Free from the clutches of a femme fatale

Cormac MacConnell delivers his weekly and humorous take on farming life. 

Dear Mrs Carrolls of Dundalk.

What part of the word “No” do you not understand?

I am sorry to have to inform you, yet again, that our long and passionate affair is totally over and done.

No, I do not wish to have any dealings of an intimate nature with you, ever again.

No, I do not think of you first thing every morning when I awake.

No, Mrs Carrolls, I do not miss you one bit. I am overjoyed not to be enslaved by your wiles and alleged charms any more. Our 40-year fling is well and truly flung into the past.

It is as much of yesterday as the fling between Terry and Charlie which I was watching on RTE last Sunday.

I know this hurts you to hear, and I can feel your pain from here, but our liaison is over, and that is the pure truth.

It is almost a year since I broke it off with you, and freely and publicly confessed in this space and elsewhere that I had abandoned you, like many good men before me, for an infinitely younger, exciting mistress.

As I said then, her name is Electronique (my family call her Vape), and my passion for her has transformed my life, and becomes stronger every day and night.

You are nothing now to me but a bad memory, even though I hate to say that.

Electronique is chic and svelte and exciting. We have intercourse every morning at breakfast, and at bedtime, and on many occasions in between.

I bring her with me everywhere. I feel bereft away from her... just like you and I in the old days, indeed and, Mrs Carrolls of Dundalk, you cannot compete with my Electronique at about any level nowadays.

You might not like to hear this, but you became a very expensive mistress since the recession struck, and I could not really afford you. A sad reality.

I can spend a whole week and more of joy and total sensual satisfaction with my Electronique for less than the price of one of your packs, and I had been using ten of those weekly by the time we split up.

The harsh truth, yet again.

There is much more, since you ask.

My dalliances with my new mistress never leave a brown stain on my fingers.

My beard and moustache are properly silvery again, instead of being stained the same colour.

I do not need smelly, overflowing and fundamentally ugly ashtrays any more.

I do not need to always have a lighter or matches in my pockets.

I do not have to leave my company in any great Co Clare bar, if I feel like vaporising a little, I can bring Electronique everywhere within reason, even into coffee shops and most cafés.

One bonus of this situation is that I am avoiding the head colds and chills which often enough attacked me when I had to go outside with you, into the winter.

Likely you would have killed me entirely via pneumonia or suchlike, if I had not ended our affaire.

At an even more fundamental level, it is a biological fact that, during our long association through my youth, you subtly encouraged me, by devious means, to bring a large family into the world. I finished up eventually with three sons and a daughter who, in their rearing years, were even more expensive than you were.

My darling Electronique, on the other hand, exactly like the streetwise women of her international era, is fitted with something called a coil, about which, like all men, I know nothing, except that there will be no issue except soothing aromatic tar-free streams of vapour. That also, at this stage of my life, is a pleasant reality for a grandfather.

I was so heavily involved with you, Mrs Carrolls, that the kind proprietors of one of my favourite Co Clare pubs, the famous Honk Bar outside Shannon Town, actually took pity on me years ago during a harsh winter, and erected a sign in their porch bearing the title “Cormac’s Hole”, because you forced me to spend so much time out there, away from the craic within.

I am now living on the other flank of the county, but I am going over to The Honk and to “Cormac’s Hole” before the week is out.

I will bring my lovely Electronique out to the porch with me at some stage, stand under the sign, and formally say a final farewell to you, along with a heartfelt wish that you never seek to influence or contact me again. It is pointless and futile.

Fare thee well.


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