Of all the claptrap and howling noise that some mistake for casual conversation, this indeed was the sort that encouraged regrettable behaviour. The particular frequency and velocity of whining makes me want to rip my hearing aids from my ears. I'd love to lash them at those two girls, teach them some manners. They were intolerable to look at, to listen to, to smell and for the love of god, I don't know why they were pointing their camera telephones at themselves in the queue. Mass was longer than usual this morning. I escaped a little before the service had ended to avoid the queues at our local newsagents, Doyle’s. Ah Sunday; mass, the paper, a fry and a cup of tea. “Have you made the breakfast?” “The wa?” “The brek!” “I'm only back from mass!” ********************************************************************* “When your cheeks greet your eyes, I know that every melodical word that ebbs along the spume of heartfelt thought will greet my ears like a mellifluous song written just for me” ********************************************************************* Our home is small and the only distinction between the living room and the kitchen are the peeling wooden doors that guard above a distasteful green carpet. A purchase bought out of manic desperation to have something covering the floor. It hides the disgusting mustard yellow floral seventies lino that offensively plastered our floor when he first bought our house. The aquiline nose of the lad behind the counter in Doyle’s reminded me of the briery face of the unenthused salesman in Bargaintown in 1982. Which in turn reminded me that the last time the doors were painted was probably 1982. In fact it was 1982, the year that Betty’s young one had her one christened. Lazy bloody bastard. The doors to the kitchen are shut tightly all week. This was for privacy, I've been told, “No, no, no, no nosey bloody Mary down the road looking in at me, no thank you”. Closed all week, with the exception of Sundays. On Sundays I’m permitted to open the doors in spite of the neighbours gawking in to have a look through our house. For some reason, to him, Sundays were a pacificier to the curiosity of the cigarette and tea laden ladies who congregate daily at the end of the street. If he came to mass however, I’m sure he would bolt those doors shut after catching an earful of their stories. Keys in the hallway and kettle on.
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