summer in dublin

homage to a waitress of character

McGroarity's a catty waitress
She's called the hidden paw
Because if you look at her crooked
She might sock you in the jaw

McGroarity, McGroarity,
There's no one like McGroarity
She's a fiend in female form
A waitress of deprorvity

You may order a cappuccino
Or a caffe latte rare
But when you reach the counter
Your discount isn't there

McGroarity McGroarity
There's no waitress like McGroarity
She'll keep your ten percent discount
And bust you down to porverty

You may seek her at the cash register
Or behind the frigidaire
But when you go back to the counter
McGroarity isn't there

You'll find her doing dishes
Or long division sums
Or munching rather daintily
On buttered currant buns

McGroarity McGroarity
She's ruder than she oughterbe
I'd complain to the management
But I'm afraid that she might slaughter me

And when your bill looks addled
Or there's pepper in the trifle
Or when the milk is curdled
Or another poet's been stifled
You may race with all your might
A tearing of your hair
But when you reach the counter
McGroarity isn't there

McGroarity, McGroarity
There's no waitress like McGroarity
I shouldn't have to worry about this sort of rubbish
For God's sake I'm over forrity

(With apologies to TS Eliott. No really. I'm very sorry.)

mcgroarity the mystery waitress

Afternoon in the town of Newbridge.
The mighty Heelers saunters into the Costa Cafe.
Maisie McGroarity, the rudest waitress in the Whitewater Centre, and perhaps in all Europe, glares balefully from behind the counter.
Three days in a row she has deprived me of the ten percent discount which management in this cafe have vouchsafed me.
They love me here.
Truly they do.
All except Maisie.
Maisie has taken a random notion that I am the cause of some deep seated unhappiness that afflicts her.
Apparently discounts will be the source of her revenge.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I have asked for my discount.
But on each occasion when I got back to my seat, I realised she hadn't given it to me.
Or at least I thought she hadn't given it to me.
I was never absolutely sure.
For the first two days I made excuses for her. On the third day I made modest efforts to remind her without offending her. At the same time I tried to be exact in my own mind about how much money I'd given her and what she'd given back.
I don't think I got my discount any of the days.
But I never had a great head for maths.
I am the sort of person who can't remember how much money he has in his pocket even when in circumstances like the present ones, I'm making a special effort.
Has she got it in for me?
I genuinely think she has.
(Ere Maisie, leave that Heelers alone - Pink Floyd note.)
Listen my gentle friends of the internet.
There is no reason for Maisie to hate me.
Honestly there isn't.
She's 20 years old. Red haired. Good looking in a perpetually angry sort of way.
I have never been anything but a gentleman in my dealings with her.
I'm telling you folks, aside from my visits to the cafe, she doesn't even know me.
Could it be she is just one of nature's haters?
Today she looks at me with a peculiarly searching stare.
It's as though she can read my soul.
I try to make my big rubber face hide the various unpleasant emotions that are struggling to express themselves on the canvas of my visage.
I have no wish to tangle with Maisie.
But dammit I will have my discount.
"A caffe latte," I say in a neutral voice. "And I have a discount card for that."
I show her the card.
Maisie makes the coffee.
Takes the money.
Gives me change.
"I'll take the receipt," I tell her.
She hands me a receipt.
There is a discount listed on it.
I go to my seat.
I drink my latte.
I leave the Costa Cafe.
As an afterthought I pull the receipt from my pocket and check it again.
The time is recorded on the top left hand corner.
It shows three hours ago.
In my heart of hearts I know...
Curses McGroarity.
You got me again.


Stop press
Final Sports Results, Thursday 21 June 2007.
Man United 1, Chelsea 1.
Wolverhampton Wanderers 3, Brighton Hove Albion 2.
Maisie McGroarity 4, Heeler The Peeler 0.
Hamas, Fatah, late kick off.

at first light

Woke this morning to the sound of faint scuffling sounds in the hall.
6am.
I groaned and rolled over in the bed.
Presently the Dad stuck his head around the door.
Yup folks things really start early at the old chateau.
"That robin of yours!" quoth the Dad. " He got into the house. Paddy's been chasing him up and down the hall. Could you not hear them?"
I groaned something heartfelt about not taking responsibility either for the dog or the robin.
The Dad disappeared.
Sleep remained elusive for Ireland's greatest living poet.
Presently I staggered out of bed and donned some items of clothing.
You should know I looked marginally less preraphaelite than I usually do.
I wanted to check on Robin.
Just to be sure Paddy hadn't chewed his wing off or anything.
The moment I stepped into the garden, he flew down from the hedge onto the lawn.
I saluted him in the name of the lamb.
He did a few indomitable hops through the grass.
I left him some madeira cake on the window sill and went back into the house.
Paddy Pup met me in the hall.
The look he gave me spoke volumes.
But he seemed somewhat mollified by his own slice of madeira cake.

this time last year

the one we never quite explained...

and our old friends the parachute flares...