“Session on for the Young Lad’s 40th in one of the sheds on the farm. Don’t tell him – it’s a surprise. Dress cood [sic] western style. And don’t bring drink – there’ll be loads.”

Grand, says I. I’ll go to that. It’ll make feel old what with the Young Lad hitting 40 and all, but shur it’ll be a guaranteed great craic.

Now, the dress cood [sic again]. What’ll I wear?

Got it! An Aran jumper, a báinín cap, turned-down wellies and in my arms a Barbie doll in a short skirt as a Galway Hooker. Can’t get more western than that, can you?

I suggested my mate Peadar not bother dressing up – after all, his son’s name is Aaron so he could just go as “the old man of Aaron”. He could go around and around and mime playing pool and point at a hole in the ground if anyone wanted a hint. He liked the idea.

Pat’s father’s anniversary was the same weekend so he’d be up from Cork. I rang him.

Well, says he, the father’s isn’t ’til next weekend. But, look – it’s the Young Lad’s 40th so I’ll come up. It won’t kill me to come up two weekends in a row. Now what’ll I wear?

Go mad, says I, do something out of the ordinary – blue jeans, Stetson, check shirt and boots.

The three of us met up at the pub. Early. Very early. We stayed a bit too long.

The whole place was in darkness when we arrived.

Christ!, said Peadar, he must be about to arrive. They’ve killed the lights. We’d better sneak in the back way so we’re there when he comes. Don’t want to tip him off and spoil it.

Now sneaking into a farm yard the back way involves climbing barbedwire fences and crossing muddy fields, but we did it.  A few scratches and mucky boots never hurt anyone. After all, there was loads of drink going according to the “documentation” as Peadar pointed out.

Either everyone was wearing black and being totally silent and motionless or we were alone.

We were alone. Not a sinner there.

I rang the Young Lad’s sister. No. Right. Grand. Just wondering.

Bollix, lads. Right date. Wrong month. It’s on in April. We’re three months early.

So we headed on back toward the pub.

Passing the church we met the Young Lad going in. Where are ye pair of eejits going in them rigouts?  And the three of yiz half cut. The state of yiz. Jayzez, Pat you’re not coming into your Daddy’s mass like that, are ya? The rest of them are in there already – they’ll murder ya if they see ya like that.

No. Sold it. Sort of.

Fair play to him. Say he got a few quid for it – it was a monster.

Dead right it was. 11 by 4½ metres. And high too.

So what did he get for it?

Not sure if he got anything.

How did they get it out? A crane?

No. A bottle jack, a hammer, a stepladder and a sweeping brush.

What?

And a truck. Not that it helped much.

Weeks ago the builder rang to let me know he’d sold it. To a Mr. Ward. Mr. Ward would call me a few days before he would be collecting it to make arrangements.

He did. I have a lad with a lorry lined up to take that away, Boss. We’ll be there tomorrow morning. Half 3. If ye’d just leave the gates open we’ll work away. No need to be getting up or anything, Boss.

Damn sure I’d be getting up. I didn’t want the gates, car, fence, dog kennel, even the dog himself being taken away as well.

Mr. Ward arrived bang on 3. He was accompanied by his cousin, Mr. Ward, and a friend, Mr. Ward.

The truck arrived shortly after. Driven by a Mr. Ward.

It was like being in a hospital.

I had expected a crane, but no, the Wards didn’t see the need. A flatbed would do nicely. And how, I asked, are you going to get it down off the blocks it’s resting on without a crane?

A bottlejack, boss. We have a bottlejack.

And so began the process of raising each corner, pulling the blocks out and lowering again. One corner at a time. And how, I asked, are you going to get it up on the truck without a crane?

Drag it, boss. Drag it with a winch.

And so began the painfully slow process of inching the portacabin along the ground and up on the truck. It was like watching the spaceshuttle being transported from its hangar to the launchpad at minus-miles an hour.

The monotony was broken when Mr. Ward noticed an empty gas cylinder being dragged along behind. It was chained to the portacabin. Another Mr. Ward remembered he’d been given a key. But the padlock was seized. Mr. Ward (not the same one, eh, kind of obviously) had an idea. He took a hammer to it and with a couple of well placed strikes it popped off. Never fails, boss. The hammer never fails.

By now it was 6 and the traffic had begun to build. Mr. Ward waited for a break and edged the truck out the gate.

Disaster!

The flue from the gas boiler snagged the telephone wires. Worse, one wire had somehow flicked over and was caught behind. The truck could neither go forward not back. The road was blocked. The queues began to build.

We may just bull her on, boss. Break the wires.

You will in your brown, I said. I’ll end up paying for it. I won’t get away with it with all these witnesses.

Standing atop a stepladder I lifted the wires with a sweeping brush. The truck edged forward. The tail swing caught the ladder and I came crashing down. I tried again. Came tumbling down again.

By now a group of motorists had left their cars and were standing around offering advice. I thanked them as politely as I could: Would yez all just fuck off!

I’m late for work. Very late. I’m calling the Guards to get this road cleared, declared a cantankerous-looking middle-aged woman with her nurse’s uniform straining over her potbelly.

Ah don’t let her call the Guards, boss. Sure we’re supposed to have a permit for moving that, it’s so wide.

Now you tell me!

I convinced her she’d be better employed holding the ladder and she forgot about the men in blue (and yellow).

With the help of Florence Nighting-Grump, the lady with the lump, I got the wires freed, the truck rolled off, the traffic moved once more, and all was well with the world.

Or at least I thought it was.

The builder rang later. Yeah, it’s gone, I told him. A bit of a struggle, but it’s gone.

Good stuff. I’ll drop over in bit to get the money.

Eh, what money? I thought you’d been paid already …

Thursday

We realised the sales guy from the marquee company screwed up the measurements. The damn thing didn’t fit. I learned curses in Slovak, Polish and Russian from the erectors. Anyone living within a 10km radius learned them too.

They would do what they could and return the next day with more suitable gear.

I made them a lake of soup and a mountain of sandwiches for lunch and I was deemed the best fella they’d ever met. More coffee, sandwiches and biscuits at 4:00 and I was deemed the best fella they would ever meet.

That’s me. The best fella. I can make soup to beat the best of them. You want to see me open tins!

The kiddies entertainer arrived to check out the place. He’d be back Sunday morning to set up the bouncy slug/caterpillar/train/thing/yoke. In the meantime, could he store some of his magic kit? To save space in his van.

Last word of advice before the entertainer left – don’t open the boxes. They are a killer to repack if you’re not used to it.

As soon as he left I opened them all.

Friday

At 7:00 I noticed a bread van slow down and pull in. It died right at the entrance, blocking access. The boss arrived with a smaller van, what could fit was swapped over and the driver headed off. The boss would stay with the corpse until the tow-truck arrived. It did. At 7:30 that evening.

In the meantime passing trucks were flagged down. Have you got a chain? No. Right, fuck off so. Next one: Have you got a chain? No. Right, fuck off so. And so on, until one had and the van was pulled into the yard. At least now we could get in and out.

Three sittings of soup and sandwiches. This time there was an endless supply of bread and better still, buns and cakes. To pass the time the bread-man pitched in and helped the marquee guys and they all became the best of friends. Happily ever after and all that.

I busied myself making signs. Most would never have been in the place before and we didn’t want the hassle of guided tours when there was eating and drinking to be done. Toilets. Bar. Buffet. Smoking area. Exit. GAA match. And these …

Click to view

Click to view

The new layout of the marquee turned out much, much better. Financially in that there was more area for the same price (fuck up compensation) and aesthetically in that there was one large high-roofed open space like a cathedral and smaller cosy rooms off it like snugs in pubs of old. Very Ireland of the 50s – religion and drink. For no apparent reason it became know as the Marquis de Sade.

Last word of advice from the Marquis de Sade’s erectors before they left – don’t take the plastic film off the floor until the last minute so it stays clean.

As soon as they left I took the plastic of the floor.

Saturday

Parking was going to be a problem. Two neighbours had offered their driveways – one across the road and one a short walk away. But who would park where? What about the Maynooth’s – the ones with small kids? They’d better park at the house then. We don’t want some kid getting a shit-haemorrhage and ne’er a nappy to hand. What about the other Maynooths? He just had a heart bypass. Then the walk’ll do him good – they can park in the Red carpark. And so on until all the guest list was sorted. Then the phone calls.

Howya, John. About tomorrow. You’ll be using the Blue carpark. How will I know I’m in the right one? It’ll be blue I told ya! And it was. On the road, big blue arrows pointing left and big red ones pointing right, and blue and red discs on poles on the neighbours’ lawns. Just like Liffey Valley Shopping Centre.

The tables and chairs arrived. Lovely pretty affairs like you’d see at a wedding but butt-clenchingly heavy. I groaned, cursed and sweated watching the guys unload them. What? Fek off if you think I was putting my back out before the best session of the year.

They demonstrated how to put the covers on the pedestals and how they’d fall apart if anyone tried lifting them the wrong way. Which intuitively seemed the right way but apparently it wasn’t. It’s not as if a row’s going to break out and they get tossed around, giggled the foreman. Unless someone mentions aunt Maggie’s big arse. His face dropped. A local man he too remembers what happened at Pat Hoey’s funeral. Well, he said, we’ll just have to hope for the best.

Last word of advice from the furniture man – don’t put the tablecloths or pedestal covers on until the last minute so they stay clean.

As soon as he left I put on the tablecloths and pedestal covers.

A large area has been cleared and graded off, ready for the bouncy slug/train/whatever and some fancy concert-like fake grass will be rolled out so the kids don’t get mired in the mud.

The only problem was a large hole, originally dug for another purpose^[1], had filled with water. It should really have been pumped out but without the equipment the only option was to fill it in and hope for the best. The best didn’t turn out great. It’s a mess. A soaking wet muddy mess. (If anyone needs livery for a water buffalo, contact me.)

Cap in hand, I went to explain:

- How bad is it? I’m afraid to look.

- Well, kids below the age of 8 would probably be swallowed up. And older ones with growth deficiences.

- Okay. Let me check the guest list. Dum dee dum dee dum … Not good – we’re looking at a loss of 24.7% of invited offspring.

- If I fenced it off I could probably get that down under 10%. You’ll always get a few breakers. Would that do?

- Maybe. Though a 100% survial rate would be better. Parents get touchy.

- Right let’s look at the list again.

- Well, there’s the Galberstowns^[2] – those lads are pansies. They’ll run a mile from the sight of mud. Safe there.

- What about the Carlows?

- They’re old enough to have sense. And they can keep the smaller ones away. Now the Kilcocks – they aren’t the brightest – they’ll be first to fall in.

- The Carlows can pull them out if I leave some rope handy.

- Yeah. Do that. Now let’s see. The Timolins are born breakers. They’ll just have to go where they’re told not to.

- So we lose the Timolins. If it’s just them we’re not too bad.

- No. This isn’t as bad as I thought. We can’t do anything about the Saggarts – if there wasn’t a swamp they’d make one and jump into it. I think it’ll be okay.

- Grand so. I fence it off, leave a rescue rope and handcuff the Timolins to the gate.

- Yeah. Sorted.

[1] Apparently the County Council insist you buy a graveyard plot from them.

[2] With extended families where most have the same surname it’s normal to avoid confusion by referring to them by where they live, such as the Cork Kellys, Naas Kellys, Navan Kellys and so on. Our clan, being abnormal, dispense with the surname altogether.

Would I like to help with the preparations? Help meaning receive a long list of tasks and complete them in half the time allotted … because there’ll be more. Oh, and like to meaning say no and your life will be a misery – all your camels will have calves of the same sex and that kind of thing.

First up, the invitations. I thought long and hard about how to go about designing cards for a party that was to be both a wedding anniversary and a house warming. Then suddenly – ding! I took my dinner out of the microwave and it came to me – superimpose a shot from the wedding onto one of the new front door.

They arrived two days later. Well, what ya think? Fekin deadly – it looks like the two of us are standing right in the doorway. One foot inside, one outside. I’m good, huh. Yeah … but, hold on. Ah for the love of jayzez what’s this “10 years since we got married up” bit? I thought “wed” sounded soppy so I changed it. Marriage is supposed to be soppy. Only the first few years though. Oh crap! They’ll have to do – there’s no time to reprint.

A few days went by and my camels all gave birth to males.

Get your car out and we’ll go buy the drink. The trolley creaked under the weight. If the arse fell out of it, the fire brigade would have to pump out the shop. Oh look. A pack of party hats and bendy straws. The kids will love these. I swear I could hear the trolley moan. These could be the hats that broke the trolley’s back.

Having a party I see, said the checkout girl. I glanced up. Well spotted. Coped the party hats then eh? She looked at me a long time, her hand hovering over the big-guy-with-a-peaked-cap-and-a-radio button. Yeah, that’s it. Party hats are always the giveaway.

With the booze in the boot and the bonnet pointing skywards, I tacked the car toward the exit. Take a left out the gate. We’re going to view a big caterpillar. I seen it on a website and rang the man to say we’d come look. A what? A caterpillar. A big long yoke that you blow up. For the kids. They play inside it. You put a bunch of kids in it then blow it up? Cool! No. You blow it up first then the kids play around in the blood and guts.

It was left to me to deal with the caterpillar guy while a we’d-love-to-come phonecall was taken from one of the I-hope-to-fcuk-they-say-no relations.

Howya getting on? I’m here to see the big slug thing. He hesitated. Sorry? It’s a big long yoke that kids play inside. It’s on the website. Ah, yes, I have you now, he smiled. It’s a bad picture on that. It’s actually a train. It’s over here. Come and have a look.

Well? So what do you think?

The door is very narrow. The windows are even smaller. What happens if a row breaks out? How are we supposed to get in to take out the wounded?

He looked at me even longer and even more strangely than the checkout girl.

Look, no worries, I consoled him. I can borrow a metal detector and scan all the kids coming in the gate for knives. I looked skyward and muttered, I should have done that the last time.

So what’s the caterpillar like? It’s actually a train. But it’s grand. I told the man you’d hire it. He wants a deposit of two grand, refundable if he gets it back undamaged, and you’ll have to sign a form saying he’s not liable for any injuries. Or deaths. Deaths?!?!? And two is a bit steep. Yeah, I thought that myself. Can’t for the life of me figure out why it’s so much.

Mags came by. We loved Mags. A complete and utter fruit cake. Plus she was four years older and working for a fruit importer which meant she always had money (and free fruit). She treated us all to a third one (welcome indeed) and better still her folks were away, she had her dad’s Escort Estate and would drive us home (even more welcome). The only snag was with so many of us someone would have to travel in the boot. Me!

Mags went a bit wide at a Y-junction and the car spun on the gravel sending it sideways across the road. It clipped a telephone pole and dropped tail first into a ditch. The door of the boot had shot open and I had been slung out.

Someone shouted to call an ambulance and two of us ran off in search of a phone. We scanned the wires overhead at each house until we found one that had a phone. This was 1983 and mobiles weren’t invented and many homes didn’t even have a landline.

The ambulance took Mags and one of the guys and the rest of us followed with the man whose phone we’d used.

She had knocked her head on the steering wheel an was bleeding badly and concussed. Two of the lads had broken an arm. The others had minor cuts and sprains. I was the last to be looked at. And what ails you? asked the doctor. I got stung by nettles and had a kiwi fruit squashed into my back. In his opinion I didn’t have need of his medical skills though he did take the time to enquire about kiwi fruit. This was 1983. Exotic fruits had just been invented and were even less common than landlines.

In the early hours of the following morning were allowed see Mags. She was fine but they would keep her under observation for a while longer. Could someone please, please, please get the car out of the ditch before the neighbours see it? She would face her parents when they got home. Guess who was volunteered? Me!

At 7 I set off with my neighbour in his tractor armed a strong chain. We came across a pile of boxes scattered over the road. Cartons of salt, cornflour, sugar, tea, polish, cleaning sprays, all manner of goods that had fallen of a truck heading for the nearby warehouse. We put everything into the front loader. This job would pay for itself.

I knocked on a door and explained to an elderly lady about the crash and asked could we tow the car into her yard. It’ll only be here for a week until the girl’s folks get home. They’ll take it away then. She wasn’t convinced. The last time a crashed car was put in here they never came back for it, she said pointing out a pile of rust in the garden. It was an IO reg – that’ll tell you how old it was.

Do you drink tea? Do you take sugar? Would you use some lavender polish? So we paid for parking with trucksam and left.

A few eyebrows were raised when the tractor drove in the monastery gates and up the avenue. Would you care to enlighten me as to your chosen mode of conveyance, Mr. Sneeze? You don’ want to know, Brother. I see. I should know better than to ask – you do get yourself into some strange situations. Well here are your results. Well done. Thanks, Boss. I mean, Brother. Hey, do ya want some cornflour? He didn’t.

At the hospital, Mags asked if I was there to bring her home. Jayzez, I can’t Mags, sorry. We’ve no room. The front loader’s full of salt and stuff.

That night we met at the hotel again. Casts were signed. Stitches counted and admired. I showed off the exact spot on my back that the kiwi had been squashed. As you’d expect, the results were mentioned. How did I do? I didn’t know. In all the excitement I never opened the envelope. It was at home, in a box, wedged between bottles of Jif.

The only difference yesterday was I had two important tasks to complete: Buy a birthday card, put some cash in it and post it (I know that might be three, but I count it as one), and vote in the Lisbon Treaty referendum. No big deal.

Kathy rang. She had some important business in the town and some groceries to get. Would it be okay if she left Oisín with me? He hasn’t been well all week and she didn’t want him getting cranky during her meeting and having to leave. It would only be 20mins* or so. (*20mins = 1hr in woman-time)

I suggested I go to with them instead. I could feed Oisín while she was doing her important business then we could all go to Tesco – I had some shopping I could do too and I could get the card there. But I warned that I had to be at my relation’s house by 3. Not a second later. The morning care assistant leaves then and while the afternoon one is meant to arrive then too, she is usually late. I really needed to be there as my relation cannot be left alone. She promised.

It went like a dream. Popped into a café. Coffee for me. Mashed banana for himself. Met Kathy at Tesco. Her business had been successful. I pushed the buggy. She pushed the trolley. Oisín flirted with the ladies. One in particular.

The girl on the meat counter is crazy about him and insisted on picking him up. He giggled. He smiled. She danced about with him. Big mistake. I let out a quivering slow motion shout – Noooo! Stoooop! Doooon’t! Too late. His tummy gurgled. He deposited a mashed banana on her shoulder.

Apologies made and a full pack of tissues later we continued shopping. All that was left on the list was papaya (for some new concoction Kathy wanted to make). We couldn’t find any. It’s hard find something when you don’t know what it looks like. I suggest we ask one of the staff. God no! We can’t! They’ll think we’re right culchies all together not recognising papay. I pointed out we are, in fact, culchies. She relented.

All done. Back just in time for 3. I addressed the birthday card. I would easily make the post office by the 4pm collection. With time to spare to buy a stamp, get change and put some money in it. Cast my vote. Back home in jig-time. I should have posted it while we were out but the combination of puke and papaya meant there wasn’t time. But everything would be fine.

3:15 no sign of the care assistant. 3:30 still no sign. She arrived at 3:45. A quick hand-over and I raced out the door. I made the post office just as the mail was being collected. I threw a €10 on the counter. Quick, quick, Mistress Jackie. A stamp quick. And make yer man wait. No, here look, I’ve something smaller. Here’s 60cent.

I remembered I’d no change. Ran around to the shop. Bought a newspaper with a €50 and returned. Rammed a €20 note into the envelope. Sealed it. I’m going now. Hurry up to fek would ya, implored the van driver. Give me that here, Primal. I have the stamp ready. Licked and all, said Mistress Jackie.

Ya what? Ya licked his stamp, grimaced the van driver. Bleegh!

Just jealous you, said Jackie. Just ’cause I wouldn’t like yours for ya.

Oh, the tongue on ya, young lady, I said with fake indignation.

Cue uproarious laughter. (They have a great foley-department at the local post office)

Panic over, I strolled happily down the street to the polling station. The card would arrive right on time for the birthday.

A small panic when I remembered I’d left the €10 on the post office counter. Mistress Jackie would keep it. She’d have it there for me tomorrow. No worries. I felt stupid about doing it though. She’d slag me about it. Plus by tomorrow she’d have realised, just like it was dawning on me now, that she could have changed the €50 instead of me rushing around to the shop like an eejit. She’d slag about that too.

Something else dawned on me. I couldn’t find my polling card. I searched all my pockets. Oh for the lord lamb of divine jayzez, I cried. I’d had it in the same envelope as the birthday card. What possessed me to do that? By now my polling card was on its way to Cork. What would my cousin’s 9-year-old think of me for sending him a polling card for his birthday?

But, look, you don’t need your polling card to vote. Right? You just show your ID and they find you on the list. Right? Everything would be fine.

It wasn’t. To get the full background you really need to read this:

I handed in my driving licence. I wasn’t on the register. Ah well, you see … and I started to explain about the two polling cards and the two addresses and how there was a panic and the card for this station was gone to Cork and how Jackie licked my stamp and I forgot a €10 and how the care assistant was late and how I now know what papaya looks like and that my friend’s baby is barred from the butcher’s in Tesco. Looking back, it probably sounded all Alice’s Restaurant with four-part harmony and shovels, and rakes, and implements of destruction.

I was pointed to a row of seats by the wall and told to sit down while they made some calls. I think it was the Group-W bench. The Garda on duty came to stand beside me. Did they think I was impersonating myself?

Half an hour later I was told I could vote. But that I should really ensure my details were correct on the register for the future. Ah well, you see … and I started to explain about the County Council official who came to my house a couple of years back and how she ate all my custard creams and how … But I stopped. I just voted and walked out. I didn’t want to be put back on the Group-W bench again.

Painting is my 23^rd love. For brief period after I gave up competitive long-distance-spitting it was my 22^nd. Then blogging happened and painting fell back to 23^rd again. Still, 23^rd is not bad when you consider my 24^th love is eating Irish stew and 25^th making it.

Now before you go getting all excited, expecting talk of exhibitions and such, I mean house painting. Not the other kind – landscapes, portraits and so on – I know nothing about that.

But I know a lot about painting houses. When I was only a nipper, the great Barty Conlon was a world famous house painter in our village. He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew. Well, almost everything – I had to go home early that day as my dinner was ready.

Over the years I’ve worked with a lot of painters (none as world famous as Barty, but some were classified as fairly world famous) and worked at it on my own bat too. (Regular readers have probably realised by now that I’ve done more moonlighting than Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd).

Anyway, I’ve learned all the knacks and tricks of the trade. I know how to suck air through my teeth and shake my head when pricing jobs; I know to get a look at the marque of the car, the size of the garden and the quality of the furniture before setting the price; I know to look impressed and tell auld wans they’ve picked great colours; without fail, I can locate the tea and biscuits in any kitchen – blindfolded.

I’m good at it too. No spills, drips or splashes with this lad. Masking tape? For wimps! Drop cloths? They just trip you up! A good painter doesn’t need them. All a good painter needs is a damp rag, just on the off chance a herd of wildebeest come stampeding through the room and one leaves a bum print on a skirting board.

And straight lines. The folks over at the local accident and emergency bring their electrocardiographs (and a corpse) over to Sneezy Manor to have them calibrated.

It’s all down to skill, know-how, a steady hand, the right tools, patience and time. Time is most important. A rushed paint job is like rushed sex – lads, I’m telling you, you may walk away happy that time, but don’t expect to be called again.

After the chaos of last week, I finally found some time to do some painting. Now therein lay the problem – some. Not enough, just some time. Big mistake.

2. Tooling up

I checked my supplies and realised I’d need a few things. Not a lot though, because I either make tools or reuse unwanted items. Rather than haul a heavy paint can up a ladder I cut the top off an empty plastic milk container (leaving the hand-grip intact). A long flat strip of wood with a small sponge glued on the end is great for getting down behind radiators.

But I would need some new brushes and a few gloss sleeves for my mini-roller would save me a lot of time. Now, I don’t like the idea of stuff, like gloss sleeves, that you can’t easily clean and reuse, but I thought, hey, it’ll save time and I can always chuck them over the fence to Nasty Neighbours’ kids – the small one will eat anything and the older ones love the excitement when the ambulance comes.

Stuck for time, I went to the nearest hardware, B&Q. A trip there is always good for a laugh anyway. You see DIY-dude paying big bucks for a professional painter’s drop-sheet when he probably has a stack of unused and unwanted sheets at home. And there’s always one who will buy the professional painter’s mini-tub which is really an empty ice cream pail. And the one who only needs a sleeve but walks out with a professional painter’s rolling kit (with roller, tray, fine and coarse sleeves and tool he doesn’t know the purpose of). If it says professional on the label it has to be what you need doesn’t it?

I got the gloss sleeves. And seen some brushes that claimed to be loss-free. Doubtful as I was, I’d give them a go and see what they were like.

An old painter’s trick is to wrap the roller sleeve tightly in a plastic bag if it will be needed again within a short space of time. It saves a heck of a lot of washing. But I didn’t have any bags. Irish houses used be full of them before the introduction of the bag-tax. I didn’t have any or anything like them. I thought, well for the sake of 22c I’d buy one – think of the time I’d save.

Can I have a bag, please? The shop assistant looked at me quizzically. A what? A bag – a plastic bag. But you aren’t buying anything. I’m buying a plastic bag. Actually, give me two. But you’ve nothing to put in them. Okay then, give me two of boxes of matches and I’d a like a bag for each. No problem, sir. Here you go.

3. Painting

My system is to paint by numbers. 1. Do that bit. 2. Do that bit. 3. Do that bit. Great system. Never fails.

This time, 1. was to be the bathroom walls. That’s where the trouble started in earnest. The last “Mrs.” Sneeze (long gone – bad hair – you know yourself) had a thing about fixtures. More precisely, a thing about fixed-fixtures. There were more fixtures bolted, screwed or glued to those walls than in the premiership on a Saturday afternoon.

I figured taking them down would mean repairs- it’d take a lorry-load of fillers and a lot of time, neither of which I had much. I’d just cut in around them. I had all the gear I’d need, even some tiny artist’s brushes for the trickier nooks and crannies. (Yeah, I’m a perfectionist).

That reminded me of a blogging artist, who also paints houses, once saying he likes to do rooms at night while the owners sleep – just to see the look on their faces the next morning when they see the transformation. That’s what I’d do. I’d paint at night. Okay, I’d be painting my own rooms for myself so I wouldn’t be surprised, but I could pretend, just for fun. Plus I’d be free during the day for any urgent work that came in.

A few hours sleep and I got stuck in at 1 in the morning. By 2, I’d lost the rag – the damp one. I simply can’t paint without the comfort-blanket of a damp rag to hand. I didn’t need it, but I needed it to be there.

I began to regret not removing all the junk from the walls. There were more corners than Monte Carlo. And why were there two toilet roll holders? One butt at a time. Two hands, but one butt. More disturbing was that I hadn’t noticed before.

The artificial light began to hurt my eyes. Cutting a straight line at the ceiling was next to impossible. For a while I thought I’d have to leave sections until daylight.

And the loss-free brushes! Brilliant yokes altogether. Not a single hair shed. The problem was, not a single drop of paint applied either – the synthetic fibres just wouldn’t hold it. I even tried some sticky varnish as an experiment but no joy. They should make rain coats or bullet-proof vests with this stuff not brushes.

I persevered and got what I had intended done by dawn. I stepped outside and then back in and feigned surprise. The dog gave me his fekin eejit look and walked off. I had to agree with him.

A few spots here and there might need some attention, but it still wasn’t bright enough to be sure and overall it was a good night’s work. Time for a coffee and a sit down.

3½. The result

In the full light of day I surveyed the scene again. It was much, much better than I thought. My eyes had been playing tricks under the lights and the ceiling line was, in fact, perfect. The patches I thought would need touching up had merely been shadows. It was a masterpiece.

But never again will I paint at night or when stuck for time – I’d used the colour I’d bought for the main bedroom not the bathroom!

Peace and tranquillity were once again restored to Sneezy Manor. Never again would I be tripped up by a fluffy white thing crossing my path at faster miles an hour. Why did it always do that when I had my arms full? Never again would I be woken at 2am by Anonycat having his way outside my window with some floozie he picked up on the street. Never again would there be scraping and yowling at the door at 3am – deed done, now looking for food and/or a cigarette.

Then what happened? A mickey-relation heard the cat was dead and took pity on me. Pity! Pity, I ask you. What feking pity? I didn’t want pity, I wanted party. They got me a replacement. 06D reg. FSH. Range of optional extras included. Low mileage. i.e. Less than 2 years old, used belong to some old dear in Dublin, all certs provided, box of toys, house cat. A fukin house cat! Bad enough having one around the yard but now I have one that lounges on the couch all day watching soaps. I suppose you’re going to suggest I put a cat-flap on the fridge in case it gets peckish during Dr. Phil, I asked. Don’t be silly, she said. Here’s his food and here’s his menu. It’s a two week rota so he doesn’t get bored. How can something that watches Oprah get any more bored?

Anonycat was pure white. This one is mostly white with brown patches. And one small black patch. Where? Right under the nose. You’ve dumped me with a Nazi cat, I yelled. Ah don’t be silly, the little moustache is cute.

I whipped the cat up and frantically turned it this way and that. What are you doing? You’ll hurt the poor kitty. I’m checking it doesn’t have a number tattooed somewhere. 666 or 667. If it’s not the Beast it’s the Neighbour of the Beast. See the way it’s piercing me with its eyes? See the way its paw is outstretched like that? That’s a salute I tell you. Is its name Adolf or Damien? Would you relax! Its name is Alex and he’s a little dote. So was Damien at that age. It’ll make the dog jump to his death from the balcony. Mark my words. You don’t have a balcony. A high wall then. You don’t have a wall either.

I less than two weeks this damn cat has caused more trouble than the last one did in three years.

The painter-in-law (he’s married to my cousin) arrived one morning last week. Where’s the cat, asked Lar. Oh, it’s here. Just hidden. Not hiding. Hidden. He is a master of camouflage. A stealth cat. One minute there won’t a be a sign of it anywhere, then you’ll notice it asleep on the seat next to you. This cat is SAS trained. I’m sure of it. Jayzez, you’re right, Primal. I thought I was losing the plot, said Lar. I came in for the tea yesterday morning and it wasn’t here. I dropped me bag, hit the button on the kettle, turned around and it was asleep on the mat. And all the meat was gone from me sandwiches. Yeah, it does that, Lar, I agreed. You’d want ears on the side of your head with it. This one has read too much TS Elliot. Too much what? Don’t worry about it, Lar.

But for once the cat really wasn’t there. We could hear it meowing somewhere, but couldn’t find it. Ah bollix, groaned Lar. The utility room. It’s fallen down behind that wall unit. Listen. And that’s where it was. How it got up there is a mystery. But then, one of it’s pastimes is performing a tightrope act on the tops of doors.

Lar got his step ladder and we dropped a sheet down the back so it could climb up. We waited and waited. Lar got a bigger ladder and I climbed up a shone a torch down. It wasn’t there. It must be underneath the units. But which one? We prised out the kickboards one by one. No cat. The one kickboard we hadn’t taken out was the one wedged in by a skirting board. It had to come off. And it brought an acre of plaster with it. The cat strolled out with a what-the-fek-kept-yez look and perched on a chair.

Lar and I spent ages on the repairs and went around blocking up any other gaps over the units it could fall into. He finally got to start painting at 10:30. Two and a half hours lost.

Even then he wasn’t having a good day. The wind was bitterly cold and gusting up Arctic strength as he worked on the plinth either side of the glass doors. He laid out a narrow strip of carpet to protect his knees and catch any drips. A full 5l paint drum on one end and he on the other prevented the wind lifting it.

He happened to glance up. Coming straight at his face with claws bared was a feline Hitler. (The cat had jumped from the back of a chair onto the door handles). Startled, Lar toppled back. The carpet whipped up in the wind sending the paint drum toppling too. Lar dived to save it but was too slow. 5l of paint poured onto the path. The strip of carpet flapped in and out of the paint puddle, splashing the walls, glass doors and Lar in patterns that would put Hirst to shame. I hooked up the garden hose but the wind was drying the mess too fast and it was pointless. We spent the next three hours scrapping splotches off the doors and repainting the walls. The cat dropped gracefully down off the door handles and went for a snooze on the mat. I could swear I heard an evil snigger.

And that was just one day. There have been ten to date. I am sick of screaming “get thee to a cattery”. This cat is the result of some mad scientist’s genetic experiment – part Nazi, part SAS commando, part Omen, part McCavity. A genetically modified moggie.

No problem, Kathy, says I. We’ll think of something to get them out. Little boys are like farts: better out than in, eh.

Lovely image, Primal. Thanks. I’ll never be able to look at my sons the same way again.

Saturday morning the weather didn’t look promising. Wind and rain and more forecast. The boys nodded off as soon as we set out. Kathy breathed a sigh of relief. The peace was welcome. Seán had passed the morning jumping off chairs declaring himself to be Capin Jack Sarrragh – a brave and fearless pirate, but one likely to crack his head against a windowsill. It can be difficult reason with brave and fearless pirate captains when they have just turned three. His brother, king Oisín, had banged the tray of his throne (high-chair) bellowing aawaaahh sna sna sna wheeyh which roughly translates as damn it, woman! Feed me now! Tír na nÓg can be a terrifying place.

But now they slept. Their oh- and ah-inducing angelic faces belying the demonic ones of just 20 minutes ago. When we got to The Geraldine they were still sleeping like teenagers so there was no point stopping. We’d go as far as the forest park anyway and see if the newly acquired annual pass, a smartcard, was working. It was and we drove in and pulled up in the car park.

Kathy had an idea. Look the sun’s coming out. You stay with the lads and I’ll go down to the café and get us a couple of toasted sambos and something for the pirate. I’ll ask them to warm the king’s bottle. All going well they’ll wake soon, we’ll feed them, then go for a walk. Now what would you like to drink with your toastie?

Not coffee anyway. Their coffee is shite. Do they do anything else

Yeah. They do soup. Don’t know what it’s like though.

Shur just ask them if it’s shite. If it’s not, then I’ll have some.

So I just say excuse me, is your soup shite? And if they say yes, I get something else? What if they lie and say it isn’t shite?

We’re in a forest with a pirate and a king. Anything could happen. This is the stuff of legend. Trust your instincts. Go now, and may the force go with you.

Kathy set out on her quest taking the force with her. And her wallet too – the force doesn’t work unless you have a few quid in your pocket. The sun was warm now. I let down the windows and lay back in the seat.

Just as I was nodding off there was a clap of thunder. Then another one. The skies opened and the hailstones hammered down on the roof of the car. The king woke up screaming and woke the pirate. The pirate leaned over, stroking his little brother’s cheek, explaining it’s only big noisy rain. Pirates have a tender side.

Pirates being used to the expanse of the high seas can also be a bit claustrophobic so I turned on the windscreen wipers so he could see out. A big mistake. He screamed in terror and set the king off crying again. Through the trees and coming straight toward us was a big black scary monster. Pirates know all about monsters and nothing I could say could calm him. We were going to be taken. Then we were going to be eaten. Monsters prefer takeaway it seems.

Kathy had been about to leave the café when the hail started. Seeing she had no coat the staff had cut holes for her eyes and mouth in a large back plastic refuse sack and pulled it down over her. All that was visible was her feet.

The force and/or wallet had worked wonders. There were toasted ham & cheese sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil. Big chunks of ham, not the photocopied stuff sandwich bars sell. One toastie cut into strips with a side order of crisps in a paper cup – pirates can be particular. A banana on a paper plate. A plastic fork to mash it and a spoon to eat it with. Kings like to dine in style. Two large beakers of hot homemade soup for the slaves.

We ate like kings … pirates and slaves. Actually, with four of us now in the front we ate more like octopuses. A sandwich in my hand had to take a carefully planned and calculated parabolic trajectory to get to my mouth. Even then it ran the risk having a bite taken out of it en route. Tell ye what, lads. When we win the lotto, we’ll treat ourselves to a picnic in a lunar lander or a one-man sub. Imagine the room we’ll have then!

There was a problem though: Kathy had forgotten a drink for the pirate. My turn to go to the café. If they don’t have rum, I’ll get Ribena. Okay? … There are no monsters, but if it’ll make you happy, I will be careful and not get taken. Reassured, he returned to the task of twisting every knob and pulling even lever on the dashboard.

Picnic in the carpark? With two small kids and the woman in the rubbish sack? Yes, I admitted to the woman behind the counter, how did you guess? You look stressed. Don’t suppose you’ve any rum?

When I got back the pirate was gone. A cowboy had taken his place. The pirate ship was now a space rocket. His royal highness was laid out on the passenger seat having the royal nappy changed. The hail came again and I was forced to squeeze into the back between two child seats. The cowboy needed to ride off into the sunset or somewhere equally important and I was chosen as his mount before I had time to say no, nay or neigh. The back of a Fiesta is small at the best of times but in a space rocket with two child seats, a cowboy and a horse there isn’t room to change your mind.

I needed a pint after that. Thought you’d be in earlier for the racing, Primal? Couldn’t. Busy. Working on the house? No. I accidentally went on an Irish picnic in a space rocket in a forest with a monster, a pirate, a cowboy, a horse and a king. Right so. Wasn’t great weather for that kind of thing. No. But the sandwiches were lovely.