expostulation and reply

Coffee with the Mammy in the Cafe Des Beaux Parvenus at Newbridge Silverware.
The midafternoon cacophony affirms life all around us.
The mother of all the Healys is leafing through a newspaper.
Her favourite son for his part is busy leering at the passing talent.
"Did you see the list of people caught for tax evasion?" wondereth the Mammy.
"I don't read the papers," sez I snootily.
The matriarch favours me with a glance of cool asperity.
"You should," sez she.
"Why, what happened?" mouths I disinterestedly.
"A woman who owned a lap dancing club was forced to pay back taxes of a million Euro," said the Mammy.
"I'd say she's a proper little Madam," quoth I sparklingly.
We quaffed our coffees.
"There's another scandal in motor racing," said Lil presently.
"What's it about?" asks me.
"A rich Italian called Flavio Briatore is accused of ordering one of his racing drivers to crash on purpose to let another guy win," explained the aged parent expertly.
"How rich is he?" sez me.
"He owns a British soccer team," sez she.
"They'll let him off so," sez me cynically.
"There's to be a hearing with the head of Formula One racing next week," sez the Mammy.
I looked up sharply.
"The head of Formula One?" sez me.
"Yes," quoth she.
"Max Mosely?" expostulateth me.
"The very one," replieth the mother.
I shook my head.
"That's going to be some hearing," I murmured. "You gotta savour the irony Mother. Poor ould Flavio will be appearing before a guy who was recently caught in an orgy with prostitutes dressed as Nazis, re-enacting Nazi rituals and generally pushing out the boundaries of perversion according to the Nazi hand book. How will Flavio keep a straight face when Von Moselystein asks him for an explanation? And how on earth could Mosely find anyone guilty of anything anyway after what he himself has done? Good grief. It'll be high farce. Or at least High Command farce. Arf arf."
This passionate discourse on moguls inhumanity to moguls was not as entertaining for my listener as you might expect.
The Mammy shrugged and changed the subject.
"What were you praying about last night?" she enquired keenly.
"How do you know I was praying?" sez me.
"I heard you," averreth she.
"Ah Ma," sez me.
The aged P spread her arms wide in affrighted innocence.
"It wasn't my fault," she said. "Your voice carries. It sounded like you were really hamming it up."
"I was praying the rosary," I told her.
"Ah," sez she.
"Sorry if it disturbed you," sez me.
"No, no, it didn't disturb us, it was funny," quoth she.
"Didn't disturb us?" sez me.
"I was in the kitchen with Nessa Dunlea," quoth she.
"And you were both listening to me praying?" sez I aghast.
"We weren't listening but you were audible," chuckleth she.
The noble Heelers looked momentarily nol prossed.
"Anyway," sez the Mammy, "what were you praying about?"
"Guess!"
"World peace?"
"Pshaw Mama."
"Personal healing?"
"Ah who needs that!"
"What then?"
"I think you know."
"The Russki?"
"There you go, that's exactly what I was praying about."
"You can't pray for those sort of things."
"Hey, what's the point of being on speaking terms with the creator of the universe if I don't ask him for what I really want?"
"But he doesn't answer those sort of prayers."
"What do you mean Mother?"
"We used to pray for things like that all the time, let him ask me out, oh please please God, let him be the one, and God never answered. There's no point in praying that way."
"Think about this Mother. If he had answered those prayers the way you wanted them answered all those years ago, you wouldn't be sitting here with me today. I would never have been your son. So really after all these years he's finally letting you know with this conversation that your prayers were answered in a way better than you ever could have hoped. By not going out with those guys you asked God to get for you, you ended up having me as a son. So you won all round. I think you should fall on your knees and thank God right this moment."
The Mammy's eyes narrowed.
"The point is," she persisted, "he doesn't answer those prayers."
Ireland's greatest living poet half turned from her, looked up at the ceiling and addressed the Deity briefly.
"You hear that God?" sez me. "Sounds like a sort of a challenge."
A couple of vaguely alluring waitresses drifted by and my attention returned to earthly matters.
"Aroogah," I murmured appreciatively, and then in a breathless whisper "whoargh."
"Son," said the Mammy, "I really wish you wouldn't do that."
A thought struck her.
"You wrote about me on your blog again," she pronounced severely.
"I confess I did."
"And you changed what I said the night you looked in to the bedroom to check on me. I only said I was dead but you added another comment. I never told you to go away. You just ran out of the room because you got a fright when I said I was dead."
"I needed to jazz it up."
"You jazzed it down."
"I think the readers will appreciate what I wrote."
"It was funnier the way it really happened."
"I don't think it was."
"Son you're not doing justice to my best work."
"That's showbiz Ma."
We finished our coffees and exited stage left to the carpark.
Outside the cafe the soft grey tones of September had given way to a sudden burst of sunlight.
The air had the unmistakeable tang of Autumn.
It was one of those moments.
I stilled my spirit in the evening tide and looked around.
It was everywhere.
The grace and power and light of royal truth.
In every single person and every single thing on earth.
God made the world.
And God made no mistakes.