the contessa returns

Evgenia is back in Ireland after a few months on the French Riviera.

We're quaffing tea in the Insomnia Cafe near Trinity College.

She looks like an angel.

It's Autumn in the street outside.

"Did you listen to the CD player I gave you?" quoth she.

"No," sez me.

"Why not?"

"Because I thought maybe you'd impregnated it with Polonium 90."

"You still think I'm trying to kill you?"

I favour her with a rueful version of my famous Paddington Bear stare.

"Are you an agent of the KBG?" I challenge.

"No."

"Can you look me in the eyes and say that?"

"I am looking you in the eyes."

"Would you kill me if Vladimir Putin asked you to kill me?"

"I don't even know Vladimir Putin."

"That wasn't the question."

"Okay, no I wouldn't kill you even if Vladimir Putin rang me up  out of the blue and asked me very nicely to do so."

I sit back in my chair with a sigh.

"I suppose they'd hardly let you have access to the Polonium 90 cupboard just to kill a lowly Irish blogger," I muse.

"Of course they wouldn't," says she.

I find the way she says it curiously disconcerting.

I change the subject.

"Did you meet Prince Albert while you were in Monaco?" I ask with a mischievous grin.

"He played golf with us at the weekends," sez she.

"You're kidding."

"I'm serious. It's not so surprising. Monaco is really small. If you go there for any length of time, you end up meeting everyone."

"You weren't playing golf with Prince Albert!"

"I was."

"And what do you call him?"

"Albert."

"And what language do you speak with him?"

"When he's with me he speaks English."

"And what's he like? I bet he's a big snob."

"No, he's a nice guy."

"Did you meet Princess Caroline or Stephanie?"

"I don't know them."

Ireland's greatest living poet looks at her suspiciously.

"And you're sure you're not trying to kill me?"

"James! For crying out loud. I will kill you if you ever ask me that question again."