August 5, 2001

“Do you have Tampax?” asks the woman in the wheelchair.

“Yes, they’re £2.99.”

“Super plus?”

My goodness, what are you admitting to?  Too much information!

“No, just regulars.”

“Well, those will have to do then.”

Hey, it’s your choice.  Dribble down your leg or not.  You’re the one wearing cream pants and can’t get up out of that chair.

“That’s an awfully small box, isn’t it?”

That’s an awfully small hole, as I seem to recall.

“£2.99?  It’s only a small box,” clucks the wheeler woman through her deep wrinkled face.

“£2.99.  That’s awfully much for such a small box.”

She continues.  Hey, madam, if you want your friend sitting in a pool of her own pregnancy proof juice, then be my guest. The question is – what’s it worth to you?


Looking at the Cork/Derry score – a 17 point tie in the quarter final.

“Add that up for me.  It’s 3 points to a goal.”

“Oh, really?  Good game, then.”

“Yes, they tried.  They’ll have to try over again.”

“Really?  Well, more fun for the lads, then.  Before they disappear.”


She was the type of girl who would come in and take her coat off, put on her apron, and leave her hat on.  She never took it off until she went to bed.  She was beautiful.  Very beautiful, in fact.  She had 21 houses.  Her sons were quite brainy and obsessed with numbers when they were young.  Seamus knew all the numbers of all the busses in Dublin.  And all the routes.  But they had to, not ever knowing where they were going, with their mother always moving.

I found a list of hers.  Wallpaper, butter, and milk.  Wallpaper was always at the top of the list, moving as much as she did.  Wallpaper, butter, milk.

Come, come, beautiful Eileen.


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