saint francis of a healy

Morning at the Chateau de Healy.
Ireland's greatest living poet is in the kitchen enjoying a coffee with the robin.
Yes.
Robin Red Breast esquire has taken to joining me for breakfast.
Paddy White Breast, a sheepdog of some repute, can hardly believe it.
Thankfully he prefers biscuits to robins.
Just about.
As long as I keep plying him with the biscuits he has promised me not to ingest any of God's creatures who happen to fly by.
So the robin and the sheepdog share my company amiably enough each morning for about an hour.
I am considering inviting MC Hamster to join us in the near future.
The door opens.
Enter the Lil.
She too likes biscuits but rarely accepts them as bribes.
"What the hell is going on?" quoth she full of the joys of living.
Robin flits into the dining room.
Paddy Pup watches him go with a wistful look in his eye.
"Nothing," sez I innocently.
"Are you bringing that bloody robin into the house every day now?" quoth the Mammy.
I spread my arms helplessly.
"What can I do about it?" I protest.
"You can throw a dish towel over him and put him back outside," quoth she between gritted teeth, "before he sh-ts all over the place."
Well bold readers, since reaching the age of reason (Heelers is referring to 38 - Ed note) I've realised there's no point arguing with my gentle mother when she is in such a mood.
With statesmanlike discretion I follow robin into the dining room, open a window, and usher him through it.
A prophet is never welcome in his own chateau.