A fly on the wall an opinion on Creation....

Bzzzzz, bzzzz. Let me introduce myself. I'm Fly on The Wall, an observer of history, unseen mostly. Who would imagine that a tiny fly on the wall was a listener, a chronicler of all that he or she (never found out whether I was male of female: or both), but that is not important, in the realm of history reporting. After all gender does not colour opinions: well that is what the experts say. I would have preferred to say experts put out there, but that phrase has been hijacked by the media as well. I put the story out there, I put out the cat, she, puts it out there?

Where was I? Yes as an observer of humanity, what other creature is worth observing? Lions? They lie around most days, with an occasional stirring of themselves to kill another beast, for a feast, that can last days – worse that ancient Rome that kind of debauchery, eating and.. I'm diverted again. Psst...the lady does that, the Kill. The male gets engaged now and then in another kind of stirring, Ha. Ha. A lion with a stirring in his lions.

When you are flitting around observing, or spying if you like you can learn things. A fella was just Googling about flies and he found out, and so did I, that: male fruit flies enjoy relief, according to research published in Current Biology. The study also found that when fruit flies are denied sex, they consume more alcohol than usual.

It's amazing what scientists can come up with when they are being Grant Aided.

So fruit flies, or should that be flys? Quick someone Google it so I can look over your shoulder. As I was saying fruit flies have a lot in common with humans. Not getting any? Go on the sauce. Then if you get some you can't perform, without aid, sometimes chemical other times not. Just the lady giving you a helping hand.

So where was I before I got diverted? It happens with all that is going around a fella. I have decided I'm male – just like the fruit fly.

Yes! Fairy Tales put out by religions to control their flocks, not flocks of sheep, flocks of people who follow a leader, just like sheep.

Take the story of Adam and Eve and The Garden Of Eden. Not true at all. Just poppycock. Who was there as an observer of creation? No one! Not even a fly on the wall! Why? 'cause there were no walls - end of story. So who knows what went on, or came off.

Well the way I see it with my grain of sense, and that's all the space I have in my head for sense, a space to fit a grain, is that God was having a day off, and The Creator was filling in. His job, that day was to create Man. Well God was after earning a rest and a nap, and a few choccies, at the time. Well maybe God had a sweet tooth and created sweets and chocolate and the like, before he was due to create Man, so he was resting. He had just made the World, land, seas fish animals, the lot and was tired. The Creator, who was standing in then made a mess of creating humans.

He made one man, and thought the job was done. He perhaps realised that man needed a companion to as they say to keep him company. That reminds me in the 1960's the church in Ireland railed against men and women keeping company, said it was a big sin.

So Hubba Hubba, back to the job at hand. Creator got lazy and forgot to give man a companion to - they say, keep him company. Then he hurried the job and made a woman out of an auld bit of bone lying around after he made man. You know when modern man is fixing a clock and when he is finished some parts remain over. Well, in my opinion, that's where the rib came from: a left over part.

So he bowls on and made Woman, with all he jiggly bits, even though God had plans that man and woman would never do the bold thing: as he, God saw it. In my opinion if there had been a fly on the wall at that time in God's workshop, he might have pointed out the problem in proper planning. If it were me I would pipe up (yes we can speak when it suits us). Hey Bozo - calling God a Bozo? You would have gone to hell! No Smartie this was early in the game and God was not even thinking of sin, so no hell. So Hey Bozo, how are they going to produce little humans to worship, and marvel, and be in awe of the great job you think you made. A universe, of myriad planets, stars and suns, expanding across the spaces and no one there to benefit. A blank canvas and no one has any paint to paint a plan of action. I guess man invented pencils and the like after. Charcoal! From burned wood, that is what they would have used to scribble: in them early eons. But where did the fire, the flame spring up from? Will O' The Wisps maybe?

Anyway I need to buzz over to another wall, where someone has just invented fly paper and sabotage their plans.

Be safe, stay apart, and be healthy. Or as we say in Ireland in God's language - Slán.

Seclusion is forcing me to write worse rubbish than usual: from Little Lifetime Foundation posts.

Dreamers of Literature

Pal and Polly are human, well almost, he is a Bogger (from the midland bogs) . The rest of the characters are slugs, frogs, hares and assorted bugs. Hedda Hopper the intrepid reporter is a frog. And Jimmy Magpie on air is just: well Jimmy the TV star. Sports reporter. The Gunship Bismark is Pal's wife. Whether she is human or not is up for discussion!

Polly, Pal, Slugger, and an assortment of eves-droppers sat in the dripping-dew of the dazzling moonlight.

They were silhouetted eerily on the side of the potting shed. A late night revelling Leaving Cert. Student on the way home from a “Having Failed - I Will Party” party saw the tableaux and started making notes. He went away wondering should he write a book about the apparition of call on the bishop.

Pal was smoking pipe tobacco he had rolled from some leaves that has mysteriously grown in the Polytunnell. Probably a seed that was blown in on the wind or carried in by a bird and left as a deposit.

Slugger was casually munching on the pieces Pal had spilled when he rolled the flakes: now his eyes were closed as thoughts filled his head: a rare feat, about as rare as feet on a slug, or a one-leged man in a backside kicking contest.

Smiling he formed the words to describe Pal as he filled the pipe bowl - as solemn as any old-time priest of pipe and plug: he pared and rubbed between his palms the peat and heather, and dropped the chaff along the floor and blew the fragrance to the air and scattered the gardens on her bed. And told her he was sorry and called her his first love. Slugger was away writing his great masterpiece of a buke: the whacki backi was working.

Polly, who was now in a Southern Belle phase, was trying to whisper to Pal that their great romantic, Scarlet O'Hara relationship was gone with the wind. But to no avail: Pal was away with the fairies too.

Strangely it was even the same buke - same chapter and paragraph: I gave her soft air born of pine fronds that wafted chestnut smells and whirling seeds of sycamore. I made for her the rustling sounds of leaves, wind-tossed against the swaying bark of ash and beech.

Even the eves-droppers dropped their heads and slept into the night.

Hey! Hold on a second! It's me Fly On The Wall and this Buke is getting' outa hand. Leave that kinds stuff for the Chicks to Lit. Let their Mother Hen tell them dem kinda stories. Hubba! Hubba! Back on plot here.

“Hey! Pal! Snapouta it. She says she's coming back. Yer woman - your woman. Bismark, says she is coming home.”

Ah! Ha! Thought Pal; this backi is powerful – a talking fly tellin' me the good news. And it was that: good news – well it's only after when you really think about it that good news sometimes is not as good as it first seems. You know: you just inherited a million squids from an uncle Jeremiah. Who? But you hafta email a fello' first and give him access to your Bank Account.

“Me Missus, who rarely misses,” he said, carried away and rubbing his forehead, where she had brained him with the heavy frying pan. “Wonder am I still Made in China?”

“Wha' abit me?” Polly cries: in all her Southern Charm.

“Wha' abit me ….your own litter' honey chil'. My! My! What will Pappa say?” She knew Pappa Don't Preach. But it was a good sound bite.

“Ashley. Ashley. My Ashley” she called as she tripped lightly away through the Rod and Dendrons. “Ashley..Ashley....” The rest was lost in a scream as she fell into the nettle encroached compost heap.

There she goes, thought Pal, another Polly: you wally; your canoodling's gone away. Ashley? Who's Ashley? Another footballer I'd say. But even as he shouted “Good Riddance.” He stared to miss her.

Pal glugged out of a bottle lying on the ground outside the potting shed and instantly grew another finger. “Bloody Miracle Grow...” He roared as he threw it after her.

Always one to look on the bright side, Pal thought: now I can count to eighteen on my fingers.

“Eight, nine, ten, eleven …..” And the rest was lost as the invisible dog, now promoted to invisible watchdog, growled to warn of approaching danger.

But it wasn't danger approaching: it was only Hedda, as out of breath she said.

“ I c-have sss-news. Harry's ttt-rying to.... to KILL US ALL."

See…. She wasn't too bad when she spoke without her mouth being full of creatures who were trying to do an Alcatraz Escape.

Found stuck to the bottom of a folder....

Tons of Crap (Retd.)

‘Once up on a time.’ When we were growing up didn’t all good stories start like that?

Aye! And didn’t most end ‘and they all lived happily never after’? It’s hard to find a story like that nowadays.

Once up on a time I worked for a large international airline, you know the one I mean, Yea that’s it. It was a good place to work in then: good management, good staff, good pals and after work a good social life, and fun like the Inter Departmental Competitions.

Once when our section was training some staff from another airline, Air Lanka, here in Dublin, we would have won the Inter D hockey competition, except some smart ass discovered that two of the players we had successfully petitioned the ALSAA council to allow play with us were Sri Lankian hockey internationals.

One was the goalkeeper, the other an attacking forward. That was one story that didn’t end ‘and they all lived happily ever after’.

One of the teams in the soccer tournament for a couple of years was The Tons of Crap team. Their mission was never to win a match and never to have a man or woman booked for tackling another player. The goalkeeper would be dropped if he stopped a shot and any forward who failed to shoot over the bar at an open goal, would be transferred to a better team: and a transfer payment would be made to that team if they took him.

For a few years the team played badly enough and lost all their matches, then disaster struck. Late in injury time in a nil all match the other team scored an own-goal and the referee blew up before the Tons of Crap team could pay back the favour. They had won a match and despite their appeal and protests to the Fair Play Committee the result was a win for Tons of Crap.

The following year the team did not play in any competitions in protest and to my knowledge have not participated in any Inter D to this day. Another unhappy ending.

If they made a comeback today how would they line up? Who would be recruited to play with them? What strategy would they adopt to loose all their matches?

As it so happens, this reporter has been contacted, by their old manager Snitchy and that is just what he is now proposing: the All Old Tons of Crap (Retd.) Team. He even has a wish list of the type of players he wants to attract if you feel you can fill any of there positions contact snitchy@tonsofcrapagain.com.

For the goalkeepers he wants someone who once guided large aircraft to their stand on the ramp. Snitchy told me. “I want men who when they see a ball approach will confuse it with the nose cone of a large jet. I want them to put their right hand to their ear and scream, LEFT LEFT LEFT YA SO'NSO and then jump out of the way and run along the end line with both hands over their head”.

He is looking to appoint a Team captain who would once have been a manager or director of a division. He will play in the midfield position, a kind of Roy Keane role. When he gets the ball, Snitchy says, “I’m hoping he will fall back towards defence and pass the ball to the vice-captain, also midfield, who will run with it, while the captain shouts CARRY IT, CARRY IT, DON’T LET US DOWN, KEEP WITH THE PLAN. MAKE SURE IT’S IN THE BUDGET!”

He says he might have a bit of a problem if he messes up the rest of midfield. The players he need to attract will once have been sales or marketing managers who will bring with them two forwards that have previously worked with. “My master plan, depends on them regressing back into their work role. When they get the ball they will only pass it to their man, the sales or marketing forward, with instructions to do their best and report back. The best men for that job would be ex-cargo, they could run at the opposing team roaring NETT NETT, FIVE PLUS FIFTEEN. This would be real confusing in that the NETT NETT would confuse the other team: they would think we were serious about having a real go. I don’t know what the FIVE PLUS FIFTEEN means, as what it was all about, was a secret.”

That’s his plan for the one-four-two roles. The backs he says will be a real problem. He needs stoppers who will fall over when challenged. Retired Business Development Analysts looked promising but when he put the case to them they said it would take three months before they could get together to discuss it. He met a few retired systems programmers but when he said Good Morning at the meeting they replied SIX MAN MONTHS. So he gave up on them as well.

He asked the pilots, if they could supply two centre backs, but they were all working for other outfits and had to look at the roster to see if they would organise a gash day so that they could meet him.

In the end they appointed a committee and two outside advisors to discuss the issue and report back. Then they propose to have discussions and ballot their members to see if they will participate, they also proposed that if they did take part all their members would have to be trained at Old Trafford so that they could rotate players in case of work commitments. If a potential player had not been called on for a certain time they indicated that would need a Soccer Skills Simulator at base in Dublin for refreshers. Snitchy says he is waiting , but not with much hope of a result, for their representative, “TO GET BACK TO HIM.”

He says he rang Reservations three weeks ago and he is still listening to The Jingle, and sometimes he even gets up at night, just in case he is off hold. He considered going in and establishing contact in one of the booking offices but he can’t find any in town. He asked a travel agent to help, get him in contact, but they asked him for a commission. He says he went out to the HOB but he couldn’t get into the car park.

So then he fell back on the old reliable and went looking for the Personnel Department to ask for advice but the PCB is now a Lap Dancing Club. For some reason he said that didn’t surprise him. I advised him to put an advert in Aer Sceala: he said it was gone too. He went up to the Dublin Passenger Terminal but couldn’t find the front door and when eventually he got in all he could see were Ryanair desks.

In the end he fell back on an old reliable; he went to ALSAA on a Friday evening around five, but it was empty; a fellow called Tommy said he hadn’t seen a face he knew in ages.

Snitchy has given up. He says he never thought putting another Tons of Crap Team (Retd,) together for a few Sunday morning games would be such a difficult thing.

All I could say to comfort him was, “Maybe they all lived happily ever after.”

The O'Connors get what they deserve - gaping mouths!

Peggy is at rest now, beside Jonnie and her parents. The funeral was big, dignified and the headstone now had, as she had instructed Jonnies' name, his date of birth and the date he died, inscribed there. Below it her name and date of birth sat waiting for the final chiselling.

"As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. World without end. Amen. God rest her soul."

The priest turned to Donie and shook his hand, "She is at rest now Donie. I heard what you did for her, James came to me to make the arrangements."

"Did the O'Connors not meet you to arrange things?"

"No. One of them rang, the eldest I think. I told him it was all looked after. He may have assumed it was you who arranged things. I left him none the wiser."

"Three Our Fathers, and Hail Mary's for deception so."

"No Donie. The deception was in their own minds. We are in the clear."

"Amen so, Father."

MacDonald the solicitor sat behind his desk, in his overheated office, and closed a small, slim, tidy file. To an onlooker it would appear he had a smile, more a smirk on his face. It was a smile! The smile of a man who had completed a good job for his client.

"That’s all the business concluded then in the case of the last will and testament of the late Peggy Murphy. "

The solicitor rose. Nodded. Offered his hand in condolence and then realises that it’s not going to be taken. Still, he leave his hand outstretched: a talon that won't be grasped.

The Nephews and niece stood as if to leave the office and then they turn on one another.

"You lot weren’t watching her. How did she slip that one past us? A son! A bloody son that no-one knows about. She had the bloody birth cert. She thought of that. And now he gets the feckin' prize. You lot weren’t watching her. You let her out of your sight. You lost the feckin' plot. There’s no way out of this. Shit! The bitch! After all we did for her. The ungrateful bitch. Feck you two. Were ye feckin' asleep? The Bitch. The Fecking Bitch!"

"There goes the villa in the South of France so...."

There is a stunned pause before the other two physically turn on him.

"Lady and gentlemen. Can I respectfully advise you to take this argument outside. The business here is done, and it's satisfactory, very satisfactory. Good Day. "

The Caged Songbird (the title of the play) sings again...

Well Jonnie, you left a trail and I followed it. I found James. Peggy's sleeping now and I’d say it won’t be long now before she joins yourself and the Bossman and the Mam and the rest of the clan. My parents as well, This is the first time I saw her peaceful in a while. I’d say she’s dreaming. We will wait for a while to see if she wakes up properly. I did the job for you. I watched over her. I made up my mind and brought the boy to see her. Rest easy now. I know it troubled you that you let the Bossman send the baby away. Made him an orphan you said. But sure I knew the Bossman too. It would have been hard to change his mind.

The Club Football Final was a bad match. Our lads couldn’t match the Boys from Knockbride around midfield...

Peggy is home again talking to Jimmy. The years have rolled back just like a dream travel daydream.

The day is lovely and bright: a happy day. I’m looking out across the fields. The hens and chickens are fussed, shoving one another away, pecking at the grain, I’m throwing to them, cackling and squabbling.

I’m glad you came back. They all said you were gone for good, that you were married over there. I told them they were wrong. I waited. I knew you would come back. They took our son away. I called him James. I cried for him and that you were not here with us. Now you found me. Just like he did. He came for me. I told him I never wanted to give him away. That they made me. I told him to keep quiet or they might hunt him away again. He forgave me. When I got the place, after Jonnie, I made a will. I left it all to him but he won’t need it now you’re back. This time you don’t have to go away. This time it will be different. This time we will look after him together. Will we sing our song? It's been so long since I felt like singing anything.

My thoughts today, though I'm far away,

Dwell on Tyrconnell's shore,

The salt sea air and the colleens fair,

Of lovely green Gweedore.

There's a flower there, beyond compare,

That I'll treasure evermore,

It's that grand colleen, in her gown of green,

The Rose of Aranmore.”

Peggy's Secret...Is Revealed....

They’re at it again Fighting. All we do now is fight. About me and the baby. I didn’t mean to get this way. In the family way. It’s not as if I planned it. It just happened. I love him and he loves me and that’s all that matters. He says we can run away to England, but if I do that who will look after Bossman. They’re going to send me away to have it. Then they will take it away and I’ll never see my daughter or son again. It will be a son and he will grow up to have his fathers smile. It’s a lovely smile - a scamp’s smile.

They’re gone. Thank God. They’re gone. Here’s Bossman and the dinner’s ready. He might be in good humour. Here’s the dinner Boss. It’s bacon and cabbage just what you like.

I didn’t do it on purpose. Molly didn’t want him! She married his brother. He’s older and has a few pounds. Jimmy has nothing: just the shirt on his back.

I DON’T KNOW WHY! What Molly has is only a bit of paper. ONLY A BIT OF PAPER. I’LL HAVE ONE TOO. SOON. You’ll see. Everyone will see…

At the entrance to the Nursing Home, Donie and a younger man get out of a car.

"Go in through the front doors. Don’t go right: there’s a door to the left. That leads to a small stairs. Go up that to the first floor. Go out the door in front and it’s the second room on the left."

Donie pays the hackney fare, and slowly follows the younger man into the home and up towards Peggy' room.

He arrives and glances into Peggy's room, where she is alone. Moved to solitude to await death. James sits beside the bed, he is holding her hand, leaning down and crying, the tears fall on to the white bed sheet. A mirror to the colour in Peggy's face. Donie stands at the door: a sentry, on guard.

"Mam. Mam it’s me. It’s James. I came, Donie found me and got in contact, He phoned. I’m here now. It’s going to be all right Mam."

Hearing his voice Peggy stirs, trying to move towards the sound.

"Jimmy? Jimmy is that you?"

" No Mam. It’s me James. Remember?"

"James. Oh! James. I missed you. You’ll have to go! They’ll run you."

"Not any more Mam. Not this time, I won’t let them. I’m here to look after you now."

This is just a normal conversation - among relatives in a nursing home!

"Go home. Go Home. I don’t want you here. Go away and leave us in peace. Go to your own places."

"What’s she on about - NOW?"

"She’s been like that all week. She thinks she is back in the old house. She keeps talking to her Father and him dead since 1964."

"Christ I hope I never go like that. Feck me! Spending all your days in the County Home, out of your head. Living in the past.”

What are all these people doing in the house. I keep telling them to go, but they won’t listen. When Bossman comes home he will be cranky about it and he’s going to blame me for letting them in. He’ll want his dinner and I haven’t enough for all of them. Why won’t they leave. I don’t want them here. I have work to do.

"I keep telling you. It’s NOT The Home any more. It’s a Nursing Home now."

"It still smells the feckin’ same. Wee and vomit."

"Like your place? Shut-up She’ll hear you."

"I don’t know why we come in at all. She doesn’t know we’re here."

"Has she made a will? Who will she leave the place too?"

"I don’t feckin’ know. You shower were around her. I’m was up in Dublin."

"If we don’t watch it she might leave it to the other shower. They were in to see her all the time when she was in the house."

"I asked the Solicitor MacDonald. He said she tidied up all the bits, when she went to him over Jonnie’s will. She told none of us she was going, or what she was at."

"That was before the Hospital. She had her wits about her then?"

"Yea, well about her I’d say."

"We’re all right. She always said she would leave it to the O’Connors. To us."

"Yea. That’s right. She did. Could we get a look at it? Do you think?"

"Don’t be stupid. John Joe."

"I was thinking of nominating you Kate. I wouldn’t say she will last long in here. It’s a terrible place."

"We're in it so."

"Who else? She has no one else, but us."

"God help her!"

"F-off John Joe. Are the pubs open yet?"

"Give me a few bob and I'm out of here, me money is not due 'till tomorrow."

"What about last weeks?"

"Gone with the wind Sister Dear, gone with the wind."