treasures
Sitting in the kitchen at the Chateau de Healy with my feminist cousin Pauline.
Dusk crowding around the window.
She's getting married on Aran island this Saturday.
I am asking her why I haven't been invited.
"There were a few reasons," she muses. "But really I knew you wouldn't have been into the druids."
Even though she hasn't invited me to her wedding Pauline has an odd and enduring friendship with me.
She knows me like few others do.
Our friendship is not so much proof of the existence of the divine, as proof God has a sense of humour.
We chat pleasantly for a few more minutes before I decide to give her a preview of the latest acquisition to the art collection at the chateau.
"Wait there," sez I to Pauline. "I've something to show you."
I duck down to my room to fetch the Josephine Hardiman painting I bought last week.
The painting features Ms Hardiman and her late husband in a silhouetted embrace. All is done in shadings of blue. A Des Egan poem has been calligraphed around the forms. It's remarkable I tells ee. A genuine work of art struck from the gemstone of life.
I bring it to the kitchen.
"How d'ya like that?" sez I.
Pauline's eyes fill with tears. She jumps to her feet and hugs me tight.
"Thank you James," she breathes. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. This is so typical of you."
Dimly I realise something has gone awry. She has understood me to be giving her the painting as a wedding present.
My feelings about this misunderstanding might be described as somewhere a hundred miles the far side of unmitigated panic, shock, horror and despair.
I control myself with no little difficulty before she breaks the embrace.
My mind is working feverishly.
Maybe I can just say to her: "No Pauline. You misunderstood." Or some other light remark. There'll be no problem.
At this point my guardian angel whispers: "Heelers it was meant to be."
Pauline leaves the chateau clutching Josephine Hardiman's incomparable visual paean to the beauty and pity of love.
I sit alone in the kitchen for long moments.
I cannot believe what has just happened.
I make a decision.
"Well, well, well," I murmur grimly. "The druids and everybody else on Aran island are going to get some surprise on Saturday when I show up. Because Heelers is going to the ball."
Dusk crowding around the window.
She's getting married on Aran island this Saturday.
I am asking her why I haven't been invited.
"There were a few reasons," she muses. "But really I knew you wouldn't have been into the druids."
Even though she hasn't invited me to her wedding Pauline has an odd and enduring friendship with me.
She knows me like few others do.
Our friendship is not so much proof of the existence of the divine, as proof God has a sense of humour.
We chat pleasantly for a few more minutes before I decide to give her a preview of the latest acquisition to the art collection at the chateau.
"Wait there," sez I to Pauline. "I've something to show you."
I duck down to my room to fetch the Josephine Hardiman painting I bought last week.
The painting features Ms Hardiman and her late husband in a silhouetted embrace. All is done in shadings of blue. A Des Egan poem has been calligraphed around the forms. It's remarkable I tells ee. A genuine work of art struck from the gemstone of life.
I bring it to the kitchen.
"How d'ya like that?" sez I.
Pauline's eyes fill with tears. She jumps to her feet and hugs me tight.
"Thank you James," she breathes. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. This is so typical of you."
Dimly I realise something has gone awry. She has understood me to be giving her the painting as a wedding present.
My feelings about this misunderstanding might be described as somewhere a hundred miles the far side of unmitigated panic, shock, horror and despair.
I control myself with no little difficulty before she breaks the embrace.
My mind is working feverishly.
Maybe I can just say to her: "No Pauline. You misunderstood." Or some other light remark. There'll be no problem.
At this point my guardian angel whispers: "Heelers it was meant to be."
Pauline leaves the chateau clutching Josephine Hardiman's incomparable visual paean to the beauty and pity of love.
I sit alone in the kitchen for long moments.
I cannot believe what has just happened.
I make a decision.
"Well, well, well," I murmur grimly. "The druids and everybody else on Aran island are going to get some surprise on Saturday when I show up. Because Heelers is going to the ball."
posted by heelers | 2:30 AM
3 Comments:
Yesssss! Heelers, you SHALL go to the ball! Dammit, I wish I could gatecrash too.
Nicely done! Josephine H. would be proud of you.
Phil.
I'm going to be a cynic here. When you get a chance, make sure she understands that it's a gift to HER. It would be really hard to take if the marriage broke up and the painting went with her ex-husband.
Post a Comment
<< Home