Just time for a quickie this morning, but at least you have the daffs up there to look at. And I swear to Allah (it is illegal for Christians to swear to God, or to anything – read the Bible: which kind of makes the whole court charade thing of swearing on the Bible before you tell your lies in public illegitimate) the wheelbarrow just happened to be there; I did not place it there for rustic, pictorial reasons. As with cars in the countryside, it was just abandoned there, not parked in any of the known meanings of that word.
And the mention of a quickie is not a reference to the matutinal sex question previously mentioned: I will explain that sometime if I get clearance from Legal. No, we are heading off early this morning on a mostly unlawful trip to the Schmall Schmoke. For the difference in meaning between ‘unlawful’ and ‘illegal’, you are on your own there, although I do, of course, know the answer. We = part-time wife, teenager #1 (the daughter and non-heir) and me, and the purpose of our journey to Belfast will be made up on the spot if the peelers stop us, but will no doubt touch on diabetic drugs and drought of same in my green and peasant land. I might throw in something to do with the public examinations that will not be taking place as well, and the essential preparations for them not to take place. We’ll be alright, so long as none of you touts touts on us on the psni toutline. I’ll tell youse about the journey tomorrow – if I am not in jail jail.
One door closes … and another one slams in your face. That is the pessimist’s view of life, and it is a fair enough outlook to have in 53.1% of the possible circumstances. In the Irish language, of course, we have a different view on doors. For a start, the basic word “doras” that youse have all forgotten from your schooling, is not even equivalent to the English word “door”. In Erse, it means the opening in the wall in which the piece of wood known as a door sits. Also, in Erse, is deise cabhair Dé ná an doras – God’s help is closer than the door. Which, when you think about it, is pretty damn close. Especially if you are sitting in the doras (bilingual, locational reference there: note use of preposition ‘in’) smoking your fourth cigarette of the maidin enjoying the antics of the local wildlife. Not the local humanoids, the four-legged ones. In many ways then, given both my position and the traditional location of God’s help, I was – to all occupying makeshift, canvas sleeping equipment and dolphins – in God’s help, or was God’s help. [You are certainly in need of it anyway – Ed.]
So even though my Icelandic swans are “gone, gone and never called me mother”, the new wildlife out in the fields beyond the back garden of the hacienda are currently providing me with seconds of enjoyment each morning as I try to extract the residue of last night’s fun from my lungs in a complicated and intricate act of coughing.
But the weemen are nagging me to get on the road. So I suppose I had better get dressed – although driving to Belfast naked would be corroborating evidence that the trip is essential, surely? I’ll let you know how I get on with that one. [Someone please phone the toutline now! – Ed.]
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