Thursday was bitter cold. Bitter as a 70-year-old virgin. The painter’s fingers quickly turned a Smurf blue as he put masking tape on the windows. I helped as best I could with coaching and encouragement - Another one down, Lar. You’re motoring now. I’m sure he appreciated my assistance though he never said. Must be the silent type I suppose.

~~~~~

He got something in his eye and spent Friday at the hospital. His wife came though. She owns a cleaning company and offered to have the place scrubbed down in lieu of a house-warming gift. That’s a bit of a misnomer seeing as it isn’t a new house, just an extension to an old one. So strictly speaking her services were in lieu of an extension-warming gift. But that sounds like something you’d buy on eBay and hope the postman wouldn’t (mis)read the customs label.

I checked on her at lunchtime. We’re flying, Primal. The windows were a curse though - took hours - them fekin builders never took the tape off them. I suggested she let Lar know that - he’d be very interested. I got a quizzical look. Ok. I was going to call anyway to see how he was getting on with the eye. I made a hasty exit.

~~~~~

The cat turned up on Saturday after a three week absence. He was barely able to walk. Puss (appropriately for a cat) was oozing from a wound on its throat. Obviously there had been a fight and he’d lost and had been lying in a ditch somewhere. Now I hate cats, but I felt sorry for it. Something had to be done.

I called the vet. White male - approximately 3 years old - gangland victim - heavy discharge from infected wound on neck - deep laceration to left foreleg - dehydrated - impaired mobility - possible euthanasia candidate. Okay, Mr. Sneeze. You’d better bring him in. What’s his name? Name? I don’t know. He’s a stray then? No. He was one of three white sibs - Disclaimer, Terms and Conditions. Two died from trafficitis. I could never tell one from the other. Trafficitis? Yeah. Severe trauma to the torso caused by pneumatic tyres on heavy goods vehicles. I see. So what name will I put in the computer? Anonycat. What? Well it’d be stupid to call it Anonymouse.

~~~~~

Nervy Neighbour wanted to have a chat. He was having trouble with Nasty Neighbour again. We could have a pint. Pints are great catalysts for sorting out the woes of the world.

The pub was buzzing but not a barhound in sight. We stood there playing spot-the-barman. One bustled in all hot and bothered. The soccer? The soccer is it? Room down the hall there. Eh, no we w… Oh, the rugby. On in the lounge. No, we ju… Yee’re grand then - the racing’s on here. NO! We just want two fekin pints, ya tool!

That Irish publicans are more interested in sport than drink was another woe we added to the world’s ever growing list.

We hadn’t even gotten to start on the list when Strange Fellow plopped himself down between us. Know anything about car seats, lads? Are you giving up the window cleaning business and going into car valeting? No I am not. I bought a car. An 06 Saab. Well fair play to ya. After years riding around on the bike it’ll be great comfort. So what’s wrong with the seats? I can’t fit me ladders in. I’ll have to take out the seats. Do yee know how ya do that?

~~~~~

I’ve been needing two RJ-45 connectors to finish networking the office. Two lousy pins. Do you think I could get them? Not a hope in Hades. The so-called geeks in PC World never heard of them. I didn’t mind the blank looks from the staff in the hardware stores, but in PC World - com’on lads, get your act together. A local electrical supplies shop, Wesco, had them. 50c each. I suggested the guy behind the counter perform a sexual act on his own person if he thought I would pay 50c for something worth about 15c. I am a man of principle after all. Bad language, but principle. Principally bad language.

I could get them from an Irish online supplier, Komplett. €2 for a 10 pack. Excellent. €13 postage. Shite. They could perform the same act.

Maplin in Blanchardstown had them at a reasonable price, but I would join the folks at Wesco and Komplett in their new pastime if I was driving all that way just for two pins.

Would I go to Argos on Sunday morning and collect stuff? Ok. Maplin is near there so I could get the RJ-45 connectors. Men are from Maplin, women are from Argos. Fact. The women in my life happily spend hours poring over the Argos catalogue - I get as excited as a hungry baby in a topless bar with the Maplin catalogue in front of me.

But letting me loose in an electronics store is as dangerous as letting a woman loose [double checks order of those words] in Macys at sales time. I came home with a cordless screwdriver, a network tester, a solar-powered battery charger, a watch case opener and a simcard reader. All of which I will probably never use. Unlike the RJ-45 pins which I will. Or would have used, if I hadn’t left them behind on the counter.

~~~~~

Today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick driving the snakes up ladders without passing go or something like that. Maybe it’s the time he went camping with Tara and he lit a fire to cook shamrock while she played with his crozier. I’m not really sure any more. Sometimes I get mixed up between the St. Patrick’s Day we have in Ireland and the St. Patty’s Day they celebrate in America.

All I know is that I am to drink pints today as required by law. They will be black ones as they always are. I will wear jeans. They will be blue ones as they always are. I will express my wish that a friend be happy. I will say happy birthday to her as I always do on March 17.

It’s a bank holiday. Our national day. No one else’s. What could possibly go wrong?

It was cold wet windy night. The forecast was for gales and flooding. The kind of night when sensible people lock their doors, pull the curtains and sit warming themselves in the glow of a flickering TV.

Not me. I had to go out. I’d arranged to meet someone at precisely some time between 7:15 and 8:00. But how? There would be drink involved so I couldn’t take the car. And I flatly refuse to use taxis since they tried convince us the national maximum fare was a minimum. I thought of my local publican.

Now Con has a reputation for being, shall we say, less than generous. It is said the crows flying over his house bring packed lunches. It is said he hates breathing out. It is said he owes himself money. It is said if he owned the Alps he wouldn’t give you a slide.

But I tried anyway. Good man, Con. Are you working tonight? I’m finishing at 7:00. Any chance you’d be able to pick me up after that and drop me to the pub? I have to meet a lad and it’s kind of important. He grumbled a bit but agreed.

The following morning, through the haze induced by the barrel of his beer still bubbling around in my belly, I seen him at the shop. Ah Con. Thanks for the lift last night. You were a lifesaver. He muttered something about the money he’d made out of me wouldn’t have covered the petrol he used. Ah me bollix, says I, if it weren’t for us making up the crowd the bar last night would’ve been as empty as Dáil Éireann outside of budget day.

Back home, the builders gave me a small can of petrol and I decanted a couple of hundred mil into an old medicine bottle. I knocked up a new label on the computer, put it in a box and wrapped it with left over Christmas paper. I dropped it off to him in the pub that afternoon saying that’s just a little thank-you for yesterday.

I left before he opened it but I have no doubt the contents are in his car by now, the bottle put away safely and the wrapping saved for next December. He may have managed to salvage some of the sellotape too.

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.

Only recently moved into the area he didn’t realise who he was dealing with. With a lopsided grin he remarked on old Bill Drennan’s ample beer gut - If that belly was on a woman you’d think she was pregnant.

It was. And she is.

Of all the characters I’ve known, Bill is the most colourful. Not because he is widely travelled, well read, a linguist. He is none of these. But he is the quickest wit. He is in his early nineties now and confined to bed in a nursing home but he can still cut you down to size with his quips.

He was a legend in the locality. Before he had to go to the home he knew every man, woman and child by name. And they knew him. No-one would pass him on the street without stopping for a chat. As he grew old, everyone looked out for him.

He was a martyr for the drink so he needed more looking after than most. His next door neighbour would cook his meals and stand over him to make sure he ate. She would patrol like a customs officer, confiscating any alcohol we tried to smuggle down the laneway past what he called the dry line. Some of us hated seeing him going without his drop and concocted various schemes. A half-bottle of Power’s Gold Label concealed in a Pringles container worked for me until the customs officer developed a taste for sour cream & onion.

As with most characters, Bill was at his best in the pub. That is where his victims were most relaxed and let their guard down. A barmaid, a large girl to put it mildly, introduced him to her new boyfriend, an equally heavy individual. Well the handicapper got it right for once. On another occasion the same barmaid was leaning over the counter blathering away to an unhappy customer - unhappy, as while normally a welcome sight, her ample bosom was obscuring his racing page. He asked if she would remove her bouncy castles off his paper. Bouncy castles me arse. Fekin hanging baskets them.

Great with his hands, Bill was seldom stuck for work. When he was young the main employers were farmers and he spent many years with one of the bigger landowners in the area, Dan Coughlan. At meal times, Mrs. Coughlan would dish out enormous quantities of potatoes and turnips to the men. The meat would then be served - one slice for each worker but the farmer’s plate would be piled high. On his (unintended) last day in the job, Bill couldn’t hold back when Dan made the same remark he made every mealtime - Oh ho lads, ya can hear the bull roaring in that. Well it’s not for the want of fekin jayzez turnips he’s roaring.

Later the main employers were builders. Repairs were being made to the sewerage system up at the big house. Bill was dispatched to speak to her Ladyship. Cap in hand he relayed the message. We’re starting work on the pipes now, ma’am. We’d be grateful if you’d refrain from using the facilities until further notice. We apologise for the disturbance, but it is quite necessary. We hope you understand, ma’am. The pipe from the top floor was being dismantled when it became obvious her Ladyship had ignored the request. Two men were being hosed down while Bill was dispatched again. I thought I told ya not to shite, ma’am. Do it again and I’ll ram this shovel so far up your arse ye’ll craping crooked for a month.

I know it’s not true, but I always like to think the character Fr. Jack Hackett in the Father Ted series was based on our Bill.