No, this is not a sad tale about an immigrant separated from their loved one. It’s about common or garden poles. Ones that began life as trees, were cut down, stripped bare, coated in creosote, returned to an upright position and left to support an electricity cable for the rest of their natural deaths.

They are everywhere. If you live in the sticks like me you probably have one of your own - commonly in the garden, hence the reference above.

They are the life blood of Irish politics when once every five years they clothed in posters. No lost animal would ever be found unless its picture appeared on one. The local crash repairs service would be out of business. And there is the small matter of them delivering power to our homes. We just don’t appreciate them.

Well, not until they aren’t there. Or are there, but you want them over there instead. Such is my case.

The one in my garden is right smack on the corner of the new extension. This fact was discovered in June using theodolites, lasers, sticks and pieces of twine - all very high tech. It had to be moved. Forms were filled and posted. A follow up call was made to the local ESB office a week later. Now the ESB, being one of the few remaining semi-state bodies to be privatised, are duty bound to act as civil servants. And they performed admirably by losing the forms. They lost the second set too, but thankfully a portal opened in the space time continuum that is officialdom and the original ones reappeared. All very Dirk Gently.

But they couldn’t process them. Since the ESB took it upon themselves to redraw their operational districts, the pole in question was 50metres outside the boundary of the local office area. So instead of dealing with an office 8km away we would have to contact one 60km further afield. The builder realised the impending difficulties associated with being the furthest customer from their base and summed up the situation succinctly: We are f*cked!

By now it was too late to pull the old builder’s trick: accidentally knocking the pole while digging foundations, paying the €300 fine and having the ESB crew who would come to restore supply position the replacement pole appropriately. Not that we would have done that of course. Why that would be dishonest. Right?

The third set of forms were submitted and to our surprise and engineer arrived on site almost immediately. Well one month later, which in civil service terms is instant. Kitted out in a shiny white hard hat and spotless hi-viz he surveyed the scene, wrote things in an important looking book and promised immediate action.

More forms, a hefty four figure cheque and four months later a crew came and erected a new pole.

While all this form filling, losing things, finding things and writing in important looking books was going on the actual building work came to a halt. The ground workers couldn’t finish. So the bricklayers couldn’t finish, neither could the roofers. Because they couldn’t finish, the electricians, the plasters, the painters and the candlestick makers were all stood down. So much for it being ready by Christmas.

The really annoying thing is the foreman on the crew that actually did the work said his team hadn’t been overly busy of late and had the work order arrived on his desk any time in the last few months he could have had the job done within days. Isn’t it an awful pity the lad digging the foundations didn’t clip the pole by accident. It would have cost you a few quid but look at the time you’d have saved, he grinned.

I got a call yesterday. One I was expecting really. An elderly relation had just passed away.

She reared a large family and I have always been close to them, but closer to one in particular. I let things settle for an hour after his brother had broken the news to me then phoned him.

- Howya. Ya all right? Larry called me with the news.

- I’m grand. Why? What news?

[Panic! What do I do now? What do I say? Two big size nines straight into my gob. Think quick, Primal]

- Hello! Hello! Can you hear me? … You’re cracking up on me. … This phone’s shite … If ya can hear me I’m going to move down the road … see can I get a signal … call you back … five minutes.

I hung up. Shaking. What happened there? I began to doubt myself. Did I get Larry’s message wrong? Was the woman still alive and just because I was expecting to get a particular phone call that’s what I heard?

No I couldn’t have gotten it wrong. Larry never rings me. Why else would he ring me now? No, I did hear right.

I was refusing to believe the glaringly obvious. In such a big family someone always gets left out. Larry probably assumed Máire rang Pat. Máire probably assumed Fran had.

But what was I to do now? Do I call Larry back? Do I call Pat and tell him he should phone home? I decided to let it go. No matter who I phoned it would spark a row. I just had to hope Pat would put two and two together. He did. And while he guessed the news, at least he didn’t officially hear it from me.

A close family member of mine has a long term illness. One that is incurable and, in his case, worsening. By now, and aged just 40, his bladder has failed, his speech is incoherent, he has movement in only one hand. He needs the 24 hour care afforded to babies - dressing, washing, changing, feeding. There’s more, but you get the picture.

As he suffering from one of a list of prescribed diseases or disabilities, to use the HSE term, he holds a long term illness book. This entitles him to the drugs, medicines and medical and surgical aids and appliances prescribed for that disease free of charge. Note the caveat there: prescribed for that disease

So what does that mean and how does it work? Well, his doctor enters the type and quantity of drugs he prescribes into the book. Then some official in the HSE checks that those drugs are on the list for that disease and rubber stamps it. Once approved, any pharmacy can dispense what’s needed. Great!

But sometimes they are not approved. Why? Well they will have been certified safe by the Medical Board but no official has gotten around to deciding they are suitable for his particular ailment. So what happens then? Well his wife, doctor, specialist, chemist, bin-man, soothsayer, everyone! fights to have them put on his book. In the meantime, they have to be paid for.

Now I hear someone reminding me about the community drugs scheme whereby no-one pays more than €85 in any calender month for approved prescribed medicines. Yes, but €85 is a lot when your disability or long term illness benefit is less than €200 a week, out of which you need to buy the regular stuff and pay the regular bills we all do. Then on top of that there are extra expenses like paying a carer for the additional hours worked above the 20 covered by the HSE.

Note that the description of what is covered by this book doesn’t mention things we would all assume like doctor visits. It doesn’t cover hospital fees. If he gets the flu he has to pay to see his doctor and for whatever antibiotics he prescribes. If he breaks an arm he must pay the A&E charges. The time his bladder failed and he needed surgery he got a hospital bill for €500.

Most of you won’t believe this. I know you won’t because no-one ever does. They think (and excuse the pun) I’m making some sick joke. How could someone so ill be treated like this?

So what’s the solution? A medical card. That covers doctors, hospitals and whatever medicines they, or other health workers, prescribe.

So why doesn’t he have one? Well he does … most years. Not all. It is reviewed every year based on income and every year, coupled with his wife’s, their combined income is over the limit by a few euro. And yes, they do count his state benefits in this calculation. Every year his application is refused and has to be appealed based on the expenses he would be expected to incur such as doctor and hospital visits and medicines not listed on his long term illness book.

Some years the appeal fails. Others it it successful. But each year the rigmarole is the same: Send in the application. Two weeks later expect a response. None comes. Make a phone call. Oh, yes, we have that here and are working on it. A week later phone again. No, I can’t seem to find that. Are you sure you sent it in? Insist you did. They find it. Two weeks later. Get the refusal notice. Send off the appeal. Wait two weeks. Make a call. No, I can’t seem to find that. Are you sure you sent it in? Insist you did. They find it. A week later. Make another call. Oh, yes, we have that here and are working on it right now. Wait a few days. Make yet another call. Well, we can’t proceed until you supply us with such-and-such document. Insist that it was sent. Well maybe we lost it. Ask how they could lose it when everything was stapled together. Maybe when it was being photocopied. Say there would have been no need to photocopy anything as you provided copies to save them doing it. Oh, look. Here it is on my desk. I will get to work on this immediately. Ask if you can call tomorrow for news. Oh, I don’t work Wednesdays or Thursdays. Call Friday. Call Friday and there’s something else. And so on and so on and so on.

While all this is going on, he has to pay the doctor, chemist and so on. This year is no different. That last I heard, the appeal is at the maybe we lost it stage. In the meantime, while all this was going on, and order for a speech aid (and some other items) that took 8 months to get approved, has been cancelled by some official in the HSE’s purchasing department. Why? Because the computer says he has no medical card. When If he gets the card back he can reapply. Another 8 months.

There are benefits and structures in place to assist him and others like him. There are doctors, nurses, chemists, therapists, wives, husbands, kids, carers, bin-men, soothsayers, you name it, all working long and hard to help him. Yet the whole thing collapses when some jumped up little official in a suit that doesn’t rhyme doesn’t know how to or can’t/won’t do the job they’re paid to do. These people are the real sickness the HSE needs to deal with. These are the cancer in the system.

Look, I don’t have anything worthy of a fully fledged post right at the minute so you’re stuck with a Snippet. And yeah, I know I can normally turn trivia into travesty, but I’m not up to it today. It’s wet and miserable out.

• The dog is particularly vociferous this morning. He’s running up and down, barking orders and guarding things. There’s something going on since the early hours over at the neighbour’s place. Building work or mass murder or something. I’m not going to check. It’s raining I told you. Maybe I should check. It’s not like him. He hates the rain and normally takes to his kennel, or huddles under the porch if the tom cat has commandeered it. Ah no, shur who’d be committing mass murder in weather like this. They’d have to be insane.

• I met up with the Butcher and the Barkeep briefly yesterday. Nice kids. Kiwis both. Doing their OE (overseas experience) bit and picked Ireland as their victim. She’s a sheep breeder and he’s a dairy farmer. That explains how she got a job cutting up meat but there’s not much milk served in Irish pubs. Now guess what. It was raining. And cold. They are both soaked and freezing in their T-shirts. How in the name of jayzez could you walk out and forget your coats on a day like this? We don’t have coats. We might need to buy some, you reckon? How the hell could anyone in their right mind come to Ireland and expect to spend 12 months here without a coat is beyond me.

• We had a couple in the local and watched the racing. A few lads arrived in after pheasant shooting. Any joy? asked the barman. Nope. We were out for hours and not a decent cock to be had. We rose a few but they weren’t worth bringing home. Bunch of young ones in here last night complaining about the same thing.

• I just finished a job for a customer and they want to know how many people are looking at their site. Hits or stats to you and me. Now we expected the readership to be pretty much IT illiterate and most pages carry foolproof instructions on where to click and what to do. In fact, one line that read hit C to Close had to be changed to hit the letter C on your keyboard to Close the window. I kid you not. Now here’s the real eye opener: Let’s say the site is called spoons.ie and is for a company that sells spoons. If you enter spoons into google.ie it appears on the first page. But the greatest number of visitors arriving already knew the domain name and yet still used Google to find it - they entered spoons.ie into Google instead of straight into the address bar. I am just amazed. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh.

I’m back. Well sort of. Let’s say I’m Backish. Like Ivana. I’ll still be drifting in and out of the consciousness that is blogland for a couple of more weeks. It’s not right to be messing with the space-time continuum like that but it can’t be helped for the moment.

Now what was I saying? Oh, yeah, the great tree-felling of ‘07. What I haven’t told you is how the tree was actually cut down.

As it was close to the house, we needed to be sure it fell away from it. Pat’s a good man with a chainsaw but just to be sure, he had me brace a hefty plank ¼ the way from the treetop and then push as hard as I could when he gave the order. It worked a dream.

However, being as useful as tits on a bull when it comes to things like this, I somehow managed to let the plank slip from my shoulder and I tore the muscle on a rib.

Some years ago I had a similar injury and I remembered well how much it hurt when I coughed, sneezed or laughed.

Kismet, as it does, played its part and I got a cold the next day. Cough, fuck, cough, fuck, fuck and atchoo, fuck, fuck, fuck. You get the idea.

Luckily I was working hard and hadn’t time to read blogs so there wasn’t much to make me laugh. But kismet, the bastard, had other ideas.

In the chemist’s collecting a script for an elderly neighbour I coughed, let out a string of expletives and bent over holding my chest. The blonde babe who fancies me* came running from behind the counter. Are you sure it’s a torn muscle? It’s not cracked is it? Here let me have a look and she ran her hand up under my jumper.

She pressed and prodded and I screamed oh god, oh god while she soothingly ooohed and aaahed.

The commotion brought the manager out from the back of the shop and suggested if we were having some sort of role-reversal sexual experience that we were welcome to use his office.

The staff and customers burst out laughing. I did too. But that caused even more pain and I fell over clutching my chest, and the girl’s hand as it was still on the offending rib, consequently bringing her down on top of me.

To add insult to injured rib, the guy who owns my local walked in right then. Never the shy one, eh Primal. That produced another bout of laughter and writhing in pain. Each time the girl tried get up I rolled or jerked involuntarily and brought her crashing down again.

Can security camera footage be uploaded to YouTube? asked the manager. More hilarity. I thought it would never end. Why in the name of the mother of the six sniffling infants did this have to happen in a shop-full of smart arses!

* I know she does ‘cos she dropped a subtle hint one day: The other girls think I fancy you. They could be right - you make me laugh**.

** I asked her if they stocked Scrotox. It wasn’t on the computer but if I explained what it was she’d make some calls. It’s like Botox but it’s for getting the wrinkles out of your sack.

A tale of two hedges continues.

They were cut, front and back, despite my protestations, a couple of weeks ago. They look so bare and pitiable, like Britney, it brings a tear to my eye.

What couldn’t be cut was two large tress. One is an ash and will look great, if a bit lonely, given time. Like Britney. The other was a hawthorn bush that lost the run of itself, got notions beyond its station, and grew into a tree. A big ugly, gnarly, ivy encrusted monster. Like an Ent, but without the smarts. And, unlike Ents, without the ability to move.

But it wasn’t bothering me much. Live and let live. It has roots in this place as I do.

All was well until Sunday when I had two unexpected visitors. Pat and Elaine are what are known in Ireland as mickey-relations. No blood ties, but are vaguely related to someone who is (probably vaguely) married to someone vaguely related to me. You know they way it is. Relations who are your nearest and dearest when they want something.

Elaine rang ahead to say she would be stopping by to see how the building was coming along. Ten minutes later Pat called to say he was in the area and ask if I needed bread or milk. That’s a very Irish thing - even if you are visiting the house of a celiac vegan you still offer to bring bread and milk.

Oh, that’s fine extension, lauded Pat. A right one, added his sister. Pity about that auld tree there. If it falls, it’ll hit the house. I agreed, but pointed out it would only clip a few slates and that I’d cut it down if I seen it about to topple.

Well I have a chainsaw in the jeep if you’d like to get rid of it now. Shur it’ll only take a few minutes. I’m not one to look a gift chainsaw in the mouth so I gave the go-ahead.

True to his word, Pat had the tree felled in minutes and we set about cutting it up into manageable blocks. That’s great, Pat. I’ll be able to get rid of them during the week. Well if you want, offered Elaine, I’ve a big boot on my car and I could take them away. They’d probably burn in my fire once they’ve rotted a bit. Okay, shur work away then.

My neighbour noticed the missing tree the next day. Pat and Elaine turned up out of the blue and took it, I explained. Would they not just take tea and biscuits? He went away chuckling to himself leaving me wondering who had done who the favour.