apologia pro vignettes mea

Rounding a street corner amid the bustle of life I almost collide with Antoinette Broward.

She's a woman of middle years, not bad looking, athletic, attractively proportioned, never previously of any interest to me as a potential Aroogah, because of her, er, modest er, connections to, er, gangland.

I hold with comedian Eddie Murphy on these matters. If the bitch is in the mafia, there's something wrong with the pussy.

In the best sense of an old fashioned phrase, Antoinette is a moll.

Her family is related to one of the border clans famous for mayhem related activities in Northern (alright, ho hum, for the sake of accuracy, and Southern) Ireland, that is to say, basically up to its neck in everything listed in the Judaeo Christian tradition generally and the Book of Leviticus particularly, as being a no no.

I suppose she and I haven't said twenty words to each other in the course of our lives although we grew up in the same small Irish town and there has never been any personal enmity between us.

I've seen her on acting stage a few times and thought she had a good theatrical presence.

Of course I wouldn't turn my back on her in a theatre.

Or on a dark night.

Or indeed in plain day.

Or at any time, anywhere.

I went to school with some of her brothers and I would consider them scary doods although in a paradoxically innocent, charming, countrified way somewhat less scary than the Border based branch of the clan.

I'm nearly half sure they've never actually killed anyone.

Her brother Ron was the most naturally gifted athlete among us young lads growing up. He could have been a professional sportsman if he hadn't chosen to enter the family business.

The legend goes that when Ron was facing court charges for one of various incidents involving his use of violence, the main witness in the case was sitting outside the courthouse and Ron's brother, known locally as the Parrott, walked up out of the crowd, punched the witness in the face and walked away. The case did not proceed.

Lovely lovely people.

With regard to Anoinette herself, I would always greet her if we passed each other in the street, hence the twenty words in a lifetime, and she would always reply.

Today she had halted abruptly as we met.

Her face became poignant.

A raven tress fell on her cheek.

Suddenly she put a hand on my chest.

Her voice when it came, was a sigh: "Oh James."

This was not physical attraction.

I know what physical attraction is because I've read about it in books and seen it in the Titanic movie.

This was something else.

This was genuine concern.

She couldn't help herself.

The human being in her briefly overcame the moll.

Not physical attraction.

But very feminine.

My eyes widened.

All the more impactful because she's tough and well walked and knows the way to the court house.

"Hi there Antoinette," I said brusquely as per my usual form and moved quickly on, leaving her lily hand flailing unremarked in the breeze.

I gotta tell you bold readers, when a gal from the Broward gang puts her hand on your chest and looks at you as if she's worried about your safety, you can feel the devil bite your ass.

(cf: When a herd of bullocks comes thundering towards you across a field in the dark...)

(cf: When Rah poet Des Egan gives you a dirty look in Newbridge Church...)

(cf: Tuco's feelings in The Good The Bad And The Ugly when a rope goes round his neck...)