Thurles Information

Meagher’s Cat

“Begorrah, you’re starting early this morning Mickey”, said John, as he opened the front door of his well known licensed premises in Liberty Square, Thurles.
Mickey, darted through the open doorway, having first checked there was no one who had been watching his earlier period of loitering.

“What’s news today Mickey”, asked John, as he climbed to the far side of the bar counter.
“Give us a pint of lager and a half one in a hurry”, said Mikey.  “Jasus I landed on me feet yesterday, didn’t I get a job as me incapacitated father-in-law’s Carer. Sure you remember Noel Meagher, he used to drink here all the time.
“Great stuff”, said John, believing that just maybe a solution to Mickey’s worrying ‘Bar Slate’ problem might be reaching a positive conclusion.

“Yea”, said Mickey, “Eight hours a day, seven days a week”, before gulping down his first pint, like a man close to critical dehydration.
“So what are you doing out of work here so early, at this hour of 11.00 bells”, asked John. “Put me up another pint there”, said Mickey, positioning himself behind the wide wooden bar pillar; placing him at least out of main view of the open bar window.

“Thank God I’m finished for the day”, said Mickey, “I’m off early because unlike other people I understand that work is all about time and motion; short time and even less motion, which can be easily achieved through the performance of careful planning. If the truth was known I should be planning Fine Gael and Fianna Fáil’s budget, for next Tuesday.”

“Explain”, said John.  Mickey took another drink from his second pint, followed by a sip from his half one. “Better still, I’ll give you an example”, said Mickey adding more water to his Paddy Power.

“Me father-in-law Noel’s visiting District Nurse told me this morning that it might be a good idea if I found time to wash the toilet bowl and groom Noel’s dirty tom cat. So what did I do to speed things up?  said Mickey

“Well”, continued Mickey,  “Firstly I opened the front door of Noel’s house, ensuring that there were no humans between the bathroom and that outgoing exit. Then I lifted the lid of Noel’s toilet, before adding about a 1/8th of a cup of hair shampoo to the water in the bowl. Next I picked up Noel’s tom cat and carrying him towards the bathroom; making sure of course to soothe and gently talk to him. Next with one unexpected smooth movement, I put the tom cat into the toilet and closed down the lid with lightening speed. 

“Now”, said Mickey, “Here’s is a good tip well worth remembering; you may need to stand on the toilet lid”.

The cat of course, in attempting to further play, will gently self agitate the water, making ample suds; Oh and never mind the noises that come from the toilet; because from my own personal and previous experience, the cat is actually enjoying itself. Next flush the toilet at least twice. This provides for a kind of ‘power-wash and rinse effect’.”

“That accomplished”, said Mickey, “Stand well behind the toilet, as far as you can, before quickly lifting the lid. Sure the cat will rocket, screaming as cats do most nights, out of the toilet; streak through the bathroom and head for the front door; like a primary student when the school bell rings at 3.00pm; where it will quickly dry itself off.”

“Two jobs done in half the time”, said Mickey “Both the commode and Noel Meagher’s tom cat will both be sparkling clean for at least another day or two. Now that’s real planning worthy of any government Minister for Finance.”

“By the way”, said Mikey, “Would you be interested in buying half a dozen 1 litre bottles of Harpic at half price, which, as far as the Health Service Executive are aware, have found themselves shall we say, ‘Surplus to Actual Requirements’; if you know what I mean.”

Monday morning saw an elderly Thurles man, Paddy Fitzsimons, preparing for his death in his bed. Paddy had persisted and defied the prophesy of his doctor the week before; latter who had announced to Paddy’s much younger wife Bridie that he, Paddy, “wouldn’t see this world past Saturday night”.

Paddy, aged 75, had been ‘heading down hill’ rapidly for some time past and had spent most of the last 10 days drifting in and out of disturbed sleep. During episodes of wakefulness his past had often flashed before him, so it came as no surprise when his nostrils appeared to signify a presence of the smell of his favourite scones, apparently wafting around his small bedroom.

Dropping back into a mild coma, Paddy again awoke some 20 minutes later; to an even stronger, fresher scone aroma. Taking a painful gulp of air through his nasal passages, deep down into his lungs, he realised this delicious smell was in fact no hallucination; rather an actual reality. He called out for several hours to his wife Bridie, but his faint vocal sounds went unheard and unanswered.

Now gathering all his remaining strength, Paddy reached out slowly and grabbed a bar on the left side of his bed; before dragging himself into a half sitting position. Resting on one elbow he eased his legs over the side of the bed.  Having briefly rested from this exertion, he reached for his aluminium Zimmer Walking Frame and after several agonising attempts later; he managed to get on his feet and into an upright stance.  Leaning on the frame, he began to shuffle slowly in the general direction of the nearby kitchen, in his bare feet.

Peering through old, partially misted eyes, Paddy eventually located a tray, piled high with his favourite small, baked, quick bread scones. Could he be already in heaven he thought or were these scones perhaps one final earthly act of love from a devoted wife; seeing to it that he would “shuffle off his mortal coil” a happier man? Would she be splitting and buttering these warm rich biscuits, before serving them with jam and clotted cream, as she was often wont to do on certain special occasions in the past.

With his mouth watering and believing that he was alone; Paddy steadied himself, before mustering up one final physical effort.  Throwing himself towards the table’s edge, he managed to land perfectly on his knees in a somewhat crumpled state of posture beside the table. Resting for a moment Paddy reached out his trembling, withered hand; his target a scone sitting precariously on the edge of a wire cooling tray. No sooner than he had achieved this goal; from nowhere came a chastising sharp slap across the back of his bare knuckles. Same came courtesy of his wife, who had armed herself with a long handled wooden spoon.

“Feck off and leave them bloody scones alone”  Bridie yelled, “There won’t be enough for your funeral.”