a day in the life

Dropped into Newbridge Social Welfare office to discuss the class struggle with my pusher.

The door of the office was locked.

A sign on the door proclaimed: "Closed Due To Strike Action."

I turned and walked back up the street.

There was sunshine over everything.

A soul lifting day.

That fresh clearness in the air, that tang, which hints at something beyond.

Heaven really.

CS Lewis wrote once about occasionally feeling his spirit soar in such circumstances.

He said he believed a moment of spiritual exultation was a premonition of heaven.

He reckoned our capacity for such a feeling was directly related to an inbuilt knowledge that we have been made for paradise.

No.

That paradise was made for us.

I felt it now anyway.

In spite of the strikes and all the rest of it.

It was like stepping out of time.

Walking down main street on a sunny day.

I drove to Naas.

The main street there was packed with taxis.

The taxi men stood beside their vehicles clutching placards proclaiming their own strike action.

Occasionally in recent years, I have bearded strikers in their den.

Outside Naas police station I once yelled at a bunch of sign wielding monomaniacs: "Get back to work you overpaid bast--ds."

A few weeks later I yelled the same thing at clerks outside Kildare County Council's famous hundred million dollar office, La Maison Des White Elephants.

And yes, I did on two separate occasions engage in fond badinage with Palestinian protestors up in Dublin, a jovial greeting it was, along the lines of: "No more Arab terror, no more Al Qaedas, no more sneak attacks on Israel, no more Nine Elevens, no more Jihad murders."

Ah, memories.

Strangely today I felt little urge to shout at the taxi men.

They looked like tough guys.

Tougher than cops, clerks and Jihadis put together.

I pick my enemies carefully.

So no shouting.

Just a tinge of sadness.

It's not so much that they're rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

It's more that the Titanic is going down and they're standing stock still in the sunshine refusing to rearrange the deck chairs because they want a payrise.

I wandered into the Cafe Costa, purchased a cup of tea and pulled up a pew.

From my pocket I drew Ian Wilson's latest book The Shroud which is about the shroud of Turin.

I settled back to read.

The cafe burbled happily with humanity.

Then the mood changed.

Two children entered the cafe.

A boy and a girl, each about nine years old.

They were laughing a bit wildly.

They purchased coffees and sat at window seats.

They began making remarks about people in the street.

The boy was loudest but the girl was drawing him out.

Soon the boy was iterating vulgarisms: "Penis, penis, balls."

Everyone else sitting nearby had gone quiet.

I could sense the children were disrupted.

How badly, I've no idea.

It might just have been scattered inappropriate talk.

It might have meant something more.

It went on.

I felt myself getting angry.

A thought came to me.

A one liner from Jesus when the apostles were getting annoyed with some kids.

"Suffer the little children to come unto me for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

I let the thought sink in.

"I'm not the one to help these kids Lord," I murmured, addressing the Deity.

A woman entered the cafe.

She was attractive with bright eyes, brown hair, and a strong confident face.

She wore jeans and a red jacket which drew attention.

She ordered coffee, took a look around, noticed the situation, then without hesitation approached the children.

"Can you be quiet?" she demanded in a firm voice. "Can you be a little more quiet? Can you just keep it down a little bit?"

Her eyes never left the children.

Each time she asked the question she allowed a little more kindness into her voice.

The children went quiet, giggled a bit, but quiet.

The good looking woman collected her coffee and sat at the window.

She fixed the children with an honest, engaging gaze.

"Where are your parents?" she asked.

The boy and the girl pulled their chairs over towards the woman.

The boy said: "I don't know."

I watched them talking.

I heard the children say something about the girl getting sent home from school for beating up another child.

The woman never flinched.

Her eyes and her voice remained kind, easeful, but completely focussed on the children.

Presently the little boy stood up and like a gentleman brought his empty cup back to the counter.

The little girl followed him like a lamb.

Both said goodbye to the woman as they left.

I went over to her.

"That was amazing," I said.

"Oh I've worked with children before," she said.

"Do you mind if I ask you your name?" I enquired.

"Ann Fitzpatrick," said she.

"I'm..." I began.

"James Healy," she finished.

I found it rather flattering to be recognised by such a woman.

"How do you know me?" said I.

"I used to read you in the Leinster Leader," said she.

"Oh," said I.

"But I don't read it any more," said she. "I suppose I should."

"No," quoth I.

"Why not?" said she.

"Because they fired me," said I.

"Why did they fire you?" she wondered.

"To find out that," I said, "you'll have to read my blog."