a blog article not for perusal by dog wardens, police officers or ronan murphy

Evening in the dulcet South Kildare haven of Kilcullen.
I am walking by the river with the dogs.
Ahead through the haze of dusk a figure materialises.
A clammy hand grips my heart.
Ronan Murphy.
The town wit.
He always makes some telling remark when he meets me.
A remark that is not insulting exactly but vaguely indefinably irksome.
Not a put down if you know what I mean.
But really annoying.
And I can never think of a riposte.
Now he draws level with me and looks askance at the Jack Russell.
"Have you got a licence for that?" he enquires with no hint of kindness.
He walks off as I flounder.
Inspiration dawns.
"I have a licence from God," I call after him.
"I wasn't talking to you," shouts back Ronan Murphy.
Damn him.