heelers rides forth

I knocked on the big oak door.

My cousin in law Rowena answered.

She is married to my cousin Roderick.

She is a relative of the family that owns Bouligans Pub in Dublin.

The one that features in books and theatre plays and tour guides and which is also moderately famous as a watering hole for the pseuderati of pseudo Irish pseudo high society.

Rowena is in the best sense of an old fashioned phrase, a class bird.

She is a striking looking woman.

My cousin Roderick married up.

"James," she cried with fake Dublin Four bonhomie, "what a pleasant surprise."

"Hi Rowena," quoth me. "I was just calling to ask you were you sure you really wanted to be working at Clane hospital?"

"Why wouldn't I work there?" sez she.

"Because they generate life in test tubes," quoth me.

"Sorry?" sez she.

"I mean they provide in vitro fertilisation services," quoth me.

The cousin in law fixed me with a kindly smile.

"But that's a good thing," she said. "If you could see how happy those parents are, you would have no doubts."

My handsome preraphaelite features took on a poignant hue.

"Well," I said, "I would ask you to consider that for every life they allow to be born, they generate ten in the test tube that they simply throw away. The process involves choosing the most viable looking embryo and discarding the rest. I would ask you to consider that all the embyros you throw away may be human beings and that in throwing them away you're committing ten murders for every baby you present to those oh so happy parents. I thought maybe as a Catholic you'd find the whole process unacceptable and would want to cease to take any part in it."

A certain hardness congealed around the edges of her smile.

A far away look came in her eyes.

"James," she repeated firmly, "if you could see the happiness of those parents you wouldn't think that. Not even for a minute. If you could just see the joy those children bring, you would never say what you've said."

My eyes were pools of fire.

"I am familiar with the hospitals marketing strategy," I murmured softly. "I know that pictures of the happy parents are released to the press in order to prevent the public ever daring to question what exactly is going on."

"If you saw those parents you would never say what you're saying," reiterated Rowena.

I knew it then.

She is a class bird alright.

And all the lights are on.

But nobody's home.

Humbly and with a certain desolation of spirit, I made my excuses and left.