exploring our boundaries
We are surrounded by the plain people of Ireland.
Not a single good looking one.
But why should I complain bold readers?
I'm no oil painting myself.
(Heelers is a watercolour. - Divyavibha Sharma note.)
Around us the cafe cacaphones with life.
Teenagers streel among the tables exuding that perfect nonchalence.
The sun bounces on the pavement.
All is right with the world.
Abruptly my mobile phone beeps.
There is a text message on it from my feminist cousin Pauline.
The message says:
"Cousin, we're having a poetry reading on the Summer solstice. There's no money. But will you do a reading? P."
It is the work of a moment to text back.
My text back says:
"Pauline. There is nobody left to save art except us. We are the publishers. We are the Irish Times. We are the Oscar ceremonies. If you and I do not respect artists enough to pay them, then the whole thing is finished. Yours a hundred poundsily, James."
I sent the message.
"What's going on?" wondered the Mammy.
I told her what Pauline had said and what I had replied.
"Do you think she'll mind?" I asked.
The Mammy's eyes widened.
"Son," quoth she, "there's got to be easier ways to commit suicide."