Evening at the Chateau.
My cousin Mycroft is holding forth, ie talking.
Last week she had wandered into Easons bookshop on O'Connell Street.
She saw a copy of The Exorcist on the shelves.
She reached for it.
At that moment she became aware of an oppressive constriction in her breathing.
She felt she was in the presence of evil.
She hurried away.
The noble Heelers nodded bitterly as she finished telling this story.
An exclamation of indignation seemed in order.
"You get this sort of warning?" I cried. "Your guardian angel or the forces of good or both, let you sense all that? But me! I picked up The Exorcist when I was thirteen. I got diddlysquat. No warning. No sensations of oppressive presences. Read it from cover to cover. And consequently I've slept with the light on throughout most of my adult life. Not even the faintest tinkle of an alarm bell did I get when I picked it up. I mean what the heck was my guardian angel playing at. Go right ahead there Heelers. Have a blast. Give me a shout when you're finished and let me know how it turns out. I mean clearly the guy isn't doing his job. Hey Mycroft. I wonder could we swap guardian angels."