pardon me but your yashmak is in my soup

The fresh coldness of Autumn on Stephen's Green.
I am feeding the swan.
The swan takes the pieces of bread gently from my hand.
I glance up.
The most beautiful Arab girl in Dublin is looking at me delightedly.
Her again.
It must be the season.
At my shoulder an angel sings discreetly into my ear:
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Tra la la la la la la la la
Tis the season for the Mussies
Tra la la la la la la la la
Don we now our hiijabs and berries
Tra la la la la la la la la la
Smile at the infidels and make them merry
Tra la la la la la la la la la."
Man, can that angel sing.
Back to reality.
The Arab girl's jilbab scarf struggles to conceal her beauty.
The scarf is losing.
I realise with a start that I am clutching a book beneath my elbow with a particularly lurid cover, large red letters in the title announcing Islam And Terror.
There follows what theatre directors call "business" with the book as I try to conceal it or make it invisible in various furtively ridiculous movements, then try to stuff it into my coat pocket, and finally try to hold it nonchalantly with the title under my hand.
The Arab girl allows herself a whimsical smile.
In the splendour of her eyes I see no signs of another parting.