Hallucinogenic soup and a maths lesson - WWII Redser the 'puter man.

Redser should have gone to prison for poisoning his uncle Paddy – well he wasn't his real uncle: he was his aunt's husband. But everyone insisted he called him uncle. Redser hated him. Ever since he started telling him his hair was rusty from standing out in the rain.

Auntie Polly loved making soup, all kinds: potato, vegetable, broth from leftover meats. Redser liked them, but Paddy loved them, and drank big bowls of them with brown bread and country butter at lunchtime. That was up to the day Redser slipped some wild stringy long stemmed black capped mushrooms into one of the servings. Black Caps, Ink Caps, he later found out were hallucinogenic, and could lead to some very odd behaviour, particularly when the person who eats them consumes alcohol. And Paddy was a drinker.

But Paddy running down the outside streets of a country town shouting that he was Ali Baba and could fly, was surprising. The fact that he also felt very warm: became red-faced, and threw off all of his clothes, and gambolled naked, out and away from the pub, was also frowned upon. The plonker later told everyone that two old ladies were so upset that one of them had a stroke, but the other couldn't catch him.

When the incident was being discussed with the Garda who called, Redser said. “I ate the soup, so did Auntie Polly, and we did not go Ga Ga. Must have been the drink.” The Garda agree and that was that.

Redser was not an eager student, well unless it was Maths: Geometry, Propositions, Theorems, things like that came easy to him. As he saw it, Pythagoras got it right when he said that the son of the squaw on the hippopotamus hide was equal to the sons of the squaws on the other two hides. That was Redser's secret: changing the definitions he might not remember to something he would easily recall. He had lots of those tricks.

“Dunne, yes you. Empty head.” Pointing at Redser, “Square 16. That's right 16 mult.....”

“256, Sir.”

“That was an easy one. 36 squared?”

“1295. Sir.”

“What are you laughing at Dwyer? What's 25 squared?”

Redser converted the problem in his head using a formula his Granddad had taught him. Round up, round down, Add the real square. So 25 by 25 was the same as 20 by 30 and then square the end number 5, get 25 and answer 625. Sir.

"You're useless. Dwyer, Anyone know?”

Redser knew he was not included in that invitation but nevertheless answered “626. Sir”

He got a wallop on the side of his head for answering.

“No one asked you. Boy”

“Am I wrong? Sir.”

“Get out Dunne. Stand outside the door 'til I send for you.”

Redser walked slowly to the door.

“Hurry up. Get out'f me sight.”

Redser left, walked to the bicycle shelter, took his bike, jumped aboard, and peddled for home.

“Sir. Sir. Out the window, Dunne's riding out the gate. He's going home!”

When he got home his Granddad was working in his workshop, shaping a shaft for a pony trap.

“You're early.”

“Wiggy! We were doing maths. He threw me out.”

“Were you cheeky?”

“Well we were squaring. And he was picking on me.”

“I told you to slow down. Stop firing out the answers before the question is over. He told you to clear off home?”

“No out the door. Stand in the hall, 'till he sent for me. Probably cane me when he had steam up.”

“He'll be up to see me so.”

“What will you say to him.”

“I'll give him short shrift and tell him I'll see him in the pub later. He will be shitting himself, waiting for me to come in the door. So I'll got to Nealons for a change. The pint is not as good: but it won't kill me this once.”

“Why don't you go to the normal place and invite him to play a game of twenty five.”

“Cheeky, go on in and tell Polly I'll be in soon.”

Looking after him as he headed for the back-door, Old Bill muttered what he had said to Polly so often in the past. “ He's a good lad, but I think his father's wild streak will get him into trouble. That and living with a quick brain in a town of slow plodders. We will have to get him out of this place!”

When Redser passed his school leaving examination with distinction and qualified to sit an additional test to join the national airline, and was called to sit for it in O'Connell Street In Dublin; the head of the Brothers asked him if he could check the letter to see if a mistake had been made.

“We did not put your name down on the forms to be considered by the airline, on the basis of your leaving results. There must be some administration error.”

“Well there it is,” Redser replied, holding out his hand for the return of the letter.

Later Granddad chuckled when he heard of the exchange. “So that's what you were at when I caught you practising signatures. Who will he find out signed the application forms for you, then?”

“The careers and maths man, the lay teacher. Dinny.”

“The one who retired and went back to Dublin, after the exams were finished.”

“The same man.”

“God bless him so. If Nixer contacts him what will Dinny say.”

“We all believe Nixer forced him out – he was a good maths teacher, and Nixer wanted his job. So he will listen carefully and then say he did sign it.”

“When you are up in Dublin, look him up and buy him a drink.”

“Buy him a drink? Sure, I don't drink.”

Granddad smiled. “Yet.”

A nice day here and me editing genes kicks in. WWII Sequel. Possible Pub scene - always include one of those...

Fanahan had to admit that Gerry had tidied it up, and gave the place a lick of paint. He was unsure about the big framed painting of Milo R.I.P. Rot in Purgatory, does that place exist any more? Does Limbo either? It was hanging at the back, behind the counter above the mirror, it looked like he was smiling down at the punters!

A new, different clientele...if you could call toss-pots and drunkards clientele, were now coming into the Saloon Bar. The plonker changed the name as well. Fanahan knew that late on a Saturday night, in this location, after watching, and iPhone betting on the nags all day, these boys would act like cowboys in a saloon brawl.

What cha say to her, me gurlfrien?

Nuttin.

Well that's it then - just say nuttin or ya'll be pickin up yer teeth – wan by wan.

But a couple of new customers were dropping in. Scoping the place out: no doubt. Shay was missing the old crowd – even the Prick – you could get a rise out of him. Now, it seemed, he had reverted into Georgie, cast off the cloths of his granny the duchess, and was on the lam. But the powers in the job,were ignoring the fact that he appeared to have hung himself. They believed he had – Shay knew better: he checked the credentials of the corpse and it was a real auld one, not a man.

I need a diversion, from me problems. I need to stir some shit, of me own.

“Would you like a drink? Pal.” He asked the suited, shabbily suited, gentleman on his right turned who turned and looked Shay up and down.

“No thank you. Pal! I'm fine and on my own: enjoying my own company.”

“Oh! La-de-daw. Pal! It's detective to you, Detective Inspector Fanahan, to be exact. Who are you?”

Flustered at such a direct approach, cautiously he replied. “Church Willmore is my name.”

“Church? After Churchill, it's no wonder you shortened that. What do you do, Church?”

“I'm retired.”

Fanahan was starting to enjoy himself, interrogation was something he enjoyed, particularly when it served his purpose of upsetting someone.

“What did you do then? How would you describe yourself? Mr. Retired.”

“I would say, I was a former editor at the Irish Press Newspaper Group.”

Fanahan wanted to reply and I'm a former schoolboy but instead continued twisting the knife. “Sure that went out of business in 1995, didn't it. Connie was the only journalist in that rag, the rest acted like stringers. The mouthpiece of De Valera. He founded it. Didn't he?”

“So they say detective.”

“Hop it then back to your own company, I'm tired engaging with you.”

Fanahan remembered the note he had picked up in the hospital: the one Georgie left for him, after he hanged the auld dear to pretend it was himself as the duchess. He fished it out of his pocket, opened the envelope and glanced at the message.

I've changed my drink to a Brandy and Port, Shay. Suppose you are still a pint and a ball o' malt chaser man. See you soon and we can reminisce.

I Knew it. I knew he was on the lam!

The caps in this...in strange places I think help the eye stop and consider the sounds better....Shrill and Nearest neighbours...

Wickers' Wood

The Big House and farm were sold, The house has been renovated as offices, and the garden and fields now contain a housing estate. Some of the wood still stands as a timber copse.

Night:

Winding wind whispering

Through white willows;

Over broken boughs

Of time worn trees;

Lazily lapping

Their Nearest neighbours

Brooding branches;

In the Eerie empty

Slumbering silence

Of the Wicker Wood.

Morning:

Rabbits romping

Round and round,

Blackbirds’ Shrill sounds

Disturbing darkness.

Grasses glisten.

Dewey dawn

Awakes, each

Rustling russet leaf

As morning murmuring

Fills the Wicker Wood anew.

Day:

Children crouching

Clutching, undashed dreams,

Play patiently,

Unaware

Of loneliness,

Knowing only

loveliness

In the

Timeless tender

Comforting, unclasping

Unknown embrace

Of daytime

In the Wicker Wood

Night:

Darkness draws cool curtains,

Catching

Cows and horses

Hurrying homewards happily.

Descending dreamlike

Picture painting

Figure floating,

Sunset

Settles silently

And Night-time visits

The Wicker Wood again.

Two poems from The Land of Cudhaben that land where we dream...if only. #savethe8th #repealthe8th

I am not saying how I will vote in the upcoming Irish Constitutional Amendment on repealing the Eight Amendment – but my conscience and my decision will as always be from my own experience, from my heart – and not from speeches, posters, arguments,  clerical pressure, or callers to radio discussion programs.

The Land of Cudhabeen

In the land of Cudhabeen

You could ask for a bedtime story

And I could tell you one.

What would it be about?

What would you ask for?

Would you ask for life?

Would you ask that

It never happened:

That you came and went

So soon. So very soon.

I don't know and I will

Never have the answer:

It's your answer that you

Never got to give.

And can't now.

At least not in words,

Or a language we understand.

Did you answer in the wind?

That time, I thought

I heard you whispering.

Did you sweep the gentle rain drops

Onto my cheeks?

To wash away my sad tears.

Sad tears not just for you

But for all who went too soon.

Did you send the heat to comfort my bones?

My stooped back creaking and sore.

And then the warmth.

Was it your warmth?

Healing me. But only my body.

My mind in the land of Cudhabeen,

Will never stop asking why?

Why me? Why us? Why them?

There is no happy ever after

In this story.

And yet sometimes you chase that darkness

And show the new light,

The new season to me:

That for now, my child,

Will keep me hopeful.

And in time perhaps,

In another telling

Of the next story. You

Will get to hold me

In your arms.

Roses Have Thorns

They spawned this place,

In the same furnace,

That forged Magdalens:

From cold intentions.

We will handle it

They told my Parents.

Leave it - to us…

In grief: trust was given.

Then, They took me

In my swaddling clothes;

And mangered me here

In my Gethsemane.

No graveside company

Mourned me;

Only my Creators

Distant, unseen, tears.

Shattered hearts:

Still honour me:

In painful dreams,

Of my once-being.

I will be remembered

Now, They say again,

With Rose Gardens

But, Roses have thorns.

Honour me, with grass

And Markers.

Put me in the light

That always shines,

In my parents' hearts.

In the remembrances

Of my family.

Not among the thorns.

We have carried

That Crown already.

Writing is a funny game from frivolity to the serious stuff Wicker Wood II

When Georgie thought back on it, he realised that he was always more than a single person. Some of the reading-up he did on it, secretly, while in the hospital – no madhouse – explained a bit about the disorder. Another disorder he mused to himself, the first time he saw the disease explained as a disorder of the mind, usually caused by childhood trauma. And he had lots of that while he was growing up with cloying Mumsie, The Duchess, and of course The Major. It wasn't sexual, just abuse that destroyed his being, self belief, and any sense of worth he had. That was when Timmy came to his rescue. He was stronger and able to stand up to the grown ups: not outwardly though, secretly, hidden, out of the light he used say. A cat missing, presumed to have strayed, but dead, terribly cut up, and secreted where a maid might find it eventually when the stench became overpowering in the house. Dogs, particularly one of major's beagles, poisoned: found in the morning legs up, lying on its back, the bloated belly swollen with gas.

Then, when Georgie was not so distressed with the family any more, Timmy would go away for a time. It was Timmy who was the killer, first of animals, and then the girls. Georgie tried to stop him, saying.....No Timmy, No Timmy. Not more killing

 enough girls have been killed. In the end it was Georgie who buried them in the grove. He reasoned if the bodies were found he would get the blame, not Timmy.

Even now when he thought of it he whimpered. “ ….No, Timmy, No. I'll be the blame. Not you...” Then after Grammy died, she often came back and chastised both of them. After the police came, Grammy stayed and Timmy was banished. He stayed away for years, but – he was back now, and then, still a killer: this time in waiting. How long could Georgie make him wait?

The last time when Duchess said the boy was responsible for making the mess, letting the family down, and finally indicated as best she would allow herself to, that the boy was responsible. 

Everyone thought she meant Georgie killed the girls, but that was not true, what she was trying to say, and her pride in the family would not let her say it: Timmy was the killer, the culprit, the brigand, the vagabond.

Maybe now this time The General would rein Timmy in and prevent further carnage: maybe.

A fella has to relax and write dreams or something like that - Sometimes - more sometimes than is healthy!

The Adventures of Vinnie the Weasel

Chapter 1

Vinnie Goes Underground

Vinnie was feeling dreadful, melodion he would have said feelin' melodion, melodion, terrible.

He had been at the cider apple slops again: in the Slop Shop, couldn't resist it, even though all that sugar made him woozy, and the cider apples made him, well there is no other words for it Melodion.

He remembered something about attacking the old Grey Badger: but that could not be true, he was still alive, in one piece, not the remains of a badger's dinner.

So that part was a missed-memory, and he had been having lots of them lately. He scratched his privates, reefing at his itchy marbles, while he was at it he decided to give them a quick lick. That was a bad idea, somewhere along the line in his drunken state he must have peed himself.

He tried to stand but failed. It was time to open his eyes, no matter what pain that would bring. He was in a barn somewhere, maybe that old shed behind the post, near the den where he had been born. But he knew this was wrong: more hope that truth. He was in the graveyard, on a tombstone, out in the open where people could see him. He crawled beneath an opening at the side of the cover and dropped down into the skeleton bones below. He felt secure once more.

He crawled along on his belly, around corners, up stones: anyway to get away from this bone yard. Even the odd clink of a bone against another bone was doing his head in.

He slouched around in the dark, sometimes the gloom, depending on the grave slaps above, until starving and with a terrible dry mouth he escaped into an overgrown pathway leading away from the village into the counytry side. He found a garden with a cabbage patch infested with slugs and starving he munched on one. Although he never are snails or slugs before his hunger overcame him and he started to gulp them down, one at a time then greedily two or three or sometimes a bigger mouth full. Jees wonder did me auld weasel mother know a French weasel once. These are juicy, almost as juicy as the cider apple slops, in me, local the Slop Shop.

Chapter 2

Vinnie Meets Pal

So there I was out in the garden, at night, lamping slugs with a flash light. I suppose most of you are too young to remember when people went Lamping Rabbits after the war. No! Not the war in Kuwait or Iraqi or Korea, or Afghanistan...or The Liveline Call in program with Hoe Puffy 1345-1500. , or the Slop Shop debacle any weekend when drink is flowing, and tempers are short. World War II! No! Two not Eleven. It was easy. Not the War: the Lamping.

After falling into and crawling out of a ditch , or two, you switched on a big light - N0! You didn't trail a cable way back home, to a socket - you had a big battery, and you dazzled a rabbit and then you got - Oh! I forgot you needed another fool to go with you, a co-conspirator, - got that from Judge Judy - to belt Bunny over the head with the stick.

Now when you got Bugs home and out of his Long Johns and funny long-eared hat, and into the pot, you sat back and got the veg and spuds ready.

Where was I? Oh Yea! In the garden with the flash light looking for slugs when I heard a voice say “Yer stealing me snacks Pal."

I almost watered the cabbages again. I jumped around shouting “Who's there? I have a black belt! I knew it was holding up my pants, but I hoped the intruder - Crimecall, this time - didn't know that.

There was no one there. I was just about to go into the house and have a big cup of Coca to steady me nerves when I heard it again.

“ I said.Yer stealing me snacks Pal!"

Again I shouted. “I have all the Karate Kid videos and I watched The Sound of Music fourteen times.”

“Down here Pal. Shine that light down here.” I did. There was nothing there only a weasel scratching himself or herself on a rock, casually chewing on a large fat slug.

Good I thought relieved - couldn't resist the Pun. It's only a talking weasel.”

In my best Miley accent, I said. “Well Holy God! A talking weasel!”

“ I prefer Mustela niva....Jees never mind, I can't remember the rest, I goes be the name of Vinnie.”

“Where did you get that name? I said, still confused , trying to wrest back the initiative in conversation: like they told me to do on my IMI Project Management Course.

“From you. Or were you saying Winnie””

“Me. I never met you before!”

“I've been watching you.” He said, just like the way Stephen King says it, somewhere in every bloody book he ever wrote.

“After all, I learned to speak your language from you. You garden and then you stop and start boxing the air”. Punch Punch, Snort Snort shouting “I got ya now Rocky. Here's the one I'm getting' ready for Vinnie. Put him to sleep it will.”

“No I don't!” I yelled.

“Yes you do!” He yelled back.

“Don't.”

“Do.” He said again.

“Don't.” I screamed.

And then he got me.“Don't.” He screamed back.

“Do!” I roared triumphantly arms akimbo, doing my little victory dance. Well! Sh-one-t! Bested by a weassel. Well - a very intelligent slug.

And then he told me the story.

For weeks he had been watching me. Apparently he alleged as in the various Court Case, where he was the defendant..... well let's move on. I would dig, or rake, or sow - the gardening kind: not on a Knitting Forum. Then I would bounce into the lawn and box - no Box in a ring. Not box as in The Smurfit Box Company - I boxed for Ireland you know! I worked in Smurfits!

He said I would box an imaginary opponent always called Rocky. Well come on. He had a couple of films. And now nuttin'. I felt I gotta Guive Him A Job.

And I would snort – let's not go there – and duck and dive and talk to myself.

“And by the way Pal, ya can't count to ten.”

“I can, it's seven, eight, nine, ten.”

“Wha' about one to seven?”

“I ain't never huerd those numbas befor'”

And so, that's how Weasel Vinnie said he learned our language. He liked the name as well and adopted it, thought it got in touch with his feminine side.

We made a pact. I would sow, a row of Lettuce and Cabbage to attract the slugs and they would wipe them out for me – free of charge. Just the odd tip on a horse Pal, that'll do it.

“So that's it then Pal. We have an agreement!”

“That's it Vinnie. We done now?”

I left, and when I entered the house that night I didn't know that Vinnie was going to lead me up the garden-path.

Chapter 3

The Gunship Bismark

When Pal got back to the house. The Dishwasher had a message for him: he didn't have an answer phone. It was “Program Finished Please Empty”.

In the Kitchen The Gunship his DW - Dear Wife - she shopped in Brown Thomas, was waiting for him. She was tapping a large frying pan against her tie: she wore men's clothes, and he didn't think he was in for a fry-up.

“Where has Yous been? And whos was yous talking to?”

Jees, Pal thought she's talking like Vinnie too.

“No one.” Pal said.

“I heard yas!” The Gunship said.

Jees! thought Pal. Twenty five thousand grant-aided Euros worth of wall insulation and triple glazed windows, and we were half-way down the garden and she still hears us!

“I wasn't speaking to anyone”

“Yous was.” The Gunship said.

“Wasn't” Pal said.

“Was.” The Gunship said again.

“Wasn't!”

“Wasn't!” The Gunship shouted.

“Was so, was so!” Pal screamed back.

“OK! OK! Just a weasel.”

“I knew it! One of your buddy’s was down there.”

“No! A real weasel, ya know like a polecat.”

“I knew it! It was your other squeeze....Polly.”

“No! IT WAS A REAL WEASEL. His name is Vinnie.”

“Talking to a weasel! Have you been at the Wacki Backi? An' Another Thing!”

Oh! No!, Pal thought - not another thing. Don't say AND ANOTHER THING. You always say that. If it was only one another thing, but it's always more.

“You have a message on your Batphone.”

“What's up? Is Gotham City in trouble again?”

Bam! Zap! Zow! Powie! Frozen Catfish! Pal woke up alone on the floor ten minutes later.

The Gunship Bismark was gone, only the scent of her lingered. He pinched his nose and screamed and his forehead was sore. He thought he was bleeding.

He looked in the mirror, The message The Gunship had left on his forehead was as clear as the squashed nose on his face. It read “Made in China”.

Chapter 4

Slug-Ali The Greatest

He checked the phone. He had a text from Polly. It read DP MT POT SHD. DE GRTS WM. MD AS HL. SOS. POL.

He never knew what those messages meant but if he had sent it he would have said.

Dear Pal. You need to attend at a meeting in the Potting Shed, where Ali, The Greatest, requests to meet you . He is as mad as hell. Someone squealed. Polly. Well no. He wouldn't have signed it Polly. DOH! DOH!

“Wassup Pal!! How's it hanging? Someone here waiting on you,” says a cool slick water rat on watch at the door.

“Ok. Slick. Sometin' terrible.” Replied Pal.

He's feeling a bit uneasy or is it just queasy and he's unsure, so he's thinking about stalling but quickly realises he would look a right cabbage if he were to falter. So he settles his “Kiss Me Quick”, squares up in the doorway and pushes the door open in a John Wayne like fashion. He wants to say “Pilgrim” But instead says “Who’s there.”

“I am, I am Polecat-Ali The Greatest. Call me Ali: if you dare. Pleased ta meet ya. I used to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee – just like my hero Muhammad Ali. I bopped 'em, 'til I dropped 'em. - they never got a chance to lay one on this pretty face.”

“OH MY GOD...”says Pal

“Yea that’s me: words out that you’re a bit of a pug yourself, words out that you run a mean and nasty gaff here. From my sources words out that you was huerd saying: I talk to wease,ls: Do YA PAL?

“Jees Ali. Mister Ali. No way man, you’re the Greatest, I’d never be disrespect-in the polecat. Jees man you’re the best, I mean it.”

Feeling under pressure Pal secretly - texts his DP: bring some rescue remedy. Well that's what he meant; he only texted HELP!

Polly makes a grand entrance with the best treats of lettttuccesss and cuucuuumber bites: on her Blue Periwinkle Bone China.

“Delighted, delighted you could join us Ali for some light refreshments. Will you have some geesberry wune? “

She meant gooseberry wine but had tippled a few earlier! “Don’t mind what my sweet Pal says. The night air has affected him ever so slightly and at times he does tend to ramble some....poor dear.

I must let Mrs Hermione Pott know that you are here. She’s my neighbour with the jacuzzi and room for a pony and the husband that NAMA is investigating.”

Ali was smitten! Wow! He thought. That broad Polly would blow the whistle on my kettle anytime. She's a sophisticated broad, looks to die for..sometin' looking like Gabrielle from Desperate Housewives, and a sharp cultured creature like Hyacinth from Keeping Up Appearances.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that creature of desire, his shoulders shook and he sighed loudly as he failed.

But what Ali didn't know was: she a tendency to over indulge on that home-made wine Pal makes...cheapskate won’t buy vintage! But mst of the tome ...oops..(sorry me too..) most of the time... she's class.

What he can't know either is she could be as sensitive as any sweet pea and but has a fiery temper on her like a Tsunami but that's what Pal sees in her, he's smitten, - isn't that right Pal.- and she knows how to play that to her full advantage!

What they never suspected is that Polly has that Ali fella well mapped: knows his game and has a few rotten cider appless – Real worm infested Heavies- to deal with that An'tick....dried up tosser...thinks he identifies with Matt Damon in Bourne Identity! Wouldn't see a whole large hole: in a ladder.

Ali came out of his trance as in the real Rocky style Pal says...

“The Wurld! It ain’t all sunshine and rainbows- sniff, sniff. It 'sa very mean and nasty place. It will beat ya to yaur knees and keep you there perman'ntly – ifan you let it. Ya! Me! Nah nooobody is going to hit as hurd as LIFE. But it ain’t about how hurd you hit. It's about how hurd ya can get hit and keep movin' furwa'd, it's how much ya can take : and keep moving furwa'd.”

My Rocky Balboa speech should impress: thinks Pal quietly – well that statement beats Banagher! Writer? Can you think loudly?

It did the job; tired and emotional again, Ali said, “I’m feeling it man. Take me home Slick. Sing me a sad song”

“OK Boss.”

Under a Parsnip leaf. Old Rick Badger, slurps his whiskers, drags on his fag and whispers, “Not that tune, though. I tole yas all, don’t sing that tune.”