park life

 

Sitting on a bench in the park with a takeaway coffee and a bag of hot chips.

There is a semi circle of crows sitting on the grass in front of me sharing the chips.

A Dublin woman of mature years passes by and greets me in pure Dublinese.

"Ye look lovely sittin dere Luv," sez she.

"How do you mean?" I venture.

"Just sittin dere wit yer chips in yer big coat and yer scarf an yer hah, ye look lovely," enthuses she.

"Lovely but in a macho way," I affirm.

"Oh I can see dah," she cackles. "You're very macho. You're attractin all deh boords."

Whereupon she toddles off.

The accent kind of crowned it.

a previously undiscovered novel by a previously undiscovered bronte sister

 

WUTHERING SHYTES

by Flibbertigibbert Bronte

(Simon And Shyster Ltd, a subdivision of William Heinieman, the publishers of Go Set A Watchman, Harper Lee's previously undiscovered sequel to To Kill A Mockingbird (so previously undiscovered that the author never knew she'd written it) now claim to have found a previously undiscovered novel by a previously undiscovered Bronte sister called Flibbertigibbert Bronte. Knowing the Brontes as I do, anything is possible. Scholars suggest that the work may have influenced the previously undiscovered Flibbertigibbert Bronte's previously discovered sisters Emily, Charlotte and Anne in their own previously discovered world famous novels Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre and The Other One. Below is an extract.)

Chapter One.

Parson Linton could see the moors, wild and windswept stretching away in all directions.

He squinted into the middle distance, feeling for all the world as though he was looking back through time.

The desolate vista extended for miles uninterrupted save for a few erect trees desolately thrusting into an opaque sky.

That's odd, he  thought. You don't normally see trees doing that in public. And someone should sweep those moors properly.

The wind whipped his angelic golden hair, framing an innocent good natured face illustrative of a childish naivete and more improbably two belly buttons.

This was his first excursion through the realms of his new living.

He had taken up residence at the parsonage only three days ago,

It was high time he met his flock.

The country lane that skirted the moors led him directly to the outlying cottage of Squire Heathsnott Shyte Baines.

He had been warned to be careful of Heathsnott. In particular not to get any on his sleeves.

But Pastor Linton was an amiable, optimistic soul.

So ere long, he had presented himself at the door of the cottage which was nondescript enough but still quite atmospheric in an eerie olde worlde kinde of waye.

Just imagine a cottage for yourselves. I couldn't be bothered.

He rapped on the door.

No answer.

He peeped inside.

A sensational sensual sexual sibilantly langurous girl lay stretched on a couch, She was combing her splendid dark tresses as Pastor Linton entered. Her gown was a blue musliny velvet number from Dolce and Goridem.

In spite of himself Pastor Linton gasped.

The girl looked up with a wicked smile.

Pastor Linton's knees weakened.

He felt a maelstrom of disparate phrases go through his mind.

The odour of the musk rose.

The sickness of the pearl.

Phwoaarrrrrrrr.

"I am the new..." he began.

The girl stopped him with a wave of her tresses.

"I know who you are, why you came and what you want."

She's doing lines from Live And Let Die a full 150 years before it gets made; she must be a witch, thought Linton wildly.

"If you know all that," he finally managed with a weak laugh, "what am I thinking now? Ha, ha."

The magnificent specimen of a girl blushed prettily and said a few words.

It was Linton's turn to blush.

The girls eyes shot forth lambent green fire which lit a candlestick on the mantlepiece.

Linton sank into a chair.

"You will stay for t," said the girl, ringing a little bell while her tresses fell adorably across her cheek.

Linton wondered feverishly what t stood for.

A servant whom I'm not going to bother describing, entered.

I mean I'll describe the fact that he entered but not his haggard brow or stooped shoulders, or darting rats eyes, or lank shoulder length hair, or semi permanent leer or wheedling oy know moy roights voice or his air of having a lot on his plate that they don't prepare you for at servant school.

"Yes Mistress Cecilia."

"T for Pastor Linton."

The servant left.

The girl returned to her interminable gleaming tresses which looked set to ensnare the young man for life.

"I have come..." essayed Linton.

"That was quick," shot back Cecilia.

She is an enchantress, he thought.

He tried again.

"Might I..."

"Please."

He despaired of ever finishing a sentence.

All the time this exquisite tress stroking creature all but undressed all of him with all her eyes.

Conversation lagged but Linton was surprised to find he didn't mind.

The girl stirred langurously, only occasionally varying the languor with a sharp jerk, or by screaming mysteriously a la Meg Ryan, or by rearranging a gleaming tress or two, still smiling all the while in that strangely sensual way, and breathing a bit when the mood took her. She didn't seem to want to talk.

For long moments nothing happened except for when she breathed, Linton noticed her bosoms pulling in different directions under the soft blue velvet of her dress.

If she sensually moistens her lips again I'm going to die, he thought.

There had been a silence for about forty minutes, and still no sign of the servant coming back with whatever it was, when the outer door crashed open and a tall, dangerous looking, oddly dashing yet definitively yobbish gentleman precipitated himself into the room.

The intruder could not have known it as he shambled magnificently into public consciousness expectorating wildly and uttering "bahs" all around him, but his apparition at that moment would one day be recognised as the first appearance of the bollox as hero in chick lit.

Pastor Linton already had an early premonition that that's what he was.

The wild uncouth newcomer had the appearance and raiment of a young Orson Welles at the height of his powers or a middle aged Laurence Olivier on an off night.

Seeing the company he exclaimed another indeterminate "bah" possibly by way of greeting and crashed into an armchair by the fire.

Pastor Linton stood up eagerly.

"I'm Pastor Richard Linton," he babbled. "You must be Squire Heathsnott Baines if I'm not mistaken. I wished to make your acquaintance and took the liberty of calling. This young lady has kept me entertained while we waited."

Heathsnott turned a mocking gaze towards the girl then looked back quickly at Linton.

"This is Cecilia Westmacott," he sneered. "She is my ward. Daughter of a friend of mine who died in the peninsular war."

"After you shot him," murmured the girl distantly, plucking a tress.

There was an awkward moment even by the established standards of this place.

"Ah bloody war, tut tut," said Linton finally. "All in the past now. Delighted to meet you sir. Delighted."

He turned once more for another gander at the girl whose mocking smile had deepened into some sort of sensual sibilantly sexual place, way beyond mockery, a sort of lewd suggestive Mona Lisa you might say or a sex maniac on day release. Linton steadied himself and smiled broadly back at her, essaying nothing but bright and kindly forebearance.

I don't know what she's grinning so much about, he thought, it gets dashed unsettling after the first forty minutes or so.

The room fell silent.

Another forty minutes passed without further conversation.

Cecilia in her rampant sensuality was more demure now that the Squire had returned. She lit very few candles with her eyes and only barely singed the cat once in passing, more by accident than anything else. There was much less sensual, sexual, sibilant stirring on the couch stuff going on but still enough discrete messing about with those magnificent raven tresses for Linton to consider changing his name to Woof.

Presently the servant returned with the tea.

"Oh, tea," said Linton with sudden realisation.

"This is my servant, Master Bates," boomed Heathsnott. "Master Bates this is Pastor Richard Linton. Bah!"

"Oh come on," said Linton, "no really. Ha, ha. That's too much. Master Bates. Masturbates. Oh heavens. Not really. It's too much. You're joking, aren't you. Ho, ho, ho. Aren't you?"

"I do not see the reason for your amusement," invoked Heathsnott from beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Sorry," said Linton. "I don't know what came over me. It must be all this barely repressed brooding, sensual, sexual, sibilant energy flying about the place. It gives me the willies. Forgive me."

Heathsnott snorted and with a deft motion and another "bah," hurled the tea things into the fire place.

Cecilia whimpered but not without pleasure.

"Ridies," roared Heathsnott suddenly as the crockery settled.

There was an (awkward) silence.

Heathsnott directed his attention to Linton.

"You'd better go. I and Miss Westmacott are going horseback riding."

Linton could not help noticing that the incomparable raven tressed witch on the couch did not trouble herself to keep the disappointment from her face.

Perhaps she was disappointed that he was leaving.

He dared hope.

Nor did she seem to cheer up overmuch in the courtyard outside when it became clear that this cottage had a courtyard and that she and Heathsnott would be undertaking their ride across country while naked.

"Clothes off everyone," roared Heatsnott and then, "no, not you, you idiot," he added as Linton found himself complying.

Masturbates brought the horses.

"Get thee hence man of God," growled Heathsnott when he and his ward were astride their prancing black stallions. "This is no place for thee. There is nowt for thy sort here."

The two of them astride the blackest steeds looked like nothing so much as a god and goddess, primordial pagan deities as it were, doing pagany things on pagan steeds in some pagan depiction by a pagan artist with a talent for depicting heaving bosoms whether pagan or not.

"Pon my ward," exclaimed Linton in spite of himself.

He was thinking, it would make quite an appealing picture if you got rid of Heathsnott and the horses.

"Art thou tarrying still?" sneered Heathsnott. "Thou art verily a whey faced goon. Scat. Bah."

Linton could handle a few atmospheric archaisms, the ritual thees and thous of literature, and an odd bah in sheep scenes, but too much together left him floundering.

He gibbered insensibly a few sounds meant to indicate goodbye.

Heathsnott snorted as did the horse.

The girl tidied her glittering raven tresses and did not so much as glance at him.

I am lost, thought Linton, she has me now.

Back at the parsonage he spent a night tossing and turning in fevered sleep.

He was indeed a prisoner of her sinuous sensual sexual sibilant form. Her eyes. Her smile. Her shining silken clad thighs. The oddly truncated way she ordered tea. Her imperious interruptions of his sentences. Her tresses, ah, those magnificent silk tresses.

She had nice hair too.

flashback

(Friday 16th August 2019)

Eternity feels close.

It seems God is blessing me with a sense of his immediacy.

Two doves on a phone wire as I exited the house this morning.

One began to coo, making little bowing motions.

The other just sat there.

Later in the Tearman Cafe, when I told M, she asked did I think the doves were Uncle Bernard and Paul Oughten.

I said: "No, the doves are not them. But by God's grace they might have been allowed to send the doves."

It's been a great people day. First the time with M, then greetings and fine good fooling with Holly, Emer, Kevin and Alan in the cafe. Also some fun during the day with variously Patricia, Uncle Jim, Aunty Mary, her sister Helen, Cousin Helen, Kathleen, and Spanish Mary.

Topped off with a walk by the river and a few moments with the eight piglets in the barn belonging to the Camphill community. I sang a hymn to them and to Granny Pig and Mrs Pig.

Back home me and the doggies weeded the garden and cut the hedge ish.

It was a rich day.

Gracious, sweet, joyful.

A vintage moment in the Tearman after M left.

Four women of mature years entered in a gaggle, looked around flailingly for somewhere to sit, and descended upon my table.

I gassed away with them but instantly had reservations about one of their number, a certain Kay Scanlon.

No prior acquaintance.

Just an uneasy feeling that she placed no worth on anyone but herself.

And she was looking at me fixedly the whole time as though I should move.

The sensation scene came when she ordered me to pass her a jug of water.

"The water," she said.

"Yes, that's water," I said.

"Will you pass it to me?" she said.

"No," I said.

"I thought you were a gentleman," she said.

"You were wrong," I said.

Later I asked my maiden aunt did she know her.

"Yes," mused the aunt, "she's nice enough if she thinks you're important enough to be nice to."

I thought the aunt's words were a very fine summation of character.

"Oh," added the aunt struck by a sudden afterthought, "she's also related to the Sunday Independent writer Brendan O'Connor. She's his Mother In Law."

As she imparted this nugget, the soundtrack to The Good The Bad And The Ugly went: "Aiiiiiieeeeaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh,"

Well, well, well, bold readers.

Bankrupt Sunday Independent Irish Times RTE atheistic abortionist euthanasist contrareceiving divorcenik bigoted anti Catholic types...

Apparently I can still smell them out at a hundred paces.

quoth the mouse nevermore

 

Last night at 2.30am, eschewing humane non lethal capturing devices laced with steak, totally ignoring bowls of supposedly irresistable aromatic poison pellets and also quite apparently thoroughly indifferent to a state of the art ultra sonic blah machine retailing at 34 Euro that's supposed to be able to empty a mansion full of mice in minutes flat, Mousekin opted for the doorway number four option and stepped into an old fashioned wooden mousetrap of the Dad's which Farmer Jones had found in a drawer (Ooh er Missus) and installed beside the piano.

He was a good mouse, a brave mouse, a clever mouse and a traditionalist at heart.

He took the cheese.

As for the aforementioned sonic device... I'm not totally writing off the concept. Since we switched it on, the Jack Russell has been looking a bit woozy and this morning I walked into a door.

heritage

 

the theatrical succession

years flung away

ham actors chewing up the stage

in their anodyne atheistic little play

stand now as one

with those who hammed

in shakespeare's day

and there's something old and rare

and very grand

in this damp tacky theatre off clubland

kinneavey meets his waterloo i mean vietnam

 

The mouse is ignoring the humane traps and the array of newly installed lethal ones.

In fact the only thing we caught in the old fashioned snap trap which Farmer Jones installed this afternoon was Farmer Jones while he was installing it.

As he nursed his bloody finger he treated me to a recital of traditonal Irish curse words in order to better express his chagrin and discontent.

How long is it since I've heard anyone scream "bitch's ghost," "hoors of Babylon," and "******* ****," like they mean it.

It was a real nostalgia trip.

He put down poison too.

"Are you sure about this?" he said.

I answered with my version of the famous makey uppy quote which broadcaster Peter Arnett claimed an American Major had said to him in Vietnam.

"In order to save the mouse, it has become necessary to destroy him."

i've been to the desert on a mouse with no name

"The next time you catch that mouse." exclaimed my maiden aunt, "you're to kill it."

"I couldn't kill Kinneavey," I cry aghast.

"I thought you said his name was Mousekin," quoth the aunt.

"I gave him a new name," I explained. "Remember our Cousin Decker Berney had a mouse. I've renamed this one after Decker Berney's mouse."

"Do you remember how that one ended?" National Enquirered the aunt darkly.

"Oh come on aunt," sez I, "the mouse is hardly going to build a palatial mansion in my garden on a corrupt patrol mouse's salary while riding drug hoors at the checkpoints and never having done a day's work in his life, then park his Mercedez Benz mouse cars in my driveway while maintaining a divorced mouse wife at another location, and have the Hutch gang move in next door while I conveniently die. That can't happen twice in the same family never mind the same town."

the fine art of discerning

"Did you see what happened at the Capitol building?"

"You mean the riot?"

"It was an insurrection James, an insurrection. Nothing more, nothing less."

"That's CNN talk Aunt."

"They beat that policeman to death with a fire extinguisher."

I went a bit quiet.

Weeks later I came across a Mark Steyn article saying the reports of a fire extinguisher as cause of death for Officer Brian Sicknick have now been withdrawn.

So we don't know how or why that police officer died.

We do know that two other police officers Jeffrey Smith and Howard Liebengood, one of whom was blamed for the incursion at the Capitol and fired by Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, are said to have committed suicide.

We do know that Capitol police claim that three people in the crowd of protestors met their deaths through medical emergencies.

We do know that one unarmed woman protestor who entered the Capitol building was shot dead by a Capitol police officer.

We do know that two other protestors have committed suicide after charges were pressed against them in connection with the riot. One of them was charged with breaking a curfew.

We do know that a left wing anti Trump anarchist styling himself John Sullivan is among those facing charges for inciting the riot.

These are murky waters.

too many vulgarisms spoils the broth of a boy

 

The mouse ignores cheese.

He has refused a Cadburys chocolate gug.

Today he's turned his nose up at raw steak.

I look at the humane non lethal trap.

The steak sits there serenely.

At the entrance to the undisturbed trap the mouse has left fresh wood splinters from the skirting board which runs around the base of the wall.

It's like he's taunting me.

My eyes meet Jeff Goldblum's.

"******* hell," says Jeff Goldblum, stroking that little beard thing he sometimes has.