The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Saturday, November 03, 2007

A BIT IRISH (by Medbh Gillard and James Healy)

"Not tonight, dear, I have a headache."

Friday, November 02, 2007

apologia pro cornballism mea

Marriedski brushed a blonde tendril from her eye.
It was her glorious golden hair.
She was not being attacked by an octopus with highlights.
Around us the Muse Cafe burbled.
She brushed her hair back and fixed me with a vary hard stare indeed.
"My marriage is in trouble," she told me.
I did my best to return her stare without the hardness but also without any possibility of misunderstanding.
"Everyone's marriage is in trouble," I said soft as iron. "Everyone has these problems. It's the way of the world. You can overcome them. In a short while the problems will seem less powerful. Then they will be gone completely."
We talked a few minutes longer.
Then she returned to her life.
After she had left me, the ghost of Boris Pasternak appeared at my table.
"Close one there Heelers," he murmured, stroking his beard.
I quaffed my coffee.
"Not at all," sez I. "There was no badness in it. She was just looking for advice."
The great Pasternak raised bushy Russian eyebrows and grinned.
"Ha!" he proclaimed. "Now who's a deluded purveyor of naive socialistic fantasies?"

Thursday, November 01, 2007

day among days

Elevenses with Doctor Barn at the Kentucky Fried Chicken in Newbridge.
The lady behind the counter called out to a teenager in the queue ahead of us: "Tell Lucy that Sister Teresa has died. The funeral is in the convent tomorrow."
The good(ish) Doctor and myself now stood at the head of the queue.
My brother addressed the lady.
"Another nun bites the dust," sez he brightly.
She didn't even smile.
Afternoon with the Mammy to buy vegetables.
Mr Finnerty came out from behind the counter to talk to the Liller.
They had been vague acquaintances in days of youth.
"Whatever happened to your lovely hair?" he wondered sadly.
"Whatever happened to yours?" shot back the Mammy.
Back at the Chateau de Healy we found the Dad deep in conversation with his old friend Father Foley who is home from Kenya.
Father Foley gestured to the parents' wedding photograph on the wall as we walked in.
"You were lovely," he told the Mammy.
"I still am," replied herself without batting an eyelid.
As darkness drifted in, the fireworks of Halloween began to ring out over the heartland.
Their thunder would not abate until long after midnight.
And much much later I stood on the avenue in the moonlight, imploring God as per our usual arrangement for some relief from the darkness that overwhelms my soul.
No really.
Paddy Pup busied himself in the hedge.
One of my cousins beetled up as I was in the middle of a particularly dramatic prayer.
It was the cousin I call the genius.
Well bold readers, you all think of me as the finest mind of a generation.
But you're wrong.
It's her.
I'm only the second finest.
She's the unknown Mycroft to my public Sherlock.
But I digress.
(And as well as digressing you lifted the Mycroft and Sherlock line from Alexandra Ares' Manhattan Chronicles blog - Ed note.)
The cousin said some words and was gone.
I addressed the Deity again briefly.
"I can't believe you're still teaching me," sez I. "Honestly God I thought I knew it all."