chapter 19 - 21

chapter 19 a murder of crows ("I know your heart is heavy like mountains")

The sun is playing hide and seek through the branches -it mostly hides- and the clouds hesitate between grey and grey. There's a sting to the air, the premise of spring. The wind itself carries a smell of brine, as well as seagulls strayed from the coastline. The birds hover above the city silently and keep a beady eye on the unsuspecting souls foolish enough to brandish a sambo below. They've come to understand it's always time for a snack in Northern Europe early XXIst century. 
The flying rats who have landed -that would be the pigeons- are relentlessly practicing that tentative little dance of theirs around a bench (one step straight and two steps aside, two steps up and three steps back). Any minute now and they'll finally mount an assault: They'll take their chance and storm the bench where a drunkard currently sleeps, a half-eaten kebab spilling out of his fist. Filthy creatures, pigeons.

I needed air to think and so I've left the sterile cocoon that is the flat. You stay holed in too long, you tend to forget about the world outside! The pictures on your walls become your only reference and surely that can't be right, yo; you're not challenged by anything new. True, this also reduced the threat of easy temptation -cough cough, meaning no "O.C." for me in five minutes ;-((! Nope, no more navel glazing, chocolate bingeing and overall soul-sapping slobbing for miss rudderless. Nah, what I badly need is a good brisk walk to kickstart the old grey cells back into action and a bit of exercise. Well, when I say "exercise", let's not get carried away either, I'm not going to darken any gym's door any day soon! Oxygen my brain yes, exhibit myself in a dayglo leopard riding up  my crack no. The few times I tried were mortifying enough. (The last time was in January.) The park it is then, and powerwalk the course of the day. Cue excuse to fish my ProFeet WalkInTrainIn sneakers (only E59.99) from under the bed, might as well do it in style!

Introducing The Park. Its trees, long alleys, square bushes, statues, grey squirrels, actual bins at regular intervals, quiet, silence, and above all total absence of chuggers.

Chuggers... aren't they are a modern plight though! Which is sad cos' they probably mean well but. You want to be mad to indulge them when they're on the prowl. They're like that, chuggers, they can see fear in your eyes and they ponce. They descend on the weakest of the herd. They switch on a smile and go: "Hey there, how 'you keeping miss? Ah that's grand, that's terrific -me too, thanks for asking! Say, miss,  juss' quick question, won't take a sec', say then, do you have anything against children? No? Ah that's brilliant, that. That's terrific. So wouldn't you like to contribute to Kids Need Us Together (or KNUT in short) -only five Euro a month. Huh? Hey, wait, where 'you going? Is that a "yes" then?  No? Have a nice day!" And then they make you feel guilty for the rest of the ten yards it takes to come across another one. It is a generally recognised feature of urban life that one quickly learns alternative routes and entrances to shopping malls in order to avoid chuggers. 

Here in contrast, I'm left in peace. Here I am spared unwelcome distraction. 

Unwelcome distraction exhibit B: "Now I beg your pardon yo-all, but myself and ladywife have just arrived all the way from Texas-USA -yes Ma'm- and we were a-lookin' for this Jim Joyce House we heard about. Would you know the place by any chance, much obliged Ma'm? We are hearin' it's some kind of super-famous, like it's fixin' to be a museum for a writer or som'thin', the kind of culchure center where we can ah buy souvenirs for the folks back home and maybe have a cup of coffee? A nice cup of coffee and have me some -how you folks call it again?- some scones, yeah? I say, we'd be much obliged, yes Ma'm."

This park is like a total shelter from said encounters. Not ten minutes away from Saint-Stephen's Green, it's still off the beaten track, relatively preserved from the maddening crowd. It's a bit of a well-kept secret in its own way, and I like to think of it as a refuge. Here I came to decompress in my student days, and here I return to recharge my batteries barely ten years later. A pilgrimage of a sort then, or an express retreat: "Take five minutes out of your busy schedule and get back to nature in a controlled environment (binmen strike permitting). Don't procrastinate -Deambulate! Hit the park and breathe yourself pure! Weather and air conditions apply, your time starts now!" Daytime TV flashback shudder.

Alleys remain conspicuously free of McDonald's boxes. I wonder whether the fountain has been turned into a wishing well? Last time I came, I caught some tourists doing the Roman thing there: back turned, small change flying through the air, two sparrows blinded and counting. I'll soon find out. Obviously they wouldn't do that in St Stephen's Green, not with swans about. 'Swallow everything, these swans. Tramps often have to be separated from them as they scramble for left-overs and cigarette butts.

I badly need to do some thinking, and if possible of the long and hard category. If I'm being honest, the first challenge will be to break the next five minutes barrier cos' that will be the time "The O.C."'s on (like OMG, I can't believe the totally lying bitch hasn't been rumbled yet, the skinny arsed Gucci decked slag, clearly thinks she's a creamcake and everyone wants a bite! Well helllllo, reality check here, I don't think so! Huh-huh. And what about her boo, dawg? Will the like total beefcake ever get a feckin' move already? He may be a hottie but he's not too switched on up there, is he? It's only been ten episodes since they started making eyes at each other, I'm in bits!). Oh. Oops. Hmm.  ... Need to work on that.

It's true though: Focus Lily, focus! Can't be letting your imagination run away with it again! Imagination's certainly grand, but by nature it's all over the place and the enemy of truth. It's like that: What it offers on the one hand, it pretty much swipes off the other. It takes you to new places but it also deliberately ignores reality and reality, well... that's probably what I need a good dose of right now. It's like inescapable at the end of the day. Hard / cold facts / coffee / smelling etc.. I need a mighty cold shower over daydreaming and all distractions at hand, distractions such as "The O.C." yes, point made abundantly clear. ... This yoke's dead narcotic, though. The team behind the programme sure know what buttons to push: glamour, money, blue teeth, white sky (or is it the other way round), fast cars, surf's up, get down, speedos, low-cut, straight up, pearl necklaces, hip speak. They constantly play on the promise they introduce at the end of each episode, offering to deliver later and making you hanker for more. It's not something you can wean yourself off with a simple magical click, you want to know how it'll end up! Oh no, it's not easy and yet -yet I must rise above the temptation.

(...if only for a day -today's episode can easily be tracked down on the Net later, hee hee.)

So the present imperative ought to be curb down the fancy stuff and get back to basics. Stop and rewind. Begin the begin and ask the 64.000 Euro question (probably more, would need the conversion rate): Where precisely did I start to stray? How differently should I have behaved? How could I so badly misread the signals Mathieu, Sean, Timothy, every man and his monkey were sending me? Cos' got them wrong, I certainly did; at cross purposes, at the very least. Wishful thinking, that's what must have got in the way. Wishful thinking, unwarranted trust, short-termism, inflated belief in my own abilities, delusions of grandiour ...the auld hubris thingy.

I survey my park of choice, my one enduring comfort. Good thing I never took Mathieu here, that would have only served to devalue it. To taint it irrevocably. People pass, stones endure. Actually them columns look kinda weird and I realise they've been beheaded: Where have the bleedin' busts gone?

Meanwhile, the flying rats are still circling the sleeping man's bench, clearly hesitating as to what to do next. They get close, then they step back; they advance, then they jump aside. Chances are, by the time I come back round they'll still be surrounding him in a perplexed state, stupid creatures that they are.
One-two, one-two, the cold feels good on my unfancied mug. Sparks up the old brain, lifts up the general mood. Blood flows, ideas form. Back to basics, meditation in motion -Let's power-walk this alley down!

Once upon a time... In the beginnings we actually got on grand, so we did; the man himself was once known to laugh at my jokes -and then he stopped. A case of a novelty act wearing off? When I started to notice, I liked to imagine so. Turns out this was the wrong explanation; turns out that there was more to it: the Timothy man was already distancing himself from me and I... well I just I ploughed on blind, utterly unaware of his change of heart. Now the thing is, if someone (let's call him "A") stops appreciating someone else (let's call her "B"), there can't be too many explanations as to why, right? It's either a case of audience "A" getting bored of joker "B" ...or entertainer "B" getting simply boring. Was it not him but was it me? Did I really grow dull?

If only I could pinpoint the moment events took a wrong turn... was there a tipping point? Is there such thing in life in the first place, in fact? Did I ever jump the shark? I'm wracking my brains here -wrecking them, even- but can't find one. Oh but for one precise moment where I could see our complicity going to spoil... For the life of me, I can't say when I went wrong and off the boil. Was it the Alternative Miss Ireland anatomical details? the denial that "Family Guy" is a "Simpsons" rip-off and an unfunny one at that? the lack of po-faced agenda? the foreign accents impersonation? the name-dropping? the private jokes? ...Or could it be the Glenda Gilson interview. I would have sworn, they all sounded like a good idea at the time.
The truth is, if one goes down that road, there'll be no end of turning points along the way, any which one a potential last straw. The thing is, we don't change suddenly, we constantly evolve. Tendencies grow, and don't appear out of the blue. A leitmotiv becomes a catch-phrase becomes an irritant becomes a bore. (I could think of a few here hee hee, but let's not run the risk of sounding bitter ...better not mention the war!)

Ah, at the end of the day it probably came down to his personal judgement. It wasn't so much the way I told 'em, it was how they got received. Let's say he grew tired, he grew bored of me, and then any lazy joke could be cited. He lost his sense of humour, that's what happened. We were no longer on the same page, and from then on I was on a hiding to nowhere, digging my own grave one cheap laugh at a time: drip, drip, drip -no applause. When two people fall out of love or whatever, anything they say makes it only worse. The dice was cast and the worm in the fruit.

That's why I can't pinpoint any particular game-changer since, in all likelihood, there wasn't any. We truly are in a constant flux, always between one state and another. Only when a defining event such as a catastrophe occurs are we in a position to make out what had been going on all along; only then can we take stock. Pop psychology 101: We turn into someone else little by little, (ha)bit by (ha)bit. Take JohnnyRay, losing his grip on the musical front, the fall of the "Finglas Fiend"... it didn't befall him overnight, it was a slow and agonising process in its own right. Drip drip drip once more, and no applause either.
Now back to me and my own fall from grace. To think it only took me a couple of years to go out of fashion is frankly galling, it's, it's, it's worse than recommended skirt lengths! Butseriously. Butseriously though, it's just like these disposable Japanese pop stars then, just like them. In our own ways and respective countries, we're all riding a merciless conveyor belt, we're all committing to constant turn-over and that goes for them celebrated writers I was myself railing against. Taps her nose Lily, they'd better make sure to enjoy their seat at the top table before someone else (someone younger, someone more joyfully all over the place maybe...?) pips up and steals their limelight!

All in all, this is not much fun though.

In fact, this makes for a pretty sobering post-mortem. So what if I cut a few corners here and there? Show me a person who never does! Ah sure, maybe I got a bit jiggy with it, maybe I took it easy and repeated the trick once or twice too often but then surely everyone would do the same if they could get away with it? You get a job -any job- your aim ought to be to settle into it and hone techniques / working practices designed to make it less painstaking / more comfy with the ultimate objective being able to get by on auto-pilot, no? Just like driving. Make it smooth, make it second nature. Well as with work, so for life; we all need to develop our own style, I would have thought.
...But what when this style of ours turns out to be our Achilles' heel?

...

We had some good times though, and these should be recognised as such.
Mispronouncing names was always a good one. Names heavy with connotations, obviously! These ones are always bound to set off a battle against giggling, and a losing battle at that :-)). Ah yes, that Kirstin Dunst lass was always asking for trouble, she of the "Spiderman" wet pink top (men are sooooo predictable, they'll never reconcile themselves with the fact women have breasts). And so to chesty miss Kirstin Dunst... Maybe in retrospect that's precisely what started it, it was a self-conscious thing, Kirstin Dunst the two and only (mandatory snigger here)... That was a close one that, and surely a case for instant dismissal in any self-respecting media corporation... I distinctly remember Phat Paul turning purple on the other side of the glass and me carrying on, wondering what on earth he was hyperventilating about. Until I realised what I'd just said.
I think the station received quite a few emails that afternoon... "Sirs. I wish to register my outrage re. your gutter-mouthed presenter earlier on. This is disgraceful! Unacceptable! I simply refuse to believe what I just heard! Have yous no shame?? Let me ask yous: What in the name of the Lord is this god-forsaken country coming to when its good citizens are subjected to such filth -and live on prime time too?? PS: Could yous replay the tape by any chance?"

The sun seems to be winning his battle with the clouds and the possibility of rain evaporates like... literally.

Another trick we indulged in back in the days was parodies. Parodies, they always work. Now I like to think I was never deluded enough not to know that parodies are the easiest form of satire -bottom line is, you're only riding on somebody else's hard work- but the fact remains: they pay off. You borrow, you collect the jackpot. So what I would do is rewrite popular hits and ads jingles, always great craic and easy as one-two-three. I would change their lyrics, adapt them to current affairs and give them a twist. (Lesson in twist: bold will be preferable to dramatic / duo to solo.) Or else I mimicked Bertie's stammer, swapped the gender of film characters, pretended to come from Limerick, rewrote history according to Ian Paisley, dropped innuendoes about whoever was in the news, etc. etc. etc.. Oh the fun that can be milked out of basic camp overtone, listeners never seem to tire of it! "So-and-so takes the matter into his own hands", "the secret's out -pretty much like (insert name)", "please be upstanding for the queen -oh, and Her Royal Majesty too", "if you go camping in the Park, watch out for the bears -and the wild animals too" -the silliest the better cos' it's like that: these juvenile pranks, they're old as Harold, they've been around ever since man was man -and liked to reassure himself of whose side of the church he sat on.
Reviewing it now, I must admit it was pretty naff, true that... not to say lame; rather embarrassing I guess, but it was safe and got the laughs and that's what counts, no? It certainly looked like it was going "down well with our demographics", so. ...But it didn't fare so well with a certain person who has the last word.

Then there was this "Munchkin diet".

The Munchkin diet was my little variation on that yoke doing the rounds at the time, the one that positively encouraged people to eat Officially Bad Stuff: rashers, pig's trotters, black pudding, bacon, sausages, pig's snout, tongue, liver, heart, tendons, nails, corneas, parmesan -you name your weapon of fart. If I remember correctly (though may have got it wrong, given its apparent bollixitude) its specious argument went something like this (deep breath here, hold it for five seconds): Faced with an avalanche of animal fat down your gullet, your body will not give out but actually react and go into cleansing overdrive; it will work double hard to eliminate the bad stuff clogging your arteries. ...Why, of course it will. This had to be the most open invitation to go and pig out ever and -hey!- surprisingly popular it got, not least with US daytime soapstars (that is to say, the true trend-makers of our-day-and-age).
Well there I was, taking part in an enlightened chat about health, death and diets, and just for the craic, came up with an alternative upgrade. I suggested we should launch a plan of our own and market it as, say, the "Munchkin Diet". Introducing Lily's "Munchkin Diet Version 2.0" (copyright pending): Dieters ought to have even more fried food and chocs, even more red meat and chips ...but only in the right sequence, such sequence to be described and prescribed excluuusively in our forthcoming book ("all rights reserved"), pay-up seminars (cash only), and personalised consultations (patient confidentiality clause required). I even came up with a killer cop-out. Hypothetical cases of adverse reaction would surely be testament to A) the diet's potential for disaster if B) the -evidently confidential and highly demanding- programme had not been scrupulously followed. Admire the double-bluff here, neat or what? Not to mention a touch of the good old “things have to get worse before they get better” failsafe foolproof Catch-22 cop-out.

And that was it. A mere throw-away quip right off the wrist. I was almost chuffed with it as impros made up on the fly go (nothing to it, spur of the moment thing, plenty worse where that came from etc.) when I noticed our Timothy getting distinctly worked up at the other side of the desk. Uh-oh, I thought. Before I had time to set the record straight and just-in-case back-pedal, what do I hear but your man getting on the act himself and actually contributing to my little spiel! He came up with ever more outrageous suggestions -clearly the idea played right up his street- and off he went, spouting off about "neo-charlatanism", "gobble-talk", "pseudoscience", "auto-suggestion" and what have you. Went off on one alright! Well I never... I was only messing and yet he got into the spirit, oh but it was one for the books and no mistake! Yep on that day we had a blast, on that day we joined forces; the spur of the moment sprouted legs and we found ourselves running away with it.
That probably was our last mad session.

So what's the lesson here, what have we learnt today? ... Hmm, that not much seems to have hit the Jeremy spot in retrospect; that he may have had his reasons to drift apart. That what I'd thought was gas looks in retrospect pretty trivial, inconsequential, if not inane. Comedy's a trickier business than previously thought! Ah yes, it's a sad state of affairs when jokes can't carry the day anymore and one must re-adjust, regroup ...regress. Whatever happened to the ways of old? Must we always burn everything we once adored? As far as I can see -and that would be not much further than the lamppost without my contacts in- there's only one conclusion left, and that totally sucks. In order to get back into J's right book, well...

Looks like I need to go PC.

PC / bolshie / right-on / straight-up / political / topical  / yadda yadda yadda -Oh joy, oh what a gas. Looks like issues, messages, insights and somesuch shit are in order on the O'Arnlan Show and I'd be best advised to get on track. No going off-message anymore! Gulps hard Lily: Is this the only way to go? ...I can hardly contain my excitement. Do I absolutely have to re-think my approach and make it "relevant", "meaningful" and -what's that word again- "valid"? I ponder the option and all I can do is ask the one question befalling every comic: does fun always have to be serious? Must humour necessarily be self-righteous? It certainly is in Timothy O'Arnlan's world but what about mine? 'Can't say I'm political by nature me, 'can't say I feel the need to take on subjects that overwhelm me and for which I'm not prepared. Surely this is his job, not mine; when all is said and done, it's not my bag. True, that: Should I constantly feel guilty over the fate of whales in the rain-forest? Should I bang on about global warming and the resulting floods in Venice? They're of concern undoubtedly, but I'm not the best equipped to tackle them.
Is there any place left for madcap?
To think I wanted to be like Carrie Bradshaw and now I've got to go all Vincent Browne! Vincent Browne. Ivana Bacik. David McWilliams. Mary Robinson. Eamon Dunphy. Timothy O'Arnlan. There's already quite a few heavyweights on the scene, and it's a scene I don't belong to. So why should I deny myself in the vain hope of aping them?

 Romans (2)

Back an eternity ago, I was making this list of surefire subjects for my segments. The idea was to make a record of them should I ever run out of inspiration. 'Must have experienced a rare attack of lucidity there, was I sensing burn-out? Funny how half-hunches sometimes form part of the big picture... Anyway, 'wish I had put them to good use instead of just committing them to paper, maybe these lifesavers would have done the trick and spared me the big bust-up! Classic case of "shoulda woulda" / ifs and buts, I'll never know for sure now. At the end of the day, whether these tricks would have made a difference is purely rhetorical ...in that they would have simply masked the cracks.

There is of course another battery of vote winners at disposal -and a right craftier one too, just as reliable as the chronological list oh yes! In the killer category, there is a whole array of tricks of the trade that can be served up blind at any voxpop and will guarantee you passionate responses. They also make for easy chuckles so 'would-be-rude-not-to indulge. ... Hmm, not so simple; I was never too sure. What it comes down to, it's a question of deciding whether to give up the ghost and all pretences of sophistication. Namely, am I that desperate?
Now would I have got wiser to Tim's disenchantment earlier, I would have probably gone for this heavy artillery, I guess. I would have tried to blitz my way through and make sure to get the laughs on my side, that would have placed me in a stronger bargaining position: Who can possibly question the Queen Of The Water Cooler? Who can argue with protest email figures? ... That might have worked, up to a point. Even if Mr. Smartypants had felt "disappointed" in me, there is no way he would have given out in public the way he did. He would have kept a lid on it more like, a lid on it and his misgivings to himself ("It's no big secret I'm not your biggest fan; it's not my cup of tea, this I admit readily."). The ball was in my court all along, in fact it may still be.  It's just a question of readjusting and going for the kill if needs must be.


"Can I get your friend's number by any chance" he said.
OK, let's review this one. True that, Georgie had actually come on his radar first; she had been the one to make the move while I was lagging behind and, looked at it this way, she would have been the one to strike the first impression and so I guess -charitables in a pastoral forgiving mood Lily- he may have been entitled to have a go, so. But then,  what next? Hellllllo already! Is this guy for real? Once Georgie got started on his pal, surely the situation changed, no? Whether he liked it or not, his mate had gone in there first and all bets were off -cue myself and him, like, propping up the rear and completing the picture. Should have been a no-brainer. There we were then, both for the taking, a right cakewalk if there ever were one ...and yet somehow I managed to blow it. Didn't deliver the right lines if I remember. Didn't stick to the script. "Oh you're so big / built / (sweaty), do you work out?",  "Right you are!", "Ah that's brilliant that!", "Really? I never thought of it this way...", "I always wanted to do that -you are so brave / clever / (immature)", "My oh my, what a beautiful/expensive/(show-off) watch, you must be so successful", "More more  more! I so want to hear about your holidays spent machine-gunning fast-extinguished species / ruining indigenous ecosystems", "It's strange, with you I feel so relaxed like we just click", "I could listen to you for hours..." etc. Now that's what they want to hear, that's how it's supposed to go! ...Except I didn't stick to the script, did I. I didn't hold my end of the bargain and instead had to go and shoot my big mouth out, I let my pride come in the way of a run-of-the-mill weekend shag! My choice, my fault.

Overbearing personality / misplaced delusions? -Whatever. In the end, there could only be one loser though.

And now for Sean. Ah yes Mr. BusyBusy... I frankly fail to see in what way I was the one at fault there, 'couldn't possibly have laid it any thicker could I? 'Couldn't just go and let him know his secret was out like "Excuse me Sean, but hey I hear you're in need of an upgrade and I'm the one with the know-how you so clearly lack so give over pal, sign me up and let's get started already, there's a good boy!" Had to play it diplomatic, more like; all double-bluff, softly-softly, pally-touchy and I'll tell you something if you tell me something else. I may be naive here but surely it should have worked. Or at least could. Could have paid off. At the end of the day, I saw an opportunity and went for it; I tried my best. I didn't go in both feet first, didn't rub him the wrong way up, but instead tried to plant the idea inside his head. All he had to do was connect the dots. ...Sadly it's now all too obvious he never rated me. I never was in his plans, he never have considered me for the position. I mean, the utter cock-and-bull he came up with... Yowser! "These post-9/11 days", "this so-called global warming", "the reality of the situation" -What a gobshite. "Post-9/11 days" indeed... what has it got to do with anything! Isn't it mad though, the lengths some people will go to in order to avoid speaking their minds? They hide behind clichés, platitudes and ready-made phrases at the drop of a hat and off they go: they invoke, call up, recall, quote, invite to remember, agree that, are reminded of, have no choice but, are sadly aware of the fact, wonder aloud, draw to your attention, pontificate, pad up -but don't say zilch. They hide behind language to pull the wool over your eyes -well this lady's not for knitting. Your man had no leg to stand on, no credibility whatsoever, and so he tried to talk his way out of trouble, oh admire the irony, tried to impress me with verbal diarrhoea! I'll give him that, he's got minerals; still... Fool, I blow a raspberry in your general direction. ... For all I'll ever know, it may well be that the footy related girly was appointed by someone else altogether but Sean could have owned up, he could have come clean instead of sounding off like a runaway train. "At this moment in time, we all have to pull together as a team, right?" -Wrong.

But enough already, this is getting way past boring.

***

It was a barmy night and everyone in town sounded like they had had too much to drink, maybe the Dubs had finally won something... People were howling insults here, hollering defiant hymns there. I was only a student at a time, staggering back to the sanity of my abode in need of quiet and a steady bed after a mad session. I had originally gone to town for eats with the others, then we ended up having a mad night on the tear. Oh yes, my head was throbbing with something brutal and it was way past "Father Ted" time. As I took that busy street, I spotted a form shuffling about in front of me in clear distress. A girl by the sound of it, and a rough one too, bawling her eyes out in that voice usually heard from the kind of women who dangle their children in your eyes pestering you for money ("Wheeeeeeeah! Wheeeeeeeah!"). Passers-by ignored her, either unconcerned or shooting her darts, in all likelihood annoyed with her pitiful whining ("Wheeeeeeeah! Wheeeeeeeah!"). She swayed a fair bit, mind; must have been on the sauce, when will they ever learn etc.. From the back, it was easy to see how shook up she was, her shoulders rocking with each big sob and my first thought was "Oh no, another alkie feeling sorry for herself" (despite being quite gone myself; yes, I don't always get the irony of the situation). Anyway, as I struggled to walk in a straight line, I found myself kind of falling into step with her, how embarrassing (it's like when you say "goodbye" to someone and you find yourselves walking away in the same direction, massive oops!). "Wheeeeeeeah! Wheeeeeeeah!" she was still going, clearly a person of limited vocabulary. "Wheeeeeeeah! Wheeeeeeeah!", even with the mayhem sloshing about in my very own cranium it was hard to ignore her. So I asked her what the matter was and she just went:
-"Why does me boyfriend keep beating on me??"
Well that was one I didn't expect!
-"Er... well, why don't you go tell it to the Gardai then? Eh? Tell it to the Gardai, thass right, go to the Gardai and let them know -Make him stop!"
-"I can't tell 'em ...cos' then he'll go to jail again!" And then she cried some more, the prospect of her beau in jail appearing to be worse than getting the shite kicked out of her.
I was perplexed, I was confused. I had no ready answer and it was so damn hard trying to concentrate in my current state; concentrate, let alone hold a reasonable thought.
-"Well er... if he beats you he mustn't do that, mustn't do that -Cos' thass not on! Thass not right you hear? Can't continue, that, can't let it happen -You go to the Gardai, go to the Gardai you hear!"
-"I can't do that cos' then he'll go to jail again"
-"Right, so. He'll go to jail er... I mean, thass not right, he can't just be... that can't be right surely... He'll get his own then. Listen, what matters most here? You getting beat up or him going to jail? Huh?? You! It's you who matters most! You 'godda mind yourself, right?"
And then she said
-"I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
-"But but... Thass not your fault! What 'you apologising for? Thass not your fault, don't be sorry! What sorry for?? It's him 'should be sorry not you!"
-"I'm sorry"
It was all so confusing, I couldn't get my head around it, what was she doing apologising for this scumbag? Maybe he owned their house, maybe they were married -no they weren't, she'd said "boyfriend" hadn't she? Even so, still shouldn't matte, should it? Why stay with him?? She was a young wan for crying out loud, no more than eighteen at the most... she had her whole life ahead of her! I felt so impotent, so unable to help.

"I'm sorry"
And then she went her way. She turned right, I continued ahead. I never saw the mite again.

***

But I don't think the political angle is all there has to be. The bottom line is not about pleasing Mr. T., surely it's to "give the audience what they want", right? Appeal to the greater number, answer their call and tick their boxes right. The point of the game is to try and work out the listeners and play accordingly, find a winning formula and stick to it. And so it's time to ask: What exactly do these enigmatic judges who hold my fate in their power want to hear, if I had to bet my life on it?

Well, studies show that what people react to, first and foremost is... the tried and tested. No shit Sherlock. They go for the already-digested, the by-the-book, the obvious and uncomplicated. (Which reminds me by the way, see these -wadchacallit again- oh yeah writers -Sweet Jaysus Mary a lamb!- Do these pretentious self-indulgent know-it-all po-faced one-laugh-a-minute eejits seriously imagine that, just because they've got themselves a brand new typewriter and wanna get their money worth, we the long-suffering audience that were foolish enough to bestow upon them our attention and, on average, about one Euro fifty per copy sold of our hard-earned cash, are prepared to put up with their incomprehensible never-ending blatherings that will sure score them maximum points on the Word Count but leave you scratching your sore head raw trying to remember by the time their sentence comes to a merciful end what their fecking original point was! Drives me proper bonkers sometimes.) Audiences like it simple. They like it familiar. And when I say "audiences", I could as easily say "everybody", that'd be just as valid. We all prefer the easy stuff to the needlessly complicated, like I'd watch anything with white-teethed blonde Californians over the travails of a eighteenth century Japanese fallen woman any day of the week, like Da sticks to the same napalm grub week in week out, like our dailies will automatically feature the Waits girl glitzy charity bashes (with excluuusive colour pictures page 3,5,6) rather than examine the hardships befalling working-class girls, like route-one Georgie always gets laid and balls-breaking Lily doesn't.

You want easy? I'll give you easy.
Let's say I dump the noodle-scratchers and embrace the M.O.R.. The thoroughly expected, that's where it's at, that's where the money is; like remind me again: What can film studios always bank on in times of economic uncertainty? The auld remake, that's what. The auld remake and assorted sequel. Sequel, prequel, reboot, spin-off, rinse and repeat under any other name, it's all about pushing the buttons that are aching to be tickled, how's that for an angle of attack then? It may not be ambitious let alone glorious, but it's a dead effective strategy.

Should I pipe down and go for the obvious, so? Should I tone down the personal and target the universal? Let's take trivia for example. People are devils for titbits and sweet nothings, can't get enough of it. Who doesn't love anecdotes, amusing facts? Here is an avenue to be explored, then; here is an easy one for the non discriminating. And anyway, the whole thing's based on a misleading premise: Trivia's a misnomer, I would suggest. The word attracts snobbish derision like Third World countries attract tourists and it's dead wrong, completely misguided: Trivia is anything but trivial. It is ever so often exactly what matters most. It undermines everything: it is the mortar and the grains of sand, it is the foundations and hidden plumbing, it's what provides substance. And more often than not ...it's what we pay the most attention to. The exalted and important, this stuff belongs in books; the trivial, it's what we chat about.

Like ask around about the finer points of the Constitution, the Gross National Product or the periodic table of elements, you'll be fecked if anyone knows them! (Apart from pupils swatting for their exams of course, apart from them ...and even so, they'll have forgotten all about it once they are done, fair play to them.) Now ask about the starting eleven players of Liverpool Pigbladder Kickers Club -I rest me case. There's no contest. And as with football, so with pop music, TV soaps, continental dress sizes, famous left-handers, presidents' vital statistics, advertising catchphrases, famous last lines, film clichés, 80s punk bands, film celebrities' children's names, local landmarks, amusing deaths, TxT speak etc. etc. etc.. The acid test lies with our barometers of social taste, i.e. quiz shows. Do they ask their contestants about (name any issue on The Guardian front page here)? Do they feck! They want to test people's knowledge of Mads's matrimonial status, is what.

Namely, did she marry Dermot before or after she divorced Louis Walsh? Contestant reply: "Ooh er... is so confusing... I was under the impression it was the Bishop of Galway she got first married to. Can I call-a-friend Damo?" They want to know which one's the odd one out: "Is it Posh Spice? Old Spice? Baby Spice? ...or Ginger Spice? Which one do you think, Gemma?" "-I'd say it's Sporty Spice, Dara -she looks a right skanger in them trackies!" Now I've heard it claimed that trivia's the privilege of blokes, these notorious anal listers, but I beg to disagree. It appeals to both genders in so far as it makes up the very the fabric of our lives. It's what matters.

And what about stereotypes, our old friends... Now here's another easy option if I know one. Easy as one-two-three. Should I just go ahead and help myself then? Pry on people's conditioning and play on their knee-jerk reactions? Bores will tell you that clichés are to be avoided like the plague but they're just being pompous and elitist, clichés is what defines and they speak louder than a thousand images, they are brilliant. There is no end of clichés to choose from and make use of, plenty room to swing a tank and barrel to shoot fish in, once again it comes down to personal choice: Am I ready to go down that road (to nowhere)? Old pots cook in, jugular go for and  safe side stay. Cheekiness and pretend-innocence are all very nice, but at the end of the day they don't stand a chance against blonde jokes. (How do you know a blonde has been in your office? There is Tippex all over your computer screen. What happened to the blonde ice hockey team? They drowned during a training session in the spring. Did you hear about the blonde with lipstick over her forehead? She was trying to make up her mind!)


Sudden gusts of wind take the dead leaves for a spin, mini maelstrom ensues. Sudden gusts abate, mini maelstrom dies down. No matter the date, winter never feels like it's going away anytime soon; there's always a sudden chill in the air, a pair of gloves that comes in handy but before you know it, it's spring. Someone, somewhere, turns on a leaves blower and starts to go through a lawn in order to methodically disperse what will drift back as soon as they have their back turned.


You've got your run-of-the-mill clichés, and then you've got actual booby traps. Now these are a different kettle of fish altogether, in that they're perverted. They're red flags, they are. Semantic traps, scorpios masquerading as chameleons.  At first sight these subjects appear simple -Ha! No flies on me pal!- but in fact they are the devious kind oh yes, they are the Loch Ness monster with only eight times his apparent size hidden underwater as everyone knows. These buggers are based on misunderstandings, flawed logic, outrageous short-cuts, unfounded stereotypes -and that's only the start. They're right traps and no mistake. They ooze common sense and yet are flawed as hell: they are what populists and demagogues of all denominations bamboozle people with.
Now I always was kind of reticent -or is it reluctant, I never know- to make a play for them, always viewed them as cheap tricks. The principle behind is they carry a hidden agenda on their author's part and are designed to ridicule their victim. Watching them work their magic on an unsuspecting soul, your first instinct is to turn American and go "Sucker!! Oh man, you are so owned, you've just been punk'd!" Yep, hook, line and sinker / one born every minute, it's always great fun to laugh at someone else's naiveté. ...Or maybe  not. I may be guilty of playing dumb in the course of conducting my voxpops sometimes, I may enjoy to play little jokes every now and then, but I also like to think I am no cheat. I don't go out there with a view to roast my interviewees.

Maybe this is where I missed the boat, part n... maybe this is where I started to go wrong. Virtuous principles, my foot: Not everyone seems to be sharing my concern, you only have to look at who's riding high in the charts to find any number of unshaved, overbearing, smarmy, phone-call pranksting, laddish, shock-jocks milking it like there's no tomorrow ...Almost makes me wonder.
If you can't beat them, join them, so the saying goes; now what was the first album of The Cranberries called again? That's right, "Everybody's Doing It So Why Don't We."

It'd be so easy to change tactics... Caution: wind-up merchant ahoy.

One born every minute!

-"The Brits... what have they ever done for us?"
-"When we go on holiday abroad, of course we make sure to -like- respect the customs of the country, right? show the locals respect, yeah? Only right and proper, no? But then what about people coming over... Do you feel, do you feel the immigrants coming over here show us the same degree of consideration? Do you think they make a real effort of adapting to our own way of life?"

-"This-young-generation-of-today... Do you think they show any respect for their elders?"
play this one in rotation with
-"Where do you stand on traditions, you know, these customs that have been going on for donkey's years and never evolve, always the same, do you think we should uphold them and continue to pass them down the line to future generations forever?"
depending on your man's age.

 

-"That "Big Brother" yoke, frankly... isn't it a load of rank old bollix though? What are your thoughts on that? ('specially when you compare it to our very own "You're A Star")"
-"Vegetarians... If they hate meat so much, why do they go and buy stuff that smells and tastes just like meat huh?"
-"Do you like your body?"
-"So-and-So (insert name of current soccer millionaire)... Do you think he sets a good example to our children?"
-"Our Taoiseach spent eighty thousand Euro on make-up last year. Did you? / Do you think that's right?"

criss-crossed with

-"Do you think it's important Ireland should be recognised and respected around the world? Shouldn't our head of State make an effort to represent us properly?"
-"Do you think tampons should be free?" (to both sexes)

-"Let me ask you a simple question: Do you remember anything from your Leaving Cert? Anything at all? What's the big deal then?"
-"Today's pupils... Do you think they work as hard as you did at their age?"
-"Are you good at maths? If I ask you to work out a percentage, can you do it?"
-"Foreign workers coming over, some of them don't even speak English. Do you think there should be an English literacy test at customs to check they can speak proper?"

-"Women drivers... What are your thoughts on them?" (to the male half of our population of course)
-"Do you think you're a good driver?" (idem)
-"Honestly, do you reckon your husband is a better driver than yourself?" (this time addressed to women ...preferably on their own)
-"Ah look at them cyclists taking liberties and riding on the pavement, should they be prosecuted?"

-"Should we still care about the Eurovision song contest or just -y'know- call it a day at long last?" (please note: not to be brought up with our recent Eastern European guests)
-"This luggage weight allowance on planes... everybody gets treated the same, it's twenty kilo for everyone right? ...But what about overweight people? What d'you reckon? Being that some people are like way bigger than you and me and sometimes take more than one seat, shouldn’t they be charged extra?”
-"Does my bum look big in this?"
-"Has anyone told you you’ve got beautiful eyes?"

-"Lapdancing clubs... London, Paris, New York -they're the rage everywhere. Do you think it's about time Dublin had one too? Wouldn't it be seen as a sign of social progress and all?" (this one, preferably to young fellows)
-"Guinness, so says the famous advert, is good for you -Would you agree with that?"
followed right up with
-"Statistics show that 80% of crime and more than 50% of car accidents are alcohol-related -Should this be tolerated?"

More generally, quote just about any statistic on crime / child poverty / N.E. social ill and top it up with
"Should this be tolerated? / Do you think the government should intervene? / Isn't that a grave failure on the part of the government? / Do you feel responsible? / Have you ever been guilty of it? / Doesn't this constitute a shocking indictment of European Union policies? / What has it got to do with us?"

In the same ballpark, pleasantries such as "Do you trust politicians?", "Do you vote?", "Should voting be made compulsory?" followed up by "Ah, isn't it terrible though how these poor bastards in China / North Korea / Zimbabwe / Burma get treated?"

Finally, just to fan the flames:
-"Should our very own language be kept alive and protected ...or is it just some useless and irrelevant relic of a distant past we can all forget?" alternating for the craic of it with "A culture is in a large part defined by its own language -Should we insist on keeping our gaelscoileanna?"
and deliver the coup de gras:
-"A-ha, you 'fluent in Irish? Can you switch to Irish for the rest of our conversation so?"

And so it goes, easy as chips!

Now these firecrackers, they get my goat, they really do. Any two-pence gobshite can come up with these topics and then Bingo! Sand / eye interaction is assured, righteous indignation unleashed. It's the kind of low blow you would normally expect from the likes of The Daily Mail on one side or The Guardian on the other, a clever trick that works twofold: 
A) It gets the sarkies on your side, firmly reinforcing their original prejudices
B) It allows you to rattle the Perpetually Offended brigade's cage. Ah yes, think of all these continually outraged liberals, green-inked pen at the ready, forever looking for a pretext to blast off! Feel free to indulge them, there is nothing easier to do than get a rise out of self-aware people.

Let's face it, stirring is the fastest track to fame. Fame or notoriety -what's the big difference at the end of the day? Complete bastards leave just as much of a trace as real heroes, and here the names of **** ** *******, ***** *****, **** ****** ***** ** and **** ************ come to mind, not to mention ********** *********** or, even better, *******! ...I rest my case.

Isn't it true though, it's all a mug's game: Just light the blue touchpaper, step back and enjoy! Comedians who want to make a name for themselves have caught on that ages ago: Loaded questions, false chumminess, oversimplifications, logical short-cuts, jealousy, misunderstanding, ignorance, all that's needed for maximum pay-off is a subtle push in the right wrong direction and all (carefully engineered) hell breaks loose. It's all there is to it, controlled provocation, and it's so easy to achieve... Getting a rise out of people is about understanding what makes them tick (like immigration, religion or gays for starters); it's about grasping what tacitly tolerated principles underpin our social mores and then scratching them deliberately, inflaming them till all pretences are exposed for what they are, like love is wonderful and marriage ideal ...but only for heterosexual couples, it's only normal we watch over each other's backs ...but these backs'd better be the same colour and accent as ours, women naturally have as many rights as men ...but they don't need to go on about it all the time and "ram it down men's throats" etc.. A couple of carefully manufactured scandals and then you're made, you've got yourself in tomorrow's self-righteous editorials, you've got yourself denounced. "What kind of an example in this day and age is this getting me all het up for the next five thousand words etc....". Everyone knows: There is nothing media commentators love more than sound off all self-righteous on the subject of N.E. other miscreant so if you play clever, they'll do the job for you. Case in point: how the Sex Pistols made it a generation ago. According to the old rebel himself JohnnyRay, they basically said a rude word live on TV and that was it, straight to number one, the cheeky cunts.
Then it's a matter of applying the second layer. Protest, contest, refute -do whatever's best  momentarily advised but the main thing is keep your eyes on the line. Bide your time. Plan for the next instalment, knowing full well that those already aroused will be hanging on your lips for your next provocation. So keep one half of your audience fretting and the other one salivating, hold it there, hold it a little longer... and then, bang! Drop another clanger. That's it, a legend is born and Frankie Goes To Hollywood / The Smiths /  Sinead / Quentin Tarantino / the Manic Street Preachers / the Prodigy become Public Enemy Number One. From now on, they are "incorrigible", "out of control" and what-have-you;  Colin Farrell lifts a bushy eye-brow and takes out his note-book.
Ah but I didn't want to "play that game" did I, I didn't want to "fall to that level"... The result is, a couple of years down the line I ain't exactly pulling up trees, I can't even convince Sean of my abilities -this has to be the final nail that, the final indignity. Who would miss me if I were gone?

...I've really made a hash of it, haven't I. I've fallen so wide of the mark I'm in danger of exiting the page altogether.

I should have taken advantage of this incredible platform and shamelessly used it for my own ends like everyone does, I should have made the most of this opportunity. Hell yeah, by now I should be on first name terms with Gerry Ryan and Pat Kenny, I should be cracking team-penned one-liners with Tubbridy, posing with Podge and Rodge for some Alcoholic Anonymous advertising campaign, smoking indoors in full view of the paparazzi, switching on Christmas lights, vacationing in Monaco, attending GAA finals less than four rows away from Bertie, sharing cubicles with Glenda Gilson -in a word, I should enjoy my very own personalised registration plate at this stage of the game!
Instead of that I'm still messing about, five minutes here, five minutes there, hawking a couple of lame jokes to motorists stuck on the M50 and giving airtime to PJ-clad malcontents. I am also currently going round and round a park.


As I complete my round past the sleeping man's bench, I note that the pigeons are still surrounding him: "Roo... Roo...". They crowd around like they're holding a conference; they still don't take their chance. The jerky creatures don't go for your man's kebab but instead jealously peck at each other's neck as they defend their patch in the ever revolving space -What a bleeding sorry lot they make, part three. They make it look like the ground is moving around the point of reference that is the sleeping man. Finally I can't help myself and -very much against my natural compassion for all things living oh yes- lash out a mighty kick in their general direction. No aggression intended here, I just wanna rid of the disturbingly unblinking feckers. Depart they do, albeit in their usual subtle style: With a furious cascade of flap flap flappings, that lot scatter and take to the air in a panic. From where I stand I can feel the like whirlwind on my face, fierce as if it came from a helicopter.

Your man wakes up with a jerk:
"What da?? What's da haps here? Whatta you done dat for ya bleedin' eejit, can't even get a kip in peace now?"
He notices the state of his sambo. It's still half uneaten for sure ...but no longer half available. It has generously spread all over his trousers.
"What da fock?!! Look what 'you done, you focken bitch!!"
I consider protesting -but think better of it.
"Me focken kecks! Look what you 'done you mad wanker! That's me focken tin dat was, me focken tin and now it's scouldy to fock!!"
I make myself scarce.
"Get back ya big muppet and pay for it! Ya come back here right dis minute ya hear? Come back I tell ya! Focken' hell if a honest man can't even catch a focken nap in focken peace deese days dat's focken shite dat is oh hello officer how can I help you oh no no no nothin' goin' on here nothing at all slight misadventure is all you see it's my jacket it would appear it got"

By now I am half-way down the alley, red as can be.

chapter 20 Pride And Prejudice

Leaving Iveagh Gardens Park behind, one finds oneself heading for Saint-Stephen's Green, the square heart of the banana shaped monster. The vibe in here couldn't be any more different, and even that is nothing compared to the next downward step into urban madness ahead: I mean Gr*fton Street. Saint-Stephen doesn't know serene. Mobiles will buzz and toddlers will cry in here, forlorn poets belong elsewhere. Animation, agitation, busybodies bustling -welcome back to the buzz. Normally I would be down with that -the loud and garish, the infectious optimism, the shop till you drop- but not right now. Still have some thinking to do, still need a resolution sez Miss Grumpchops.

Shuffling through Saint-Stephen's serpentine alleys, I have to admit the contrast with the Gardens couldn't be any starker. Saint-Stephen, it's like an away day for us city folk. Welcomes all sorts, it does: office workers nipping off for a short breather, Fatamericans in shorts and "fanny packs", families photographing each other, puzzled tourists looking for Wilde's statue ("Am telling you, 'says here must be around! -Are you sure? Here, let me check again..."), vagrants clutching their sleeping bags, couples on their nervous first date, forlorn poets in quest of inspiration ("Now then, how should it go? ... "Our love is like the hours / The birds, the trees and the... and the showers?""). It's a jungle alright and sometimes the roar of wild animals tearing into unlucky tourists can be heard above the din of personal stereos. 'Should have paid attention to the "Do Not Feed The Pelicans" notice eh, that'll be them told. Meanwhile, gondolas gracefully glide through the canals, deftly ducking attempts by little people in short trousers to pet them on the head.

Saint-Stephen's Green is public property and a detachment of municipal employees are on hand to keep it clean. As a general rule, one does not mess with these fearsome wardens. Usually ruddy of face and pot of belly, the purple and eggshell uniforms go zealously about their mission, pounding their beat, whacking their bat, wagging their finger, jumping the bums, turning up their nose, licking their chops, hiding in the shrubs, and sneaking upon young wans engaged in advanced petting: Down with this sort of thing, you depraved rascals! Not on my turf! When you hear the shrill of the official's whistle, you are advised to run (you may want to put your rags on first, though). Wardens are specially designed for catching fallen women and hamburger wrappers, ah yes a warden's life is a dashing adventure, it's a never ending round of tribulations and pratfalls... There always has to be a miscreant hard at it somewhere and sunbathers, pretty much like teenagers lumbered with totally square parents, are constantly reminded to keep-off-the-grass. "Keep off the grass, you hear! Is that so hard to understand? Mind I don't issue you with a Chapter 5 Rule B warning, you long-hair layabout..." The cheeky monkeys reluctantly obey, dragging off their sorry arse as slowly as they can ("Now don't be doing that Mr. Officer Sir, 'was only catching me breath, I swears..."). They wait until your man's disappeared round the corner -and then get back to enjoy the glorious sun, resume position flat out against our god-given earth under the sky. A warden's life is a frustrating one.

It is generally acknowledged that Dubliners are mad for suntans. It makes sense, too. Every group around the world tends to see another physical type as some kind of model to aspire to and, for example, some Japanese will curl their hair or dye it "tea", some Indian or black girls will tone down their skin, and we pale Celts troop into sunbed parlours -It never fails! Orange Michelle Heaton serves as a perfect arbiter of taste if you need one. A nice golden brown hue will do wonders for offsetting whitened teeth and highlighting tinted eyebrows -and that's nothing compared to what the girls get up to, boom boom! Butseriously, it could be 10 degrees, it could be 6, as soon as your standard drizzle lets up, down fall the jackets and up roll the sleeves: Hurrah! Let's shake our fist at the elements! It's a natural opportunity rare enough so you'd better grab it double-quick. Put it like that: I wouldn't be surprised if the sunbed industry wasn't one of the most profitable businesses in town...
Talking of, a crime against nature catches my eye and I can't let go of the ghastly sight: some forty-something traipsing about in bermudas. Bermudas... oh the horror, the horror. Your man's wearing one of these like cargo pants with exotic print, neither one thing nor the other, intended to make its owner look cool and come across as a beach bum or whatever. Well I don't see no beach around do I! Is he a Brit by any chance? (Another way of recognising Brits is that they'll spontaneously form a queue on their own at a bus-stop.)

Bermudas for one ...but what about flip-flops! (Massive groan here.)
You see them flip-floppers labouring up and down the street in any kind of weather ("clap clap clap clap clap"), preferably ten degrees below zero, they can barely lift their stinking plastic soles that just about hang onto their big toes by the barest of straps, 'always look like they're gonna drop... Just where do they think they are? In a swimming-pool?? Another entry for Room 101 has just been made in my little black book.

I leave the park behind and reconnect with the hive. I exit the main gate, take my turn at the crossing and face good old Grafton Street. I hate it already.

This, That And The Other e-Thing. Scenes of modern folklore, updated for the impersonal age. Whiny kids demand, harassed mammies comply, teenagers compare their mobiles, dolled-up sirens revelling in the glory of their youth cruise up and down the few yards that separate the top end hi-fi shop from the bottom one, street art living statues stand still and cast their hopes in an upturned cap. Passers-by pass them by. Flyers, flyers handed everywhere, good for employment, good for the economy. There's always a promotion going on somewhere and it smells like shops secretly take turns to "sensationally" slash their prices ("Heads we win, tails they lose, do I cut 30% off or do I sell three for the price of two this week?"). Foreign soccer jerseys and baseball caps, brands on any surface available and a girl in a leather jacket that reads "I love The Clash more than you". Despondent looking crowds drift in and out of the bottleneck created by the inevitable fire-breather, forlornly hanging off their mobiles. If there had to be a defining posture to sum up our day-n-age, this'd have to be the one: Homo Erectus With Mobile In One Hand And Food In The Other. Coke, kebab, sambo, sub, chocky bar, NRJ drink, Diet Pepsi, bagel, pizza, ice-cream regardless of the season, rashers, sweets, lollipop, donut, cookies, salami or just spicy potato wedges (weren't they called "chips" back in the days?) -every available moment has become an occasion to snack. No surprise here, this is what happens in a "24/7" world where schedules have been desynchronised and thrown about all over the place. Some people are on their way to work just as others have finished their day, some find themselves with ten hours to kill between two cleaning shifts, others are on a ten-hour desk-bound stretch. Surely this way lies the road to social disintegration, no? When everybody gets to work, play and relax according to their own timetable and none other, "social" has become a word of the past. Community? What sense of community? It has all but disappeared, what with everyone looking after number one and sod their neighbour. Shared experience? What shared experience? See people locking themselves in their private disco with their walkman, Ipod or smartphone. These buskers are fighting a losing battle, noone has time for them -nor available ears by the look of it. "Yes, yes, hmm... I think we should revise our forecasts hold on I've got another call" / "I'm literally on my way Honeybunny -what do you mean this is not Honeybunny?".

I wish I could think of a suitable soundtrack to mourn this passing of the times and fantasize myself as a philosophising character in a tear-jerker (Self-aggrandisement, that's a good tactic that!), some -like- lethal hymn dripping in pathos and shit, but I can't think of any song, I can't even do that ...because of this infernal racket. I am currently approaching a hi-fi shop in the high end of Grafton St. where a monkey-in-a-suit is showing off his equipment -and, mother of God, it's pretty impossible to ignore him. Oh mine ears... Some godawful heavy metal -Guns n' Poses or somesuch shite- spews out onto the street, all strangled squealings and breeze-block drumming. (Apparently we are advised to run for the hills and bring our daughter to the slaughter which doesn't make sense if you think about it: which one is it to be then?) Now don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against heavy metal per se; after all, even pimply nerds need emotional outlet in their lonely lives since nobody understands them and they didn't ask to be born etc.. It's just that... y'know... it's a bit pish though. It's not very dancy, is it? "Cosmo" or was it "The Indo" informed us that headbanging is very bad on your cervical so, it totally puts a strain on where strain shouldn't be put on. 'Wouldn't catch me doing that in a hundred years ("vvvVlam!" knocked herself out she against somebody else's belt knuckle.) A potential client indulges the assistant, listening to -but probably not hearing- your man's patter. "'Sound's fab, right?" nods the culprit, clearly delighted with his sonic virility. "You can really feel the bass in your stomach!" His new friend seems less enthusiastic himself though, and does a little face. Could be he doesn't mean to part with his money, could be he doesn't fancy Axel Dose much. It's a mug's game, really: no-one's truly interested in anybody else, it's all surface noise being exchanged. Your man tells your man something; I can't make out his answer -but then neither can the heavy-mental fan in all likelihood.

Funnily enough, even in JohnnyRay's days vacarm never got good press with the Monaghans: the Neo-Post-Romantic never took kindly to the emergence of My Bloody Valentine, a band he accused of mistaking decibels for notes. He accused them of many sins to be honest, mainly of ripping off other bands (The Jesus Is Merry Chain I think it was, or was it Sonic Use?) but most hurtingly of all, he blamed them for stealing his audience. The following he had painstakingly cultivated all these years, they were now deserting him in droves for a new wave of a new wave as they turned to a revolting genre that mainly consisted of blowing up PAs and not much else, big fecking deal yeah. His songwriting skills were wasted on that ungrateful lot! Why bother writing lyrics at all! His five-year old daughter (that will be me) could play the guitar better than them! Call that music? Even the deaf would call it noise! And so on and so forth, multiple variations on this theme ingrained in my memory ready to be recalled at any moment's notice. With time, JohnnyRay developed a special hatred for My Bloody Valentine, a band that ramped up its amps to eleven and spilled feedback all over the venue's foundations like it was nobody's business. Griped the old charmer: "You go to their gig it's so bleeding loud... You spend the next few days a yard away from the fecking world! You almost long to hear the dulcet tones of Paddy Kenny again!"

Press "Forward" and skip a generation. There we are, myself and G., going to this club's opening night. We get in there, the car's windows are vibrating and we're not even inside, we try our luck nevertheless and land in this neon-lit battlefield bombarded with high-NRJ stomping beats that make you throw-your-arms-in-the-air like-you-just-don't-care (STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP SCREEEECH). 'Guy comes up to me:
-"cnnnbyuuudk?"
-"WHAT?"
-"cnnnbyuuudk?"
-"WHAT??"
-"CANI - BUYYOU - A DRINK?"
-"Oh... right, OK then."
-"WHAT??"
(Boom boom.)

"I don't understand, it's never happened to me before..."

People, people everywhere and no-one I can actually relate to, each of them in their own world and I am just gliding in-between. I only manoeuvre through, I don't belong with. The scene on the street is straight out of Joyce's seminal "Useless" novel. Rucksacks, backpacks, shopwindow grazers, baseball caps, street performers. Gardai on their stroll, flyer pests beating the dole. Loud Italians, harassed mothers, puzzled tourists, guitar maestros. School-girls, all wild hair and woolly knee socks, pint-sized tough guys trailing behind. Skangers, chancers, hopefuls hunting that elusive tiger, yummy Mammies, Eastern European nannies, beggars. No chest baring, stubble wearing, six-pack, er, packing beefcake is in attendance, in clear contradiction to all these fashion photoshoots where they always seem to inspect the horizon and chuckle to each other on the corner of a busy street. Instead, late teenagers (read: thirty-somethings) stroll about in ironic t-shirts looking for technological gadgets put together in Chinese industrial sized sweat-shops. A row of Japanese pensioners obediently follows its cheerful guide's raised umbrella -any minute now and TVpersonality Glenda Gilson will put in a special appearance, mina san.

These masters of the universe in their killer suits and tidy ensembles... where do they go? What are they doing here, slumming it at street level? Don't they have meetings to attend? Should I look up to them, must I aspire to join their ranks? At least their line of work's visibly paying, so that's one thing. Their head is held high, and their stare goes right past you. They look to the future, and the future whimpers. They pierce through the crowd, they make us feel undressed. It almost feels like this is their world, their stomping ground, and we're but distractions meant to give way, we are jetsam bobbing in their wake. Captainsofindustry, executivewomen, that lot's sprouted like a bad rash. They sure didn't exist a few years back and yet they are, by the Land Rover load, claiming D4 as their god-given turf. Maybe I'm just being bitter, but they always seem so infuriatingly sussed, so deadly determined. So well-balanced and looking for all the world like they've worked out that one big secret that has eluded me so far, that one solution I can never grasp. I see these go-getters and all I can think is I've missed the train. The financial industry is where it's at, clearly. "Yes, yes, ah it's all good my man, listen can I call you back later, I need to go and serve some schmuck with his papers..." Nice hair, nice teeth, fabulous shoes, stylish threads with quality material top to bottom, and what about the gorgeous perfumes they shield themselves from us with, the jammy bastards have got it all and it's showing.
I remember my current shoes need re-soling.

Trekking upstream the central nerve of my hometown, by rights I should be swimming in familiar faces. It's gotto be a statistical thing, like -say- getting your neighbour's mail through your letter box or not winning the Lottery, I reckon I ought to have already bumped into at least a dozen acquaintances ("Well hellllo there!" in mock ecstasy "Mwwouah! Mwwouah! Oh but you look faaabulous, is that a Penney's number you're wearing? Can't stay, must rush! Gimme a call yeah?" "Hey Damo, how's the haemorrhoids healing up?" "And a very good morning to yourself Sister Geraldine, no, sorry, 'don't have the time to talk about Jesus -maybe another time yes?" "Deco. Always a pleasure. How's it hanging, man? Say, about these fifty quid I owe you, how about we round them up to a hundred and you'll be doing me a huge favour, huh? Huh, Deco? Where 'you going??"). Must say I'm a bit miffed here, after all this is supposed to be my neck of the woods... it's not like I am venturing into street pyjama territory, what's the point of being a hipster if you don't score points! But this is not happening oh no, here's another thing that's not happening for me, no familiar face can be glimpsed in the indifferent throng and I soldier on valiantly without exchanging incredible witticisms. This was almost predicable, mind, 'should have seen it coming, it's like straight out of one of these weepies I was trying to rehabilitate, like they always dish out this tiresome gimmick: Want to convey loneliness? Land your character in the middle of a crowd after his love paramour has buggered off / his dog died / his telly packed up. Get him to wander about, like all lost and doing his little face, forsaken as feck. Even better, turn on the heavenly sprinklers and set the scene in a foreign town. All that's left to do is lay on a power-ballad behind and you're cooking on gas. Good think that at least I can't think of any song for my soundtrack or it would smell distinctly fishy -an angel flies by.

...

If anything, I may have actually underrated them weepies; I may have been naive, me of all people. If I recall correctly, I was of the opinion that tear-jerkers served as our friends, offering us comfort in times of distress and blah-blah-blah turn over to page number whatever. In fact, they may mean more than this, they may be something else altogether. ...Could it be they have in fact a more profound influence over our lives? Could it be continued exposure to them, day in day out, wears us down and gives us funny ideas about our station in life? Dashing Dario dies in a terrible Smart Car pile-up, Sue-Maria has no choice but to marry rich sleazy billionaire Hermann von Fritz, desperate Dario rises back from the grave only to find out that his erstwhile betrothed will only dry hump him from now on. Doesn't fiction give us misleading hopes of timely resolution? Estranged parents don't always return full of repentance for a massive hankies shredding of a showdown. Fiction lies, life is. See me, I swear to God I'm for real yeah, for all I know I'm not a character. I'm not one-dimensional, am I. I breathe, and pine, and ache; I am endowed with feelings (who may not be always reciprocated but hey), I can spot the chavs' aroma of choice at ten paces (that'll be Jean-Paul Gaultier sadly ...I used to like Jean-Paul Gaultier). When I went head over arse at the Library, I had a bruise the size of a cauliflower for the next week, no-one can make this up. I hurt, I act, I get terribly excited at the tune of "The O.C.", I cringe at the sight of stray hairs in a bathroom and I currently feel every poxy stone poking through my bollixed shoe.

And yet and yet, right now I feel... cheapened.

I feel like some kind of hackneyed caricature in a cliché-riddled yarn, I feel like the mandatory "loser". Horrible name, that, damning epithet; it makes its owner sooo predictable, and predictability's the worst insult. (You know the definition of the world's biggest loser? It's someone who can't even win this competition!) Next thing I know, the rain will start to fall or I-will-meet-a-dark-stranger. How weird, how insulting, do I not like the feel of this, it's unsettling -I've had enough people playing me for a pasty recently not to invite the whim of an hypothetical deus ex-machismo! Nah, nah, it can't be right... let's not get hallucinating. For crying it out loud I feel it in me bones, me, I exist! I exist and am nothing like an automaton. I mean, it's not like all my actions could have been second-guessed from the word "go", surely I've had my share of crazy decisions and stupid actions, right? I've messed about and went off-course enough times to stretch credibility taughter than a Blackrock clinic face-lift! Take "Nico"'s genuine identity for example, I should have seen it coming from a mile; take Jeremy's already strained patience, any half-sentient soul wouldn't have continued to test it. These would have constituted logical behaviour. Bingeing on crisps... whoever does that?? Characters get sloshed or moan about it the morning after, that's what they do. As for sniggering at the Waits girl and dear old Glenda when me and Georgie are on the same page, well this is downright illogical when you think about it. 'Should have praised them, more like! And one more thing, one more thing re. this tiger of ours, when was the last time I went on about buying a third property in Portugal? David McWilliams can give out all he wants about the housing market, it never was a concern of mine, 'never had any interest in it. No, really, I haven't acted accorded to type, I have my pride eh, my own prerogatives... like when did I ever give a flying feck about make-up (to mention another cliché)! Let me worry about that when I hit 30, I'm not there yet, thank you very much. Heard me going on about diets and fitness like in a Sunday lifestyle supplement? Nah, I'm not one of these dullards, I don't accept that charge. Predictable shmedictable! I don't believe in according to type, I don't believe in logical, that's just not me. Life's not mathematics -it's what happens.

For sure, this view may sound flippant, it will jar horribly when confronted to these yuppies' reality: Aren't they precisely disproving it? These new Masters of the Universe, haven't they perfected the art of cause and effect? Investment delivers return delivers more investment delivers more returns delivers etc., admire the ever-growing loop. Well. ... I have no ready answer to that. Maybe they are the exception that confirms the rule? Maybe for them it's straightforward enough, but for the rest of us... things aren't so simple. Complexity and excitement, please please please, I desperately want to believe there are more surprises in store!

Back to Grafton Street / Reality strikes.

To complete the picture, lots of couples are on display today. Tubfulls of them. Now nobody likes to be confronted with their existence in the first place, but right now's adding insult to injury; it's just another sick joke from God or "Hello" magazine: tease, tease, tease. Just when you don't need them, the bastards are out en force and, this time just like all times, it couldn't be any more personal. You see couples and instantly feel ten stone heavier and twenty years older. Internal groan, steely resolve and rueful smile duly processed in their right order, it's still difficult to overlook their cutesy carry-ons. "Get-a-room, will yas!!" Ah yes, how can one not see them clinging to each other (her hand in his back-pocket), not hear them whispering sweet nothings in each other's ear (discussing baby names? they must be discussing baby names -unless it's curtains colours), or not spot them sharing a joke as they nonchalantly point out loonies left loose to roam the streets in busted shoes. It's true though, people you don't know always seem to be sharing jokes -undoubtedly at your expense. I feel a pang inside. I don't belong with them, this is abundantly clear; I guess I must belong with the as yet undefined, the unfulfilled ...with the work in progress. True enough, some have it -whatever "it" is- ...and some are still looking.

Moanfest, Continued. Still no familiar face -them damn tourists! How dare they flood our town centre and rinse us out? This is getting seriously mad, so: How can I manage to find myself on my tod in a city that for fecking out loud is almost one million strong? What's going on?? The answer is: nothing. Nothing's going on and therein lies the problem, waxes her moustache Hercules-Lily. No matter how hard I think this over, I can't affect the Grafton Street population, there's no such thing as wishful thinking. I can't conjure Phat Paul out of the bookies nor can I make Georgie re-appear for an emotional reunion (which reminds me, will need to do just that). It's just tourists, suits, couples, baseball caps, chuggers, hustlers, families, teenagers and noisy shopkeepers. They're on one metaphorical side and I am in their middle on the other. 

-"Now where's this goddam corner? They said  it was 'round here! Well here we are, here's a corner! So?? I don't see no flamin' statue do I?? I'll tell you what, Gertrud, we're just walking in circles, someone's busy yanking our chains! I'm getting tired of this"

-"And so am I, bubba, and so I am. Why don't we just drop it hon', that fairy's statue can look after itself, we'll get a postcard at the airport or somewhere, let's go and have a bite! I'm like staaarving!"

Creosote tans, facelift ponytails, Zero Taste Coca Cola, Premium rate ringtones, “if you don’t behave there’ll be a short sharp visit from the Smack Fairy”, overworked index and numb frozen pinkies, inspirational quotes from superheroes, “If you’re so clever why didn’t you see it coming?”, faces like the back-end of the LUAS, pauses in conversations that are pretty much as meaningful, every day is just a countdown, all these empty calories that weigh so much in the end, “Stop fuckin’ aboot Jean-Christopher or no cocoa for you tonight!”, it’s that day-long fermented sweat, it’s not the despair that kills you it’s the hope, bouquets of flowers at accident sites are left to rot away by municipal services, the saddest thing in the world is not to be able to think of anyone when you’re in a position to be generous, “You only phone me when you’re drunk!”, urban night has banished the stars in the sky and has turned instead a dead shade of faded orange, sneakers don’t sneak, non-alcoholic beer, phallic lippy sticks, guys walking around like they're carrying rolled-up carpets between their legs, youth and beauty function like force-fields you can't measure against, people are precisely wandering about in search of that elusive craic, one day you're the top dog the next you're the lamp-post, "the" "a" and "I", dreams are just like waves: always crashing, you're 99% made of nothing, this here ground we walk on a mere tectonic plate shifting precariously over emptiness, happiness is just around the corner, it’s not foggy out there it’s just dirt on the window  
-"Are you alright?"
-"Eh?"
-"I said are you alright, dear?"
A chipmunk of a face is addressing me. Am I dreaming? Instant recoil here: Its elderly female owner is wearing a salmon jogging outfit in the middle of Grafton Street?!?
-"Er... grand, thank you. I'm grand thanks, nothing to worry about"
-"Are you sure love? Forgive me for butting in but I couldn't help noticing, you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, such a sad sight... A pretty girl like yourself looking so deflated, it positively stopped me right in my track -I thought to myself, surely nothing can be that bad...?"
I'm, er... baffled. What's going on here? who's this woman? what does she want from me, I don't recall being introduced? Is this a set-up? Is that it? Are we being filmed or something?
-"Er thanks a million Ma'm, very kind of you but... nothing going on here, just a bit tired is all"
-"Ah then, if you say so dear... that's grand so, am glad to hear. It's just you see, it's not so much you looked a bit under the weather, I thought you looked... Oh well, 'don't mean to be intruding, none of my business clearly. I just hope that... whatever it is, it'll come to pass?"
She's studying me, if she isn't studying me to get a reaction! Just who does the old bat think she is?? Ah sure, she's old enough to be my mother (check the hairline wrinkles around the eyes) but does she imagine it gives her the right to lecture me?
"I'm Heloise by the way. Nice to meet you." Her eyes are unnervingly sparkling, is she on Lucozade?
-"Nice to meet you" I repeat mechanically.
-"I was after doing my walk you see, my little stroll for the day, when you carried past. Looking so sad... just like a ghost! I thought, surely this can't be right! Here's someone 'could do with cheering up?" and before I know it, the old trout taps on my arm like I'm at the dentist or something when they go "There, there, you'll get your lolly 'soon as it's finished" 
-"How kind of you, very considerate, good on you but -but I'm grand, I assure you"
-"Ah that's just grand so! If there's nothing bothering you... it's all I want to hear. I'll take your word for it, won't be detaining you any longer. Don't fret too much young lady. Life's too exciting to get worked up about small things is what I say -things will work out. It may not feel this way right now but they always do, in the long run. So it's toodles from me and you mind yourself, right? You turn that frown the other way, let's see you smile shall we? Ah that's better, you're half-way there! As for me, I still have my exercise to do!" she trills gaily as she takes up her Power Walk again. "Woosh! Woosh!" she's off. Back off everyone, acrylic tracksuit on the move!

Like a river, the crowd closes back in her wake; normal traffic resumes its course, it's like a face rearranging its features a couple of days after a haircut. Ubiquitous backpacks fill up the space between backpacks, baseball caps bob up and down, ringtones compete for attention, and girlies of all genders show off their orange tan. Hustle bustle, jetsam flotsam. Heloise soon gets engulfed back into the heaving mass: "Woosh! Woosh!" Joker coming through!

I just stand there, aghast and dumbfounded like a cow stuck in the bog confronted with its first steam train. Just what the hell was that all about?? The liberties auld bats are taking these days!!

-"Wait, wait!"
I catch myself with a start but she's already vanished.
"Heloise!"
I run after her.
She can't be far.
I come to my senses and run after her.
A battalion of windowlickers further up the street ("Sorry, sorry, 'scuse me, oops! Sorry 'bout that Vicar"), I finally catch sight of her. She hasn't gone too far and I soon catch up.
"Heloise, Heloise, hold on"
-"Eh? Oh hello, hello again dear"
-"Wait wait, I'm so sorry, 'wanted to say I feel, hmm -I feel I must apologise really for my earlier er... I guess what I'm trying to say here I wasn't, hmm, very responsive right now and er... You must admit you kinda took me by surprise back there, 'came out of the blue! So please accept my apologies, I was being so rude! Surely you must have thought I was the rudest person"
-"Not at all dear, not at all, you were a bit startled is all with me creeping up on you,  'must have shook you up! Hee hee, I must admit I may have been a touch too straightforward to be honest, you must have thought I was a bit touched"
-"Oh no, oh not at all, no chance of that, that's no bother cos' you were right, in fact! Hundred percent! I must confess, you were spot-on, Heloise, 'sall my fault! I was, er, too up myself to respond properly, bang out of order I was, but you made me realise, I came to my senses, and now I wanna say -thank you. Thanks a million for your kind words"
-"Oh what nonsense! Only natural! What are you talking about love, you don't need to be thanking me for anything"
-"Oh yes I do -You were so right, you were spot-on. See, I... I'm going through a pretty poor patch these days, a lot on my mind with this and that, but what I really needed, what I really could do with's a wake-up call. Could do with some cop-on. 'Specially when after all things could be much worse just like you said. You got it all in one, you did: No need to make a drama and overcomplicate things, I'm sure it'll even out, it'll all wash out!"

-"Ah there, you see"

-"Can't be making myself sick over details"

-"No you mustn't -You'll be alright" and Heloise taps my arm again

-"To be honest with you I feel, er, pretty silly really. My reaction back there -or my lack of- how embarrassing! I wasn't being very nice to you and I apologise. Thank you for taking the time to come and see me, so. What you said it, it really lifted me you know?"
-"Ah but it's only natural my child, only natural, isn't it how we're supposed to behave towards one another?"
-"Not everyone does"
-"Ah but that's because, see, people tend to get a little bit too self-absorbed and hurried nowadays, they get a little bit too preoccupied with their own concerns so. That's modern life to you! But then again, then again even if people may occasionally lose track of their priorities, that doesn't necessarily mean they're fundamentally callous at heart"
-"Well I... I'm not sure frankly, I hope you're right..."
-"Trust me on that. People haven't turned bad at the drop of a holiday house. They haven't forsaken their genuine sense of decency. Give people a chance, you'll be surprised. Trust yourself first and you'll be able to trust them. In any case, never ever let yourself get dragged down young lady -Pardon me but I didn't catch your name?"
-"Lily. Lily Monaghan. Sorry, 'didn't introduce myself"
-"Ah that's alright. Well like I said Lily, mind you never let yourself down, never let go too easy and give in to disappointment -Life's a marathon child, it's not a sprint! Talking of which, please indulge me and give me a second, with all that excitement I need to catch my breath..."
which she does, as if exhausted by her big speech.
This doesn't look right.
-"Oh my goodness Heloise, are you alright? Is anything the matter?"
Winking cheekily, she grabs my wrist and takes a few more breaths.
-"I'm quite alright Lily, I'm perfectly grand it's just that... All that blathering, that exercise... It's quite something at my grand old age hee hee!"
-"Well I... I guess it's my turn to get concerned now: Does this happen often Heloise? Does holding a conversation tire you out? Does it have this effect on you? I mean, getting out of breath like that... shouldn't you go and have it seen by a doctor?"
-"Oh but I'll be grand, I'll be grand in no time, 'feel better already -See? Much much better. Just a quick rest... is all that is needed. Now thank you for your concern Lily, I've done the doctor thing already -all boxed off! Maybe I ought to tell you -I don't really wish to go into details but- but a few months back, I underwent an operation, a rather major one... this is why I need to get back into shape. And work on my breathing!"
-"Oh. .... Right. Right. I had no idea... I really must apologise: if I'd known about your condition I wouldn't have tracked you down and caused you all this trouble"
-"Give over! 'Course you didn't! You didn't cause any such thing Lily, no trouble at all, you only meant well that's all. In fact -See what's happening?- what you're doing here is precisely what I was telling you about: You're coming out of your shell already, you're showing concern for others -And you're forgetting about your own problems!"
she thumps me triumphantly.
(Ouch! Now there's nothing wrong with her fist, I'll testify to that!)

-"Huh. I suppose I am yes... but -I'll tell you what though- but don't you want to take a break yourself, sit down maybe?"
-"Sit down, what for? No there's no need for that, 'just have to pace myself... I will be grand, I'll be just grand I tell you."
-"No need to sit then?"
-"No need to sit. You just busy yourself with banishing your current worries, that's all. I'd love to see you smile for a change, can you do that for me? Show us your lovely smile, ah that's better, I knew there was a pretty young thing inside dying to get out! Nah, trust me to find the right cruise speed, I'll be just grand"

We gradually slow down, settle on a steady, medium paced rhythm.

-"You were saying something about having a Positive Mental Attitude... You certainly seem to have found yours!"

-"Ah that's lovely for you to say, thank you. It's just something I had to do, pure common sense... See, when you're faced with a problem, no matter how daunting it seems, give in to despair can't be too helpful; it just won't do. You need to see your current woes for what they are Lily, put them in their proper context. And then you'll find you can move on. You'll find they're not so terrible. They're not so daunting. Sometimes what it takes is an operation ...sometimes all it takes is a little chat."

-"The forest for the trees"

-"Something like that, yes. And you'll be all the richer for it. As you'll learn, you'll grow. Make no mistake, you will learn more from your downs than from your ups. Yes, hitting a rough patch is obviously upsetting, but it's also an occasion to rediscover your sense of proportion. As you get less self-obsessed, you'll pay more attention to others, and you'll notice things, you'll make connections. At the end of the day, we're all on the same boat, love; some people think they can lock themselves in behind their million Euro flat shutters and gates, well they still have more in common with your man on the street than they imagine!"

I just listen. Puzzle pieces falling into place.

"Grant others the benefit of your attention, you'll see. You'll see what happens. Spread your natural kindness around, you'll make this word a better place. A better place starting with you."

The old lady's eyes sparkle all the way to my soul, giving me shivers and the devil of an idea half-coalesces in my head...
-"Phew this is quite er... Heloise if you don't mind, I have an idea. If you don't wanna sit, let me at least... can I just keep you company? Walk with you, like? Only for a few yards if you want, or accompany you to the park maybe... Would that be OK, would you terribly mind?"
-"Oh I don't see why not... of course you may. Welcome aboard, so! Bearing in mind I will considerably slow you down, an infinitely healthier young person such as yourself"
-"Oh what nonsense Heloise, I so don't mind, it's not a race! Just for the company so ...for a wee chat"
-"Then I agree, if you 'sure you don't have anything better to do. Just don't insist on holding my arm like an invalid, tough (hee hee)!"

And off we go.