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.

1. Introducton

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!

Last week was one of those weeks where seven days weren’t enough to get through all that had to be done. One of those weeks when I’m make a plan of action for the day at 5, and by 7 it would be all changed. I hate that. I hate that as much as I hate leaving voice mail. Yeah, that much.

It’s not like me be disorganised like that. I’m not that kind of spanner. No sir, I’m the kind of spanner who plans everything meticulously and beats himself up if he doesn’t produce the goods before the deadline. So why did I allow things go awry?

Well, money mainly. See, most of what needed doing last week was for myself or free gratis for others. But to survive a week of doing stuff for nothing you need money. Money puts beer on the counter, milk in the hotpress and fresh towels in the fridge - the latter two are usually a result of too much of the former. So when billable jobs came in, I went at them like a pig at a spud.

One of those was on the Monday. I spent an hour with a client making a list of maintenance work she wanted done. I ended the meeting with my standard two questions: When do you need this done by? Any item(s) on the list you would like done before then? Her answers were this day week and none. Fine.

Tuesday morning, she mailed me asking can we get that done today? Now my normal reply would be something along the lines of as sure as there is hair on your balls, girl, we can. But this time I agreed. Fresh towels in the fridge remember. So Tuesday was lost, but I had a cheque in my hand on Wednesday. I bought milk for the hotpress.

The free gratis work was mainly for a family member. Recently home after a long stay in Scrubs and now with a permanent feeding tube, there was much to be done in that house. Collecting and making space for a month’s supply of 2l plastic containers of food. Learning how to use new electronic gadgets. Disposing of utensils that could no longer be used. Organising medication in liquid form. Swabs to stop an unused mouth drying out. Creams to prevent unused lips chapping. More trips to the chemist than a methadone patient.

Walls chipped by the guys delivering the new equipment to be repaired and repainted. Furniture to be moved to make room for a new, and much larger, wheelchair. TVs to be remounted to suit the new furniture layout.

Other, seemingly minor, worries to be sorted. The Council have changed the refuse collection from weekly to fortnightly and the recycle one from monthly to fortnightly too. (Saving themselves 12 trips per year while telling the public of the improved service). But the empty food containers are not accepted by them for recycling so they have to go in the regular bin which will be filled in a week. Work out a way to get rid of the rest of the empties for me, will ya. (I intend delivering them in person to the County Council office foyer - I’ll let you know what happens. If I’m not jailed).

The whole week was a mess. I didn’t get half of my own stuff done. So on Friday I popped by to see my little buddies, Sean and Oisín, for some chill out time. They always cheer me up. Mam and Dad wanted to pop out for a while - would I mind staying with the lads? No problem. Just back from a short holiday they needed to do some food shopping. Don’t forget milk for the hotpress, I warned.

After a big feed of sticky goo, a dribble of puke and a satisfying belch, Oisín nodded off on his mat, dreaming of boobs or whatever it is babies dream of. Seán, exhausted from protecting me from swipers (?) with a light-sabre, drifted off on the couch, probably dreaming of his new hobby, digging up worms.

I booted up Mam’s laptop to see what I’d been missing in blogland. I read Eolaí’s post about his son. I looked over at the two sleeping terrors. A shiver ran down my spine at the thoughts of being denied access to them. They aren’t my kids but it would break my heart not to be able to see them again. I can only imagine what it would be like if they were mine. I can only imagine what Eolaí’s going through.

Putting things in perspective, I had a great week in comparison. Last week’s to-do list is now this week’s to-do list, but so what. If things go well, I’ll get something done. There may even be beer on the counter come Friday. Whether there is or not, I can always drop by to get intoxicated by the antics of my two little buddies. Eolaí has had sobriety forced upon him.

You are commissioned by Mr. Del Trotter of Peckham Springs Ltd. to carry out a survey of the population’s like/dislike of mineral water. Mr. Trotter would like to discover people prefer his product, though he doesn’t say it outright.

So you head down to a predominantly Muslim area of London with your clipboard and approach people on the street asking “if you had the choice, would you prefer to drink a) mineral water or b) beer?”

The results: When asked, a staggering 95% of the population said they prefer to drink water! [The remaining 5% were recorded as "don't know" - they may have said "tea"].

It’s wrong isn’t it? Pure wrong. It’s cheating. You wouldn’t take on such a commission would you? You wouldn’t lie like that.

The Catholic Church did. The Council for Research and Development of the Irish Bishops’ Conference yesterday released the results of a survey on the “Factors Determining School Choice” [in Ireland, north and south]. A survey carried out by their own researcher.

You can read about it on the Irish Independent website or, if you have money to spare, you can read a different slant on the Irish Times website. If the Catholic Communications Office got its act together you could probably read the full text of the press release on their website too. But they haven’t published it (yet).

Here are some of the “findings”:

- 98% said they were aware when applying to enrol their child that the school choice was a Catholic choice.

Insinuation: 98% of parents selected a Catholic school.

What the parents were really saying: More than 3,000 of the 3,200 primary schools in the country are Catholic. Of course we were aware.

- 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

Insinuation: 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the Church, as the school is Church run.

What the parents were really saying: Education is a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

- A clear majority believe that Holy Communion and Confirmation are best prepared for within the school.

Insinuation: Hey, look at us. Aren’t we great? Look at all we do for you? Look at the trust you place in us. Look at how much a part of your lives and the community we are.

What the parents were really saying: We couldn’t be bothered / don’t have time to do this ourselves. Shur we wouldn’t know the first thing about it, and anyway, we’re only going ahead with the Communion business to keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- 60% believe that the school’s teachers should promote the religious life of the school.

Insinuation: 60% truly prefer a Catholic education for their children.

What the parents we really saying: As above - you fire ahead with this religion business and keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- In the preamble (in the Irish Times) it said “three new State-run schools will soon open, but the question of faith formation in these schools has still to be resolved”.

Insinuation: Look at the results of our survey. Clearly you need to hand the management of these schools over to us. It’s what the parents want.

Del Trotter would love this researcher.

So the cat’s gone. Anonycat got put down. AIDS of all things. The dog missed him a bit at first. They were sometimes-friends - on the cat’s terms of course. Some nights when it was cold the cat would be kind enough to let the dog share the dog kennel. Other nights he’d evict the dog with one well placed swipe of a claw - especially wet nights. The dog isn’t the brightest and never realised the cat was a proper bastard. But I hated it. I hate cats.

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.

Daddy would be working Saturday. Would I be on for helping entertain the two boys? We could take them to the forest park. Or if the weather is bad, just drive around and stop for lunch somewhere. Maybe we’d have lunch in that place we’d visited a couple of months ago - The Geraldine. Anywhere really, just to get them out of the house.

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.