heelers is dee leader of dee anc freeeeee heeler da peeler

The White Water shopping centre in the town of Newbridge.
Breaking bread with the Clerk of Works in the Costa Cafe.
A rather fetchingly blonde Polish woman streels by.
"Do you see her?" says the Clerk of Works.
"Do I ever," sez I.
"Mick Baines saw her here one day," sez the Clerk of Works. "She works here as Head of Security. Anyway he was completely bowled over by her. So he went into one of the shops, bought her a card, and wrote a message on it for her with his phone number. He just walked up to her and gave her the card right here in the centre. And afterwards she actually phoned him and they went out a few times. But he had nothing in common with her. When he sat down with her, they had absolutely nothing to talk about. It couldn't last. He wasn't able to find any common ground with her at all."
"I have nothing in common with Mick Baines either," muses the mighty Heelers. "Maybe she'd have something in common with me."
"Mick found the whole experience a bit overwhelming," expostulates the Clerk of Works.
"I'm not surprised," sez I. "If she's head of security in an Irish shopping centre, she's going to be fairly tough. Imagine trying to stare her down in a clash of wills over who's going to pass the salt. I mean you might as well be dating a teacher or a nurse or a corrupt cop. You wouldn't be having the best of many arguments with any of those I can tell you."
My gaze shifts to another of the White Water's much vaunted beauties, a certain Miss South Africa who is selling calendars in the walkway near the cafe.
She has a disquieting beauty.
An ethereal elegiac almost wistful sadness that makes me think of eternal things.
I've bought quite a few calendars off her during the holiday season bold readers.
For one reason or another.
Ah.
She is a honey to behold.
More beautiful than your dreams.
Spirit smitten into form.
All that jazz.
With her mane of dark hair and sylph like etc etcs.
She is, in the best sense of an old fashioned phrase, an Arooga.
You know what folks.
There are things known.
And things unknown.
And in between there are the sexors.
Or as the ghost of Jim Morrisson once assured me: "You know the day divides the night. The night divides the day. You try to run. You try to hide. Buy another calendar from that sexy ride. Buy another calendar from that sexy ride. Buy another calendar, wooooh, from that sexy ride. Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner."
He was right too.
A thought strikes me.
"Hold on a moment," I tell the Clerk of Works. "I think I need another new calendar."
I stand up, take a deep breath, and hurry over to Miss South Africa.
I buy a calendar.
One with sheep dogs on it.
I pay for it.
Then I say: "How about a coffee some time?"
Miss South Africa smiles and holds up a Starbucks coffee carton.
"I've already got one," she says sweetly.
I return to the Clerk of Works.
My facial expression combines a number of the rummer emotions.
"How did it go?" sez the Clerk of Works.
"Not as well as I hoped, Clerky," I reply cheerily, "and not as badly as I feared."