o tempera o morons

The tired Polish waitress at the counter in Yum Yums Cafe in Naas glanced past me.
Her face brightened.
Briefly she became more radiant than the angels.
"Naily," she breathed. "Hello Naily."
I turned.
The Irish international footballer Niall Quinn was standing behind me in the queue.
I didn't snort.
Not out loud.
I spiritually snorted.
Naily indeed. Evidently a regular customer. He greeted her jocosely enough with that insufferable bonhomie of the moderately famous.
Now get this.
The waitress had been taking an order from Ireland's greatest living poet and finding nothing to get too radiant about.
Then lo.
Six Draws McGraw walks in the door and the sun comes out.
Shaking my head at the unfairness of it all, I returned to my table where the Mammy was waiting.
I began to engage her in a discursive and entertaining manner about my latest experiences in the pop music industry.
Presently I noticed the venerable parent's attention seemed to be elsewhere.
"Liller," sez I, "what are you looking at?"
"Niall Quinn is sitting at the table behind you," said the Mammy.
This time the snort with which I replied existed in time and space and decibels.