ordinary people

There is a destiny which shapes our ends, rough hew it as we will.
Well you know.
Parking my car this morning in Naas multi storey car park.
A woman in a Mercedes is trying to park her car just ahead of me.
She is trying to squeeze her car into a space that does not exist.
That is to say, there is a space there.
But it is not big enough to fit a Mercedes.
She has pressed her car against the front left hand side of an already parked black Toyota, and is using hers in an attempt to push the smaller car out of the way.
Her engine revs.
I can't quite believe what I am seeing.
For a moment these thoughts come to me: She's in distress; She didn't realise there wasn't a full space there; She doesn't know what to do; I'll help her.
Then I see her face.
She is about forty years old, blonde, and with an arrogant leer that would discourage the bravest of Irish poets from initiating his Last Knight Of Europe routine.
She reverses her car from the entanglement and gets out to survey the situation.
She is tall, bespectacled, wearing a white trouser suit.
She contemplates the lack of space where she's been trying to park.
She jumps back into her Mercedes and revs the engine again.
What in tarnation.
She's about to have another go.
The Mercedes scrapes along the side of the Toyota shunting it physically to the left.
I can see the car she's pushing, rocking on its axles.
I look around at other people queueing behind me to park.
There is a little log jam of us.
No one cares to meet my gaze.
You can hear the sound of metal upon metal.
It's not nice.
The Mercedes is virtually in the space now.
There is a pause.
Apparently the blonde woman thinks again.
She reverses out.
More scraping metal.
And drives away.
I follow her.
Her number plate is obscured by mud.
I get close enough to read it and note it.
She parks on another level of the centre.
I look around for car park staff, and finding none, head for a coffee.
Always with the coffee folks.
I'm telling you if the world was ending.
Er you know.
Seek for me in the last cafes of Ireland.
Now here's the rough hewn destiny bit.
As I quaff a coffee, the thought comes to me that I should leave details of the incident I've witnessed at Naas Garda station.
Ye same olde worlde Garda statione where yesterday I eyeballed and shouted at the protesting staff: "Get back to work you overpaid bar stewards."
The more I thought about going in there to make a report, the more the situation seemed touched by a gentle, nay perverse, irony.
Ah.
We all have need of each other.
So I betook myself to Naas Garda Station.
With mild feelings of trepidation I entered and made my tittle tattling report.
Still wondering could Mercedes woman have simply been a bit upset. Still thinking maybe I should have approached her and tried to help.
The office in the police station buzzed with a mid afternoon hum of efficiency.
No feeling of threat here.
A polite professional police officer took the details I offered.
Presumably not one of the ones who beat people to death in the cells.
Or terrorise motorists into having heart attacks at the side of the road a few days before Christmas.
Or see their fellow officers assaulting a member of the public and look the other way because of their twisted code of silence better known as The Code Of Cover Ups.
Or ask prostitutes to procure five year old children for them for the purposes of sex.
Or take drink and drugs while on the job.
Or assault a woman in Galway while attempting to force her to let them use her taxi.
Or brawl in the streets of Dublin while they're supposed to be guarding the American embassy.
Or.
Well you know.
Presumably not Garda Testos or Garda Murderous or Garda Psycho.
Presumably I got one of the decent ones.
Although there's no way of knowing for sure.
Because Garda Honorable, Garda Hero, and Garda Courageous refuse to testify against Garda Testos, Garda Murderous and Garda Psycho.
Which effectively makes them all the same.
My business dealt with, I departed.
Back at the Chateau de Healy, I discussed the morning's shenanigans with the Mammy.
"There's a quote going round in my head," I told her. "It might be from Shakespeare. Something about destiny being rough hewn. Do you know it?"
A far away look came into the Mammy's eye.
"There is a destiny which shapes our ends, rough hew it as we will," quoted she. "Of course I know it. When I was a nurse at Saint Vincent's, there was a surgeon who always used to say it just before he'd start a haemorrhoid operation. He'd have the patient anaesthetised on the operating table. He'd be just about to start rummaging around the bum. Then he'd come out with that. He thought he was being very funny."