chateau life

Following Mam's death, Padre Peter moved back into the chateau for a few weeks.

He hasn't lived at home for twenty years and I was not optimistic about the move.

I thought he might find our quaint country ways well nigh cosmically insufferable.

I was sure he'd be at least a little perturbed by the Dad's and mine own nocturnal perambulations.

But no.

My brother the Padre has shown no signs of obvious discommodement.

Good humoured, serene and to all intents and purposes beatifically at peace, he has lived among us.

Finally I could take it no more.

"How come we're not upsetting you at night Pete?" I challenged him earlier this week.

"I bought ear plugs," he explained matter of factly.

The only time he did get a bit miffed was over Paddy Pup's regular intrusions into his bedroom.

On Monday evening as I returned from a coffee hunting expedition to the town of Newbridge, Pete accosted me in the hall.

He seemed to be labouring under a grande pression.

He was in fact in a state of comic book exasperation, all waving hands and bulging eyes.

"I've just found your dog," he burst out, "lying on MY bed, with his arse on MY pillow, and MY underpants in his mouth."

"He loves those," I answered unperturbed.

"I don't think I can ever wear those underpants again," muttered Pete morosely as I exited towards the kitchen.