apologia pro snots mea

Achooooooooooooo.
The sound filled the Whitewater Centre cafe.
The Mammy eyed me with less sympathy than you might expect.
"You could snot for Ireland," sez she.
Teenage sexors at an adjoining table adjusted their undulating limbs on the twirly seats and favoured me with their best patented cool assessive stares.
With the measured dignity of a poet under pressure, I withdrew a handkerchief from my pocket and sounded the maritime alert through my honker.
All the while, my venerable mother kept up the chatter.
"What I don't understand," sez she, "is why you have to examine the results after you've blown your nose. What do you expect to see? Do you expect the snots to tell you well done?"
Ireland's greatest living poet shrugged sheepishly.
"You're a howl Mother," he murmured. "You should take the show on the road."