the passing parade

There is a tide in the affairs of men which when taken at the flood leads on to great things.
Well so I've been told.
Afternoon lolling in a cafe.
Tis the Costa Cafe in the Whitewater Centre in Newbridge.
Famed in song and story.
Now famous for me lolling in it.
The actor formerly known as John Coleman wanders by my table.
"Heelers," sez he pleasantly, "I genuinely fail to understand how you managed to fall out with everybody in Kilcullen Drama Group. The show was only on for two nights."
"What are you talking about Colers?" I shoot back. "You've been in plays with me. You know my methods."
Colers shrugs and wanders off.
Enter the Mammy stage left.
She is accompanied by the sleek lady lawyer.
They pull up some pews and begin discussing the economic crisis.
I am stunned that neither of them sees fit to ask my opinion.
They cluck away happily.
I take refuge in a little pool of resentment glowering at each as much as I dare.
Imagine sitting with me and not asking me for my patented solutions to the financial collapse of the western world.
The Mammy and the sleek lady lawyer chatter on.
Presently the sleek lady lawyer's leggy daughter arrives.
Anne Baines.
She hath more legs than your dreams.
Two to be precise.
She leans over and gives me a kiss as she sits down.
You'd be surprised gentle travellers of the internet, quite how abruptly my resentments vanished.
One little kiss was all it took.
The ghost of Captain Jean Luc Picard from Star Trek appears at my shoulder.
"You lucky swine," he says before vanishing.
I'm telling you folks, I have no longer any complaints against existence or anyone in it.
The great questions of the hour matter not one whit.
Is the whole two thousand year history of western civilisation about to be wiped out by a cartel of corrupt bankers, pyramid selling stock exchange companies, overpaid car makers, and psychotically extortionate State Sector trade unions?
Who cares!
Having been kissed by Anne Baines I can honestly attest, none of the other stuff matters.
A gentle peace descends upon my spirit.
The three females are engrossed in each other's company.
I am ignored and beatific.
Just a little kiss.
Remarkable the effect.
And lo!
Who is this approaching my table?
What light from yonder entrance to the cafe breaks?
Why if it isn't Elaine Murphy, Events Manager for the Hopkins Poetry Festival.
The Elaine Murphy.
Perhaps she's come on behalf of the festival committee to offer belated recognition to Ireland's greatest living poet.
(Heelers means himself. - Ed note.)
She hails me as she passes.
I don't mean she hails me in the sense that she recognises my inherent greatness and offers to pay me five hundred quid for performing at next year's Hopkins festival.
I mean she says hello.
Then she adds: "You must be delighted Barack Obama won the election."
My handsome visage is a study.
"If by delighted you mean absolutely furious," I tell her, "yup, that just about sums it up."
Elaine appears midly nonplussed.
"Were you surprised he won?" she ventures.
I shake my handsome head.
"There is nothing in the world more powerful," quoth I, "than an idea whose time has come."
Elaine frowns.
"Who said that?" sez she.
"I did," sez I.
"Someone else said it first though," sez she.
"I'm telling you it's a Heelers original," sez I.
"No, no it was someone famous," sez she.
And she sails off through the cafe before I have time to enunciate the various permutations of protestation that her remark requires.
I am left with my caffe latte once more contemplating the callousness of a world that does not appreciate my sublime genius.
The only consolation I can see amid this realm of indifference is the rather splendid vista of Anne Baines' legs.
I wonder will she give me another kiss before she leaves.