I like lists. I made one last week using a sheet of headed paper the government sent me, a carpenter’s pencil I found behind my ear and a Robert Roberts coffee stain. You can try this at home yourself. Use a tea stain if you want. Or a biro. The choice is yours.

First on my list - the garden centre. Howya getting on, Breda? I need a television plant. [Blank silent stare]

Maybe I should explain. Maybe you should. Right. I have this big TV wall bracket thing and I want something to put on it. It looks very bare. I was considering a plant. Did you consider a TV, Primal? I did for years but now I ‘d prefer looking at a plant. I might be killing the sale here, but did you consider taking down the bracket? The wall would have to come with it. I like having the wall there for hanging things on. Like TV brackets? Yeah. If I ever get a second plant, I’d need a second bracket wouldn’t I.

Next on the list - the post office in the local shop. Can I have a €50 whatchamacallit, a Musketeer voucher please? A what? The vouchers that you can use in any shop. Oh, an All-for-One voucher. There you go. That’ll be €52 please. What? €50 worth of stuff costs €52? That’s scary. I’m afraid so, Primal. Is there anything else I can frighten you with?

Actually there is. This. That’s your shopping list, Primal. Look again. A shopping list with a coffee mug stain. Robert Roberts? Yes. Java. Very nice too. But look what it is written on. Ah, a TV Licence renewal reminder. I’ll do you up one now. No! Stop! I don’t want one. You’d better. That’s a 4th reminder. They’ll be at your door and you’ll be fined for not having one. No I won’t. I don’t have a telly. [Second blank silent stare of the day]

So what do you watch in the evenings? A pot plant. You watch a pot plant. Well not watch really. More look at. The wall-bracket where the telly used be is soon to have a pot plant on it. It’s in the car. How does that work out when you’re having a pint? “Hey lads, anyone watch that aphid last night? Something else huh?” And you won’t get Comfort conditioner in a 2l size here.

Look. Can you just tell them I don’t have a telly? They wouldn’t believe me. Why don’t you just write that on the back of the reminder and send it back to them? Tried that the last three times and it didn’t work. Try it again. Can’t - my shopping list is on the back. Sorry. Can’t help ya, Primal.

Okay. Thanks anyway. Hey, what you mean about the Comfort? I read it on your list. The 750ml is the only size they do here. It’s only a small shop remember. You’ll have to go to the supermarket. So you’re saying this shop is too small for Comfort? Something like that. Anyway, good luck now - there’s a queue behind ya.

It wasn’t on the list so I added it - a pint. The pub was deserted. Suited me fine. I’d read the paper in peace. The barman’s eyes lit up with the prospect of someone to talk to. It wouldn’t be my favourite Mediterranean country but as far as Mediterranean countries go it’s okay. I suppose you’re right, Rob - and I went back to my paper. I see you’re reading the paper there, Primal. Keeping up with current affairs and world news and all that. Well, I’m trying to but someone keeps disturbing me. I suppose it’s all on about the Lisbon thing and all that. Look, Rob. Why don’t you turn on the telly for yourself. Nah, I’m fed up with it. Nothing but racing and soccer and all that. Pity I dropped the car home - I have a grand pot plant in the boot you could be watching. [Third blank stare of the day]

He shuffled off. Finally some Comfort in this town. I checked the telly listings. Sure enough, a gardening programme at 8. I have the best thing in reality TV.*

*I needed ammunition for blank stare number four in case he came back.

How often have you heard the expression the area known locally as on news reports?

Every stretch on my road between the village and home has a name. Sadly, I’m one of the few to remember them. Last of it’s kind not in captivity - that’s me.

The Mill Bridge - No mill has been there in 150 years. Road works 50 years ago means that the once hump-backed bridge is now level and most road users aren’t even aware they’ve crossed a stream.

Cullen’s Corner - The Cullens are long, long gone and the ruins of their house have disappeared.

The Long Road - A stretch of less than 60 metres. Not a great distance you say? Well any straight is torture when you’re walking a long distance and carrying a load. Bends break such a journey.

Carter’s Lodge - I barely remember the man. I remember his voice, not his face. No one has lived there since.

The Ladys’ Walk - If you are tall enough to see over the high stone wall, you can make out what used be a pathway through the woods. The women folk at the Big House would have strolled along it in their billowing gowns. Bitching about the men folk I’m sure.

Cahills’ Orchard - Not a tree to be seen. There is the ruin of Cahills’ house. Along side it through the field is a strip where the the crops never thrive. When ploughed the stones that once were a road are visible. Keep your eyes open for similar signs and you can get to the village across the fields along a road abandoned almost a century ago - The Old Road.

Addition: I nearly forgot one of my favourites: Snailbox Hill was a steep incline that got its name in the 1940s when the sandpit opened. To get a loaded lorry up that hill you had to be in the lowest gear available.

As children, we knew all these names. You’re home early. Did you get a lift? Yeah, Mrs. Mongan picked me up on the middle of The Long Road.

But as children, the distances between each spot seemed enormous, so we named more. There was Money Corner where one of us once found a ha’penny. Primrose Country was the part of the woods along side the road that would be a cream carpet of wild flowers in early Spring. The Hanging Branch. The Big Oak. The Chestnuts. The Fox Run. The Mossy Trees.

Some of these folk-names found their way into official use over the years. I imagine that to have been the case with Cutbush, Blacktrench, Two Mile House, Turf Bog Lane and Bundle of Sticks - all to be found in County Kildare.

For generations the high, wide gates into the big farm nearby were painted blue. Twenty years ago, the new owner replaced them with silvery galvanised ones. Such was the uproar that he was forced to take them down and erect wooden ones - painted blue of course, as The Blue Door always had been.

The techie in me loves the precision of GPS co-ordinates. The amateur historian in me laments the fact I’m one of only a handful who know where The Horseman’s Gate is. But I can console myself that some names will survive a little longer. The area known locally as The Blue Door may even someday have a signpost and a place on the map.

Next week will be mad busy, says I to meself. Pop down to Little Britain and pick up the doings for a big stew or something that I can knock up quickly and will do me a few days.

And so I proceeded to pop. But I couldn’t do any picking or knocking because Little Britain was closed. Closed as it was Easter Sunday. Why in the name of the wife of the unknown soldier and her seven sniffling sprats would the country’s largest grocery chain close just because it is Easter? The bookies have to close by law - I knew that. Was there a law that shops have to close too? No, there couldn’t be. The small local shop was opened, as was the smaller unlocal one.

But I wasn’t going to do any picking in the small shops. No way was I paying over the odds just for the convenience of a convenience store. Even if the produce was organically grown by Tibetan monks in the arsehole of Longford. Even if it was cheap at half the price or whatever slogan they were using this week. No, I would leave the knocking for another day and take something out of the freezer instead.

Things boded well. The lid of the container had embossed the trademark on the casserole. Well most of the letters anyway. Tub-bits had become T its. Sweet! Now there was food I could look forward to getting lips around.

Frozen food, as any scientist worth their NaCl will tell you, exhibits properties not dissimilar to kettles and pots - it won’t defrost if watched. So the best thing to do was tip out for a couple of pints to pass the time. Tipping out for pints is the best Irish pastime ever.

- Ah how ya getting on, Primal? What’s with ya?

- Not a whole lot. Just defrosting tits for me dinner. Look Left seemed a bit puzzled.

- Right so. I prefer a bit of steak meself, but shur whatever yer having yerself.

- I’ll have a pint so. Thanks. And I scooted out to the jacks before he could say another word.

Returning to the bar I noticed the service gates to the pub were open so being the civic spirited gent that I am I let the barman know.

- Listen, Seán - do ya know your back passage is wide open?

- Thanks, Primal. I’ll close it now before I forget. Last thing we want is a draught upsetting the smokers in the beer garden.

Uproarious laughter from Tony Two Lines, much to the chagrin of Look Left.

- It’s not funny, Tony. That was a major security risk. Anyone could’ve got in. We could have been murdered on our barstools.

Uproarious laughter x 100.

And so continued the giddiness until it was time to return home to room temperature tits. A good day overall. Very enjoyable. I suppose I should thank the folks in Little Britain, but first I want to ask them why they were closed. Why? Why? Why? The Easter Bunny died on the cross so we all could have chocolate eggs. He didn’t die cross so shops could close.

The road had the odd pothole and the edges sloped toward the ditch in places. Overall it wasn’t a bad road but using it demanded care and attention - you had to drive not just steer; you had to watch out for holes not just pedal; you had to be ready to hop up on the bank on narrow stretches not just stroll.

Then came the Ryder Cup circus. I’ve written about that farce before and told you of the infrastructure upgrades that were hastily made at great expense. The road I mention was one of those upgraded.

When I say upgraded, I mean resurfaced, widened marginally and lined. It wasn’t upgraded to a higher route type. It remains a local link road not a regional or national route.

The Council engineers I chatted with at the time gave me the see what great things we are doing for you look. I gave them the you are destroying my neighbourhood look back. But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t see the long term consequences.

Where once there was a grass bank a walker could take refuge on, now there was nothing but an impenetrable hedge. Where once there were narrow stretches that compelled motorists to slow down, now there was no natural traffic calming. Where once there were humps and hollows and a few potholes, now there was a smooth flat surface. But the bends remained. The budget didn’t stretch to straightening works. Nor did it stretch to providing footpaths or cycle lanes. Why would they do that anyway? It was still a local/link route.

It had become a traffic-friendly road if there is such a thing. Cyclists and pedestrians beware. Of course, this is what the National Roads Authority intended all along - a route (a rat-run, albeit a long one) that would connect two motorways, the M7 and M4, and alleviate congestion on the M50.

And of course, the NRA didn’t say this publicly. They couldn’t be seen to condone the use of route unsuitable for that purpose. But they wouldn’t have to. The truckers would cotton on to it very quickly and they did. The HGV traffic quadrupled within weeks. The car drivers took a little longer to cop on. The white van drivers, the least bright of the bunch, followed.

The volumes and speeds shot through the roof. Residents who once had recessed entrances had had them shaved off by the widening. Their visibility when driving out their gateways was reduced, and in many cases, non-existent. The bends were still there and within seconds of driving onto a clear road they would have traffic on their tail blowing horns while they tried to pick up speed. The Gardaí could do nothing. Proving that someone was speeding is one thing, but proving they were driving at an inappropriate speed is all but impossible.

On one stretch of just 1km there were 20 houses. The residents complained bitterly about the situation. But as is commonplace in Ireland the bitter complaining is done over garden walls, in pubs and outside shops.

When the County Council advertised it was accepting submissions from the public as part of a review of county-wide speed limits only one of these residents responded. Me.

Within weeks the 1km stretch was designated a 60km/h zone and the signs erected. The traffic speed didn’t reduce. Irish drivers ignore them. Many never see them. Of the residents of the 20 houses, some have not yet seen these signs. A full year later and having told them where to look more than once they still claim not to have seen them. Yet the bitter complaining continues over garden walls, in pubs and outside shops.

With eyes wide shut, the only way to alert drivers to these speed limits is to have the Gardaí enforce them. They were always too busy. Until this week that is. I suppose that after 7 near fatal accidents caused by speeding within 12 months in 60km/h zone they realised something was wrong.

They had a squad car stationed on and off over a few days. They had an unmarked one other times though it was obvious what it was with a Garda in uniform beside it. These were the warnings to motorists. We are watching you. Slow down or we’ll get nasty. And they did. Get nasty, not slow down.

A battered white van pulled in at my entrance and Officer Dibble got out. A gatso van. Did I mind if he parked there for random periods over the next few weeks? Of course I didn’t. None of the residents would object to him using their entrances. We would all welcome it. It was about time something was being done. Once the word gets out about a speed-trap the traffic clams. For a few months anyway. A few months respite.

I was wrong about one thing.

- Fuk you, Sneeze! You are some bollix, screamed my neighbour - one of the 20 residents. Why’d ya let them bloody guards stop at your gate?

- Why wouldn’t I, Ian. Shur I was delighted to see them. I’m pissed off with wankers blowing me off the road when I’m trying to get in or out. You were giving out about the same yourself the other day. Maybe they’ll slow down now.

- You’re a fekin informer that’s what ya are. Licking up to the guards. I’m trying to do a days work. I can’t be crawling along all the time in the lorry or I’d never turn a shilling.

- Jayzez, Ian, you were glad of the guards the night your young lad heard men downstairs and yourself and herself were out in the pub.

- That’s different. They should be out catching fellas robbing and selling drugs and not giving out speeding fines to a decent man trying to feed his family.

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?

Irish funerals are a part of Irish life. To an outsider, I’m sure, they seem strange. I’ve written about them before and it is often said the only difference between a funeral and a wedding is one less drunk. Oh, and no cameras.

The very first I was brought to was of an old man whose family had recently moved here from the west. Days before he died, a keener* had been sent for from Mayo. The sight of a body at the age of four coupled with the keener’s performance frightened me off and I flatly refused to be taken to any more for years, which was much to my parents’ embarrassment - you see, mourning families may not remember who was at their loved one’s funeral, but they will never, ever, ever forget who wasn’t.

So important is it to make an appearance, to show one’s face, that we even offer two opportunities: funeral-lite the night before the burial and funeral-full that day. Funeral-lite is quick, with the minimum of ceremony. It suits people who can’t take time off work the following day and afterwards there is ample time for those gathered to form queues and shake hands with the bereaved. Howya, eh, eh, howya. Eh, sorry for your trouble is responded to with thanks for coming, eh, eh, thanks. Ad nauseum. That you can’t remember the family members’ names, nor they yours, is irrelevant - they will remember you if they didn’t see you.

Funeral-full is a much more lavish affair, though generally less well attended, which is lucky for the family as, while once they were expected to lay on soup and sandwiches, or soup-sandwiches, these days a full sit-down meal is the norm. The graveside also sees more howya, eh, eh, howya, eh, sorry for your trouble and thanks for coming, but not much, which again is lucky for the family who are either pissed off with it at that stage, or having neglected to remove their rings the night previously, are in need of surgery on crushed and swollen fingers.

While the tradition of keener has died out, some of the older families still hold a wake. The starter pack. A third opportunity to shake hands, although those who do attend usually partake of funeral-lite and funeral-full too - the professional funeral goers who have replaced the keeners. I can’t tell you anything more about wakes - the trauma inflicted on me as a four-year-old has led me to avoid them since.

In fact, I avoid most funerals. All breeds of them. Sugar-free. Full-fat. I hate the he was a great man crap. The don’t speak ill of the dead fear. Dying doesn’t change what a person was. The only different between a live bollix and a dead bollix is one is dead.

I hate shite from the priests who offer their brand of religion as support for the family. The family that doesn’t believe a word of it. I hate the professional funeral goers that knew the deceased well - they met them in the shop the odd morning.

I have buried both parents. Both with all the religious pomp. Because that’s what they wanted, not me. I merely did what they had asked of me. (I know of a young man who was recently cremated as he had asked. His parents buried his ashes at a second ceremony, not spread them at the Devil’s Bit as he asked. That galled me). I hated having to shake hands with people I didn’t know. I felt like standing up and saying anybody here who isn’t a good friend of the family please fuck off. I came close but was held back by the, more stable, sibling. I hated people asking if there was anything they could do - yeah, shag off, I don’t know you. I welcomed the support of close friends, more so before and after, the funerals but I hated the intrusion of strangers who felt they had to make an appearance.

I go to the funerals of people I was close to. People whose family I am also close to. If I was close to someone, but not their family, I stay away because otherwise I would be in the way - I would be just another stranger mouthing rubbish and showing my face.

For this, I am a continual source of amazement in the locality. I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal. I wasn’t there. Were ya sick? No. I just didn’t go - I don’t know the family. But you knew so-and-so himself. Shur ya used have a pint with him. I knew him. I may have chatted with him in the pub but we weren’t close. I’m talking to you now and we both have pints in our hands but I won’t be at your funeral either. For fek sake, you could’ve at least shown yer face.

A neighbour is being buried as I write. I can name two of his brothers but couldn’t tell one from the other. The other brothers and sisters I’ve never met. Obviously I’m not there. And for the next month or more all I will get is I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal.

* A professional mourner. From the Irish, caoin : to cry.