Or in from the bin. Or whatever. Hours of endless fun.)
"You're obsessed with the banks," continues the Dad.
(Again he has a point. The Mammy is no fan of the great banking institutions of the Republic of Ireland. She misses no opportunity to excoriate them. For their corruption. Their incompetence. Their rudeness. The problem for the rest of us in the Healy family is that my sister in law Jackie, who is married to my brother Tom, is a senior manager with Allied Irish Bank. Jackie is also the one who arrives at the chateau most days to serve up dinner for us. She is also the one who gives the best Christmas presents, ie ones that actually cost money. She's also the one who remembers birthdays and makes 'em worthwhile. I'm referring to cash again. Listen bold readers. You don't want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. But you get my drift.)
"And you're obsessed with my plant," cries the Dad, ending with a ring of triumph in his voice.
(Ah. This last was a cry from the heart. The dad has installed some sort of a fern on the kitchen window sill. It has been there for a year. The Mammy likes it less than the banks and refers to it more often than the bin.)
After the Dad has finished listing the Mammy's obsessions, there is silence for a moment.
Just for a moment.
"That bloody plant," snorts the Mammy. "It's taking over the place."
She chooses not to dignify the other charges with a response.
Instead she joins me in the front room, where it is the work of an instant to evict me from the armchair and seize the television controls.
"Did you hear your man?" quoth she. "He's as mad as a brush."
posted by heelers | 2:32 AM
2 Comments:
Ah, the Mammy, she's right of course, the bins need managing, the banks are all corrupt and you can't be having with a fern that takes over the place, for pity's sake, you already have aliens, you'll be having the triffids too before long. You boys should NOT be arguing with the Mammy.
Ha ha ha ha.
These posts are amazing. Everyone of them about your family and schneewittchen is so right! Ha ha ha
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