the last knight of europe enjoys some down time
Sitting in the cafe at Naas hospital ogling Polish waitresses.
Ah.
The desperation stakes.
Enter Maisie Baines stage left.
Maisie is a rosy cheeked country women who does a good impression of a perpetual motion machine.
One of those tough ladies.
You know.
Heroes of the community types.
Always visiting somebody or saving somebody or ministering to somebody or feeding somebody's cat or whatever.
All that jazz.
She flumped down at my table.
Motionless for once.
Improbably motionless if you knew her.
"Auuuughhhhh," she said conversationally after a minute of companionable silence.
I eyed her keenly.
"What is it Maisie?" quoth I.
"I've been in visiting a neighbour," sez she.
"What happened?" sez me.
"He's gone nuts," sez she.
"In what way?" sez me.
Maisie allowed herself a deep sigh.
"When I sat down beside his bed," she recalled, "he accused me of burning down Crookstown church, stealing his bullock and taking an axe to his car."
The noble Heelers' piercing blue eyes widened piercingly bluily.
"You don't say."
"I do say."
There was a moment's silence.
"And what would have caused him to greet you like that?" I probed. "Was he joking? You didn't actually burn down the church did you?"
Maisie favoured me with a look that would strip paint off a wall.
"I think he's gone a bit ga ga because of the international financial crisis," she mused. "He'd been reading about it and worrying about it. It's just sort sent him round the twist."
She stood up.
"I'm going back in," sez she. "You'll probably see him chasing me out the front door in a few minutes."
I sat alone in the cafe after she'd gone.
I barely noticed the beautiful Polish girls.
I was in a little spiritual cocoon.
As regards the international financial crisis, a great weight had passed from my shoulders.
In two minutes of prattle, Maisie Baines had changed my entire world view.
None of it is worth worrying about.
None of it is worth cancer.
None of it is worth Alzheimers.
None of it is worth a breakdown.
You know folks, Jesus wasn't torturing us when he told us to forgive our enemies.
Nor was he empowering tyrants.
Nor was he asking the impossible.
I reckon he was giving us the teaching that points the way to truth, light, grace and liberation.
Sometimes it's a hard truth though.
I mean, what the hell am I going to write about if I'm not excoriating the Johnston Press?
Ah.
The desperation stakes.
Enter Maisie Baines stage left.
Maisie is a rosy cheeked country women who does a good impression of a perpetual motion machine.
One of those tough ladies.
You know.
Heroes of the community types.
Always visiting somebody or saving somebody or ministering to somebody or feeding somebody's cat or whatever.
All that jazz.
She flumped down at my table.
Motionless for once.
Improbably motionless if you knew her.
"Auuuughhhhh," she said conversationally after a minute of companionable silence.
I eyed her keenly.
"What is it Maisie?" quoth I.
"I've been in visiting a neighbour," sez she.
"What happened?" sez me.
"He's gone nuts," sez she.
"In what way?" sez me.
Maisie allowed herself a deep sigh.
"When I sat down beside his bed," she recalled, "he accused me of burning down Crookstown church, stealing his bullock and taking an axe to his car."
The noble Heelers' piercing blue eyes widened piercingly bluily.
"You don't say."
"I do say."
There was a moment's silence.
"And what would have caused him to greet you like that?" I probed. "Was he joking? You didn't actually burn down the church did you?"
Maisie favoured me with a look that would strip paint off a wall.
"I think he's gone a bit ga ga because of the international financial crisis," she mused. "He'd been reading about it and worrying about it. It's just sort sent him round the twist."
She stood up.
"I'm going back in," sez she. "You'll probably see him chasing me out the front door in a few minutes."
I sat alone in the cafe after she'd gone.
I barely noticed the beautiful Polish girls.
I was in a little spiritual cocoon.
As regards the international financial crisis, a great weight had passed from my shoulders.
In two minutes of prattle, Maisie Baines had changed my entire world view.
None of it is worth worrying about.
None of it is worth cancer.
None of it is worth Alzheimers.
None of it is worth a breakdown.
You know folks, Jesus wasn't torturing us when he told us to forgive our enemies.
Nor was he empowering tyrants.
Nor was he asking the impossible.
I reckon he was giving us the teaching that points the way to truth, light, grace and liberation.
Sometimes it's a hard truth though.
I mean, what the hell am I going to write about if I'm not excoriating the Johnston Press?
posted by heelers | 2:51 AM
4 Comments:
Ah, James, your last line got me. You know that your best writing here has nothing to do with the JP crapola. They've just become a dirty habit, like spitting tobacco. :)
Oh, and regarding the Heelers Licence Fee: I'll have to get back to you on that. There's this lady called Mother Angelica, you see...
I know you're right.
But I never expected Mother Angelica to come between us.
J
Mother Angelica would never do such a thing, James. It's that darn ocean and various states and provinces that are in our way.
Happy St. Valentine's Day!
It's getting happier!
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