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Interludes

Afternoon in Dublin for Italian lesson with Angela. She's been my teacher for a year. She arrived gorgeous as ever. The most beautiful girl I know. And the last one I would entertain any romantic feelings for. Mainly because I trust her as I would adders fanged. Let me put it this way. I've always had the feeling she'd willingly knock me over the head for fifty bucks. That is, if she for a moment in her villainous little heart of hearts, believed I had fifty bucks.
But I digress.
She's a genuinely superb teacher.
We have our lessons in a cafe.
Today she sang some sort of a love song in the halflight of the cafe.
It was part of the lesson.
She would sing a line and then translate it.
Some classic lyrics...
"I want to grasp you to my bosom. I want you to see me as you have never seen me before."
The effect of this nonsense coupled with Angela's hypnotic brown eyes was a tad startling.
All this time I've simply considered her a villain who happened also to be a very good teacher of Italian.
All this time I was sure I had her figured out.
All this time I felt in no danger at all.
I still don't know if I was wrong about Angela. But I just may have been wrong about myself.
Later in the day met Hodders for coffee at Starbucks. We drove to Kilcullen and collected some of her clothes and books which I'd housed for the past year. Back to Dublin to deposit them in her apartment. We drank tea and watched television for a few hours.
I got home again to Kilcullen around 2am. Dropped over to Uncle Bernard's to see Aunty Marie. She was in bed. Aunty Eileen, who has been minding her, was still up. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw me at the window.
"You won't believe this," she said when she'd calmed down. "I just thought of you five minutes ago. I thought to myself: One of these nights James is going to arrive at the window and scare the wits out of me."
I told Eileen that this thought had actually been her guardian angel letting her know I was on the way.
We had coffees. She told me she could see Marie was fading fast and asked had I noticed. I said no.
Outside beneath the most splendid array of stars I asked the Lord for a miracle.
Back home to do some arteekling. Dawn rising before I got to bed. I took some photos. The sky was striated gold. I felt the pulse of artistic purpose.
This is why I live.

Scottish Git Gone

The flying haggis has left.
The Managing Director, aka Big Bad Montie Stalwart, is gone.

Gone!
And hath not left his peer.
Who would not weep for Stallie?
He knew himself to weep,
And sink the occasional beer...

Well, you know what I mean.
An email from Sneeran informed me of Duns Scrotus's departure. The email was curt enough but careful enough.
I was not fooled. Poor sad doltish Sneeran is always at his most dangerous when he's being polite.
The paper came out today. Only three of my photos published out of sixty submitted last week. Twee alterations to one of my arts reviews as well. So that's how he's going to play it.
Sneeran must be very upset to be losing the haggis.
Although, let's face it, the haggis despised him
The most undignified moment at our last little meeting chez Stallie, came when the editor mixed up some photocopies he'd kept of my emails.
Stalwart glowered at him.
And Sneeran said in a little boy voice: "I'm sorry Montie."
For all my own troubles, I realised at that moment that I wouldn't swop with either of them.
Not with the thuggish MD. Not with the cowardly editor.
Both prisoners of their own device.
Both fairly contemptible human beings.
Both lousy really.
But perhaps I'm not the most objective judge.
(The email of mine which Stalwart had expected old witless to produce on queue included the classic line: "I made it clear to you that you were not to use bullying language in your dealings with me. I used terminology even a dullard could understand. Apparently I overestimated your IQ."
Ah memories...)
Now we face a new reality.
At least it's newish.
Even without Stalwart to hold his hand, a certain shambling weasel is still editor.
But we may be forgiven for allowing ourselves a wry smile at Scotty's departure.
One bastard down, one to go.

Rang Bianca in Napoli this afternoon. Her mischievous musical voice cheered me immensely. Also photographed my two year old nephew Ryan at the piano. Rather pleased with the result.
Most stylish and sensuous Chinese girl in the library looking on me with great favour. I was conscious of the feeling that I want to love the girl not the accoutrements.I mean not her designer glasses, or her clothes, or her shoes.
Now I'm in Starbucks Cafe. I can see the facade of Trinity College from where I sit. Of course with Trinity College, everything is a facade.
Arf, arf.
If I had a humour column I'd use that last remark in it.
Ah me I fondly dream.
Hey folks.
Stalwart is gone.
The tide turns at low water as well as at high.

"Dishonesty in the racing industry? Don't look at me guv."