the labours of Heelules

Evening at the chateau de Healy.
Ireland's greatest living poet is posited in an armchair in front of the television.
He is at peace with the world.
His phone rings.
He answers it.
The voice of a certain renowned American harridan summons him to a new adventure.
Ah yes.
It is she who knows not kismet.
It is she who knows not fate.
It is Big Hair. It is Fiddlybits. It is Hoddlebun at the gate.
Well you know what I mean.
"Jamie," says Calamity Annie pleasantly.
A shiver runs down my preraphaelite spine.
Pleasantly is not good bold readers.
For I do fear her pleasantness more than anything else.
No seriously.
It means she wants something.
So it transpires.
"Would you be able to store some luggage for me this Summer?" she asks sweetly as though steinervortzels wouldn't melt in her mouth.
Now by an odd accident of nature, she has timed her question perfectly.
For I've been watching the Southpark episode where Santa Claus goes to Iraq.
This is the funniest thing I've ever disapproved of.
Hence I am relaxed and happy.
In a moment of weakness I agree to take her luggage.
We bid our farewells and she rings off.
The Mammy sticks her head around the door.
"Who was it?" quoth she.
"Hodders," sez I.
"What did she want?" wonders the Mammy.
"More luggage," sez I.
The Mammy grins.
"That girl," she murmurs, "will have you driving up and down the road to Dublin with her luggage for the rest of your life."