toewatch two

Late afternoon in February.
The old chateau is peaceful.
A handsome poet is seated in an armchair, his sore toe resting on a cushion in front of him.
All is right with the world.
Aprubtly the front door opens.
Little three year old Ryan stomps into the house in joyous mood.
He is pretending to be a tractor.
"Vrooom," he says severally.
He stomps through every room in the house.
Presently he finds Ireland's greatest living poet in the living room.
Ryan does a few stomp pasts before finally hitting the toe.
"Hey," I muse calmly, "I've just formulated a whole new mathematical theory of exisistence, uniting quantum and relativity: The chances of a child or dog or other discrete variable doing a hideous injury to an innocently exposed toe rise exponentially in relation to the presence of any pre-existing pain symptoms in the toe in question, according to the formula Yowch = MC Hammer, where Yowch is a cosmic cry of pain and MC Hammer is a 1980's rapper who had two good hits, one a rip off of Super Freak and the other a well intentioned mood piece with religious overtones called You've Got To Pray Just To Make It Today."

standing in my cloister bare

toewatch one

Hobbling down main street Kilcullen towards my car, trying to look like Snake Plisskan.
Before I know it a matronly figure lunges at me from a side alley.
It is Veronica Tully-Binton.
She is, as her double barelled second name proclaims her to be, a git.
I am too hobbled by my ingrowing big toe to evade her.
"James," she proclaims without any of the sensual sexual undercurrants I have come to expect from women importuning me in the street.
(Undercurrents, surely? - Ed note)
There is a pulse in the universe.
At this moment I could still hobble away.
I stay.
Her eyes devour me.
But not in a good way.
"Did you get my email?" she raps. "I've been waiting for that article to appear in the paper for two months."
A certain weariness descends upon Ireland's greatest living poet.
I half turn.
"Goodbye Veronica," I say softly but firmly. "I'm on holiday."
"You're on holiday," she splutters. "For how long? For two months?"
"Forever," I intone.
And somewhere the ghost of George Bernard Shaw is smiling.
I hobble back to the car where the Mammy is waiting.
I am a little dissatisfied with the Veronica Tully-Binton encounter.
It doesn't feel like victory.
Snake Plisskan knows how to deal with those sort of people.
He'd have sneered: "I don't give a f--- about your newspaper article," and scared the bejabers out of her with a grimace.
Ah well.
I'm not Snake Plisskan and I guess I'll just have to live with that fact.
People rarely shrink from my grimaces.
Laugh yes.
Shrink no.
As I sit into the car something in my manner alerts the Mammy.
"What's up?" sez she cheerily.
I tell her about what has happened.
"Add another to your list of life long enemies," chuckles El Lil. "I know that woman. She'll never forget or forgive."
Somewhat soberly I drive on.
Soon we are speeding through the heartland of South Kildare where the firstlings of new growth in the hedgerows lift my spirits.
I begin to sing.
I am singing a parody of the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang theme song.
My version goes:
"Tully Binton, Tully Tully Binton, Tully Binton, Tully Tully Binton.
Oh ah, Tully Tully Binton, Tully Tully Binton we love you.
Arggh, Eeek, Tully Tully Binton, Tully Tully Binton, what to do?
Ooooh er, Tully Tully Binton, Tully Tully Binton, urggggh!
Bang bang, Tully Tully Binton, our fine four fendered friend.
Yes, bang bang, Tully Tully Binton, our fine four fendered friend."
You'd have to have been there bold readers.
It was a scream.
In fact the Mammy did scream.
"Stop," she screamed. "For God's sake. You sound awful."
Late that evening back at the chateau I sat in front of the computer and found some interesting new visitors had dropped in on the Heelers Diaries.
Gentle friends of the internet, you're all welcome to check out the stat counter at the bottom of the page to see who's been sharing the room with you.
Tonight someone from Hebei province in China had been on. If you follow through their entry point on the stat counter you will see a translation of one of my poems into Chinese effected by the Google search engine.
I'm telling you folks, I'm good in Chinese.
Hilarious even.
Anyhoo.
Presently I switched off the computer and returned to the kitchen of the old chateau.
It was midnight.
Paddy Pup thumped his tail as I entered.
"Do you want a walkie Paddler?" I asked him.
He jumped up and planted two outsized paws on my chest.
Then he dropped his two outsized paws from my chest to my ingrowing toe nail.
"Aiiiiieeeeaaarrrrrrghhhhhfffffffffffffffyurrrrrrrrrrggggggggggh," I murmured pleasantly.

come back doctor phibes all is forgiven

I hobbled through the kitchen.
"What's up?" said the artist formerly known as Doctor Barn from somewhere behind a newspaper.
"I think it's my ankle," I told him. "It's been like this for a few days."
"Give us a look," said Daktari.
I plonked on a chair and proffered my right foot doctorwards.
The brother looked at it with mild concentration.
"Hmmm," he said thoughtfully.
Before I could stop him, he reached out and grabbed my big toe.
In a single deft motion he moved the big toe to an angle 45 degrees off the horizontal.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhh," I remarked.
In no especial hurry the doc released my toe.
"You've an ingrown toe nail," he pronounced expertly. "It's infected. You'd better get it looked at."