the honeymooners

Coffee with the Mammy in the Copper Kettle, a fashionable eatery on the southside of Kilcullen.
A thought strikes Ireland's greatest living poet.
"I wonder what Pauline's doing now," I murmur. "They're into their second week."
The Mammy nods meditatively.
"Sure why don't you give her a ring?" quoth she. "They're probably both bored out of their minds."
Pauline and Paul are honeymooning in the Outer Hebrides. Can they receive mobile phone calls from here to there? Do they want to?
It's the work of a moment to dial up the feminist cousin on my own mobile. No doubt she will be overjoyed to hear from me.
And lo!
Her phone is ringing.
And it's ringing.
Strangely she doesn't answer.
Presently it rings through to her voicemail.
Now gentle readers as a few of you have had the indupitable pleasure of finding out, I can become quite eloquent when conversing with a voicemail.
"Hey Pauline," sez I. "It's James. Just a few words of advice for that ould honeymoon business. When you're in the Outer Hebrides if someone offers to show you around their wickerman the answer is always no. Also, I'd counsel you not to attend any parties thrown by a bloke called Lord Summerisle. And if someone asks you to go to the woods at midnight to meet their horned god, just say you can't make it."
This was all a little obscure for the Mammy who grabbed the phone from my hand.
"Pauline," she cried. "Get out of that bed."
And hung up.