“I’m thinking of moving to Grafton Street, Dublin for peace and quiet”, writes Mr Ryan.
Contrary to rumours, emanating from sinister suburban sources, life down here in the country is far from being just pothole and puddled roadways; mice in the cooker or rats in the haggard, not to mention the now returned woeful cold, wet weather being currently experienced outside.
The truth of the matter is that at this time of year, I, annually, up and make for Dublin in the hope of getting some brief respite from all the varied and ‘contraried’ activity, that is part and parcel of rural life.
So far, my services have been solicited for the darts team down at my ‘Old Rustic Inn’, latter my cross-roads boozer; by the secretary of Macra na Feirme who felt I look just villainous enough to play Lago (a character in Shakespeare’s Othello) in their local upcoming dramatic societies latest production.
It is little known, but I have this policy of my own: “Join nothing except your hands, and then only in prayer”.
However the ambassadors of the ‘Watery Mall’s Quiz Team’ and the ‘Set Combination Ceil Band’, are not impressed by this policy. Hardly a night goes by without that fearful, dreaded knock on the front door.
Of course up in Dublin one can say “no”, close the door, and get back to watching ‘Coronation Street’, but not so here, in this my rural countryside.
Down the Watery Mall one is obliged, under pain of mortal sin or worse, to be an active participant in village activity and failure to do so could mean relegation of one’s duty in the matter of honouring the little village. And for that failure, one will be made to answer; sure as water runs and grass grows.
I have even tried bribing my way out of the situation; in vain must add. I offered the secretary of the Watery Mall community fund-raising committee a fiver the other night, towards mounting the Watery Mall Tops of the Parishes competition. Thought she would plant a smacker on my cheeks in gratitude.
Looking at this filthy lucre as she would have observed Judas Iscariot’s 30 pieces of sacrilegious silver, she hissed “G’way with ye”; insisting it was my time and talents she sought, in return for the honour and glory of the little village. Focusing on the positive aspects of this situation, I console myself with the belief that she was looking for my body.
Now I am a rational, reasonable and tolerant human being and I shudder and shiver at the mere thought of violence, but the next “ambassador” of a voluntary organisation (and there are 76 in the Watery Mall alone) who fails to accept NO and refuses to believe that I can survive just with a book, a bottle of wine and my partner, remaining isolated from all parish societies, will be formally introduced to ‘Twinkie’, latter our very unsociable, hostile, teeth baring, Alsatian dog.
And if that fails to throw parish organisations off my scent, then there is nothing left for me to do, but rent a room off Dublin’s Grafton Street, just for that little bit of privacy and peace you understand.
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