confession of a reformed egomaniac

Tuesday 22nd June 2015: To Naas for the launch of Adeline Poufong's sculpture exhibition. The artist comes from a family of proverbially alluring women. There are three sisters who are known as great beauties in County Kildare and beyond, one a sculptor, one a model and one a student I think. I have no acquaintance with them but since I tend to keep an eye on new art exhibitions, and of course we owe it to ourselves to live a little, here I am. I can see what must be the Poufong sisters swirling around in the crowd. It has to be them. The rest of the women from my town look like refugees from a Breughel painting. Yes, it's them. But I have no idea which is which. There is a tall striking girl wearing a dramatic black dress which serves only to accentuate her rather intimidating good looks. I turn to the guy beside me.

"Well that's the model," I tell him conspiratorially, "Phwoarr. But I'm trying to pick out the sculptor."

The guy favours me with a cool look and replies: "She is the sculptor. But she does do some modelling as well. And I am her father."

Ah. I have a talent.

I have just recovered my elan after the previous exchange and begun plucking up the courage to approach the sculptor of the hour herself intending to bestow some of my trademark plawmaws (Irish colloquialism for simpering compliments) when Bloody Trapman materialises with a camera and notebook and swoops in. Trapman! Gumph in thy orisons be all my sins remembered. Well you know what I mean. Is there no limit to his power. Who will rid me of this turbulent parvenu! A line must be drawn. He must be stopped. No really. The mayor will have my ass. Trapman. Blah blah Trapman, the mayor, blah, blah, etc etc.

Wednesday 23rd June: All Kilcullen is agog over a letter to the Bridge Magazine from the Chairman of the Drama Group one Eilis Philips (two Eilis Philipses would have been ridiculous even for this town) critiquing my critique of a recent drama group production. Yes folks, in this here town, the performers bite back. The letter calls me "ungenerous, unfair, " and some other word that doesn't sound a bit like the me you all know and love, probably "ungentlemanly" if she maintained the words beginning with a "u" theme.
(Uncouth? Ungainly? Unctious? Ukelele? - Ed note)
(Shu'up - Heelers note)
Incidentally those words are my middle names.
The letter began with the classic announcement: "...as Chairman of the local Drama Group and Producer of the recent play..."
So, not as a human being with opinions no higher and no lower than anyone else's.
Thank heavens she didn't add "...and as proprietor of the local hair dressing salon...."
That would have been hard to answer since I still owe her twenty quid for my last haircut.
The June edition of the Bridge has been snapped up off the shelves with no copies remaining in the pharmacy or the Tearman cafe. This is unprecedented in the entire history of the magazine. (Or at least since a month ago.) The proles are probably cutting out the letter and hanging it up in their kitchens even as we speak.

Thursday 24th June: Word coming through of a spat at the Vatican. Pope Francis was greeting a row of dignitaries and he reached one distinguished fellow in black suit and asked him his name. The guy said: "Yo Yo Ma." And Francis went for him. The two tussled and rolled on the ground before aides separated them. One aide pleaded with the Pope: "Why are you doing this Your Holiness?" And Francis answered: "He insulted my mother. He muttered: Your Mama. He really did." And the aide said: "But that's his name Your Holiness. He's Yo Yo Ma, the famous Chinese musician." Things quietened down. Pope Francis was walking away with the aide when he looked back and caught Yo Yo Ma's eye and this time Yo Yo Ma clearly mouthed: "Your Mama." And the Pope went berserk, breaking free from his retinue, running back to Yo Yo Ma, and they started fighting again. It's funny how these things happen.

Friday 25th June: Driving to Naas I was somewhat intrigued to discover the main road into the town had been blocked off by ghost workers. Yes ghost workers. Kildare County Council is an equal opportunities employer, meaning now apparently that they're hiring the dead. I mean they had blocked the road but there were none of them there. Road blocked but no one (no one visible or mortal at least) doing any work. Can you credit this. They just blocked the road, put in a five mile diversion, and then with the road blocked, and the diversion in place, they had all headed off for the weekend. I wondered briefly who might be responsible for such a situation. Kildare County Council? The National Roads Authority? A private contractor? Satan? Or some malign admixture of the four. I'm told the devil hasn't worked in local government for years. I'm telling you he's the focquing County Manager.

Saturday 26th June: My spies tell me that a new Trapman book is in the shops. I read his last one with relish. To be honest I read it with relish because I was hoping it would be his last one. Something about Saint Patrick and some girl and something else. At the time I thought it was a bit like the Da Vinci Code which it predated by a few years. Ah memories. Truly, happiness is being curled up at the chateau with a good Trapman sincerely and naively believing he'll never write another. His latest is said to be a collection of short stories. I will review it next month. My forecast for the review? Well just go to the Rocky Three film and fast forward to the bit where Clubber Lang is asked for his predictions for the fight against Rocky, and Clubber Lang snarls one word: "Pain." Expect letters of support for Trapman from Eilis Philips and other worthy burghers to start appearing in local publications shortly.