Sitting on the doorstep with the Mammy.
The day is going down in a haze of purple gold.
Why anyone should want to break this spell with conversation is beyond me.
Time and tide flows soft.
The aged parent stirs restlessly beside me.
"Why don't you join the golf club?" she proffers without warning.
She probably thinks I'm looking too relaxed by half. A question like this is a good test of the old Heelers blood pressure.
"Ulchh," I reply pleasantly.
Then I go on to outline in a few choice phrases my disaffection for golf in general and golf clubs in particular.
"You might like it," ventures the Lildebeest when I've finished. She is obviously enjoying herself.
This provokes an oration that has all the passion of a young George Washington. Slightly less coherent though.
"Yes," sez the mighty Heelers. "I really need to join a club where snobs gather to feel snobby together. Let's all support each other in our little pseudo conformist anodyne Irish Times reading, Tony O'Reilly worshipping world. Oh you're not wearing a tie. But you're in the tie wearing room. Who let you in here? Oh the humanity. It's the end of civilisation as we know it. Someone's let a low wage earner into our club. Oooh. I've never seen anything like it. And his car. Why it's eight years old."
The Mammy eyes me keenly.
"You really feel that strongly about it?" quoth she.
"Ulchhh," I say again, adding an extra h so she will be in no doubt that I mean it this time.
"Would you join if your brother was in it?" wonders the Lilyhammer.
A weary look creases my handsome features.
"I'm really not getting through to you, am I?" I murmur.
And there our story ends.