a day in the life

Woke fitfully in the morning. Could hear the Mammy on the phone. Talking to the cops. Some Superintendant keeps ringing the house wanting to chat about the complaint I lodged last month. The Mammy told him I'd ring back later.
Lunchtime trip to Newbridge for beverages at the Whitewater Centre. The posse includes my sister Yogic Marie, my brother Doctor Barn, and a certain venerable parent known as the Lildebeest. (Aka the Mammy.)
We quaff coffees merrily for an hour.
Then I bid them adieu.
Dublin.
I walk in crowded streets savouring the anonymity amid the throng. Suddenly it seems I am seeing a different crowd. This one is parting to let me pass. The faces are turned towards me with recognition. It is a vision of my future fame.
I walk on down Grafton Street smiling to myself like a loon.
And lo!
There is a pulse in the universe.
An impression of femininity, style and angular beauty.
It's her.
Nicola is peering in the window of a bookshop. She hasn't seen me. She looks smart, svelte and sexy in a blue business suit. I like this look. It's a good look for her.
I stand and do not approach. A thought strikes me. It's about 2 o'clock. She'll be heading back to work.
What sort of a man follows a woman around Dublin just to find out where she works?
Here I am folks.
We walk about half a mile.
She is a good way ahead of me. I see her enter a building on Dame Street. After ten minutes she still hasn't emerged.
I walk up to the building. It is dingy enough in the classic Dublin style and appears to house four separate businesses.
Each one has an entrance leading off from the same foyer.
I enter the foyer and examine the names of each business.
A stairwell leads towards a legal firm on the top floor. Another goes to a hairdressing salon. On the ground floor itself, there is a restaurant. And close to the restaurant entrance there is yet another stairwell leading down to the basement where a painted sign proclaims the delights of the Diamond Eyes Lap Dancing Club.
Which of these does she work for?
I am momentously intrigued.
Back to the Starbucks cafe near Trinity College for a rendezvous with a young film producer called Giovanna.
We pass a few hours in sublime discourse.
She gives the nod to putting my opus magnus Vampires Of Dublin into preproduction for a film.
Just for a month to see how far we get.
We shake on the deal.
So now I'm a producer. No. She's the producer. I'm more a sort of mogul. Like Samuel Goldwyn or Paddy Melia. Although clearly I'm not as rich as Mr Goldwyn or as megalomaniacal as Mr Melia.
Me and Giovanna end up back at her apartment where we watch the aliens DVD. (I mean the Dad's footage of the Kilcullen lights, not the well known film Aliens by that other mogul James Cameron.)
Gio Gio's flatmate Mareen is there.
Mareen is all action.
Buxom, German, very pretty, with lustrous dark hair which she chews while sending me challenging stares.
Apparently chewing your hair is considered highly erotic down Germany way.
It sure as hell works for me.
Mareen is also interesting for being the most politically incorrect person I've ever met. She averages one thoroughly inappropriate remark every two minutes. An average which exceeds even my own. But she's thoroughly charming too and I am quite bowled over by her, which amuses Gio Gio no end.
"Be careful," she whispers.
I've no idea what she means.
Late in the evening I head back to Starbucks for a last coffee. I sit at the window rereading my favourite bit of the Vampires of Dublin.
My favourite bit is where the Arnold Schwarzeneggar character bursts in with a machine gun and turns Dracula's beautifully ruined castle into an absolutely ruined ruined castle.
Anyhoo.
Sitting in Starbucks, watching the lights from the evening traffic rushing by in the dark. A young man with a goatee beard and pale watery eyes at an adjoining table leans over.
"Are you a writer?" sez he.
I tell him I am, and wait for a series of flattering questions about my work.
He produces a sheaf of papers.
"Will you read these and give me an honest opinion?" sez he.
Ah yes bold readers. It was a Kodak moment.
The young writer's name was Dylan Neeson, by the way.
He will go far.
It is night as I return to Kilcullen.
Paddy Pup is waiting at the door of the old Chateau de Healy, barking joyously, tail waving like a banner.
The Dad serves up a chicken dinner which Paddington helps me to demolish.
Time for half an hour watching Seinfeld, but it's an episode where they're making fun of the elderly and I'm not bothered with it.
Paddy Pup brings me for a walk.
Dog and handsome poet head out across the ancient fields.
I'm keeping a weather eye out for any passing UFOs but there's nothing.
Back at the Chateau.
It's well after midnight.
I enter the bathroom. Time for some ablutions. I lock the door. The key breaks in the lock. I call the Dad.
The Dad is watching Fox News. (He never watches Sky because he thinks it's anti Israeli. He calls it Skybollah.) My cries bring him running.
I inform him I'm locked in.
He does some quick thinking.
"I'll have to break the door down," he muses, sounding a tad pleased at the whole situation.
He begins to attack the door. The noise is deafening. He's got an axe and a hammer and God knows what else.
I have a shave at the sink.
The Dad is hammering at the door still.
I have a shower.
There is a tremendous banging at the door.
Hairwash.
Cataclysmic banging.
I lean out of the shower.
"Whatever you do don't hurt yourself," I call.
There is a grunt and the apocalyptic banging recommences.
Presently all is silent. I get dressed. The door is still intact. I can hear the Dad on the phone. He is talking to my brother businessman Tom.
Tom arrives in minutes.
"James," he says. "Stand back from the door."
He doesn't have to tell me twice.
I'm already sheltering in the shower. I may be a loon but I'm not stupid.
There is a crash.
The door disintegrates.
Tom is the hard man of the family.
He only had to hit it once. (He probably only had to look at it.)
I am effusive in my gratitude.
"Thanks brother," sez I. "If I still had a humour column I'd put you in as special guest star."
The brother departs.
The Dad heaves a meditative sigh surveying the debris, and goes to make a cup of tea. He is not at all upset. In fact he seems utterly contented with the proceedings.
The Mammy, in keeping with her policy developed during our UFO sightings, has stayed in bed throughout the entire shenanigans.
And now bold travellers of the internet, gentle Genevieve in Tennessee, perceptive Schneewittchen in Canada, insightful Mr Kearins in Minnesota, sweet Chamki in India, poetic Mr Griffin in Cork, invectival Scrapper in Boston, political Richard in South Kildare, now my dear intrepid friends, I too must bid you goodnight.
I'm going to sleep for a week.