a light hearted interlude

Coffee with the Perfect Fit at the foodcourt in the Stephens Green Centre in Dublin.
The Perfect Fit is a Spanishy who's been on my books for a while now.
We are sitting at a window table.
The little Muslim waitress Privya is glaring at us prettily from behind the counter.
Okay, okay.
Glaring at me.
Ah she's a babe.
She's a robo babe.
I'd convert to the peaceloving religion of Islam for her in a second.
No.
In half a second.
But I digress.
The Perfect Fit seems utterly unaware that the sexiest and most dangerous looking waitress in the place is favouring me with ye olde looks that kill routine. (Or looks that imply a serious effort may shortly be underway to kill in the near future.)
I take a sip of warm milk.
It is Privya's sole pleasure in life to serve me warm milk when I order a caffe latte.
I do not begrudge her this consolation.
The Perfect Fit for her part shows no sign of being aware of this particularly magnificent bout of synchronised glaring. In truth, she is well accustomed to strangers glaring at me.
It's part of why she finds me so fascinating.
Our conversation today scintles brightly through the cafe.
"So are you still sick?" my companion wonders.
The Perfect Fit's question refers to several ailments which recently struck down Ireland's greatest living poet.
(Heelers means himself - Ed note.)
First came gout, then a paralysing back pain, then a tooth ache.
Oh the humanity.
But I digress.
(Again - Ed note.)
I eye the Perfect Fit keenly and speak with utmost seriousness.
"I'm all clear," sez I. "Not a sign of a symptom in any part of my body. And I'll tell you why. I think they were spiritual afflictions."
"Spiritual afflictions in what way?" enquires La Perfecta.
I groan like a heffalump in pain.
"I think I'd started hating Muslims and Arabs," I tell her. "Not just hating their crimes against humanity and their crimes against each other. But really hating them. And it wasn't their terrorism that did it either. It was a little Muslim crime gang operating in Dublin called the Black Jackets. I couldn't abide the thought that these low life were smuggling themselves into our country and then trying to force Irish people to live in fear. Somewhere along the way I started to despise them for it. To really really hate them."
"So what changed?" asked Perfection.
I shrugged.
"I think God gave me an awareness of the hatred I'd let into myself," I mused. "I think sometimes there's a gift in the afflictions. This was mine. To actually be unable to walk. Then to see myself in some measure as I am. I chose not to hate. The afflictions lifted."
The Perfect Fit grinned and half turned towards Privya.
"So what do you think is going on up there?" she demanded cheekily. "You certainly don't seem too well disposed towards that one."
Her glistening Spanish eyes challenged me for a response.
I answered her ruefully and without hesitation.
"It's perfectly clear what's going on," I murmured. "I've been free of hatred for about three months. But Satan never willingly gives up his kingdom."