Sinking Sunday feeling saved by dreams of Kate Winslet and Basic Farm Payment
I sure had that sinking feeling over the weekend. Between the torrential rain and my lack of a Basic Farm Payment, I felt the farm could go under at any moment.
By Sunday night, when I finally hit the sack, it was no wonder that I had a dream filled with thoughts of water and general submergence.
In my dream, the rain came down with such force that my poor old farm started to sink.
Having taken on more water than the Titanic, the land could stand no more.
“The game’s up,” I sorrowfully announced to no one in particular, as I stood firm in a rain-sodden field and prepared to go down with my ship of soil.
But then, just when all seemed lost, out of nowhere, who should appear only Kate Winslet! My dream was certainly picking up.
She grabbed me by the hand and demanded that we run like the devil himself, so we don’t go down with the farm.
“We will drown for sure,” says she “if we don’t head for that old knob of rock up yonder.”
And I declare to heaven, I ran, for when the likes of Kate Winslet encourages you, a fellow is capable of anything.
Yerra, I have always had a soft spot for Miss Winslet. And sure there’s no harm in that.
A fellow could have far worse complaints.
Anyhow, holding her hand, off I galloped to the knob of rock.
And from there, we both watched as my poor farm descended into the murky water below, until all that was left was me, Kate and our knob of rock.
“Twill all be over soon,” says I mournfully, to Miss Winslet.
“Well, Denny,” says she, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her blouse, “You might think differently when you see this.”
And I declare to God, wasn’t it my Basic Farm Payment, the greatest gift a woman could give a man.
“But how did you know I was still waiting for that blasted thing?” I cried with excitement.
“Yerra,” says she, “there isn’t much I don’t know about the suffering of the poor Irish farmer.”
She went on to tell me, in words I dare not repeat here, what she thought of the bureaucracy that has fellows like me purple with anxiety.
Indeed, she also had a few unladylike comments for the head honchos in the IFA.
I’m telling you, if the likes of Miss Winslet was leading the IFA, you’d find farmers galloping back into the organisation in their droves.
Anyhow, my dream ended there.
And naturally enough, when I awoke on Monday morning, I headed straight for the bank in the hope that Kate Winslet might have brought me some good luck.
“Well, I never,” the bank manager declared with surprise, when he looked up my account, for he saw money now, where there had been none before.
“Denny, my boy!” he roared with delight, “Your Basic Farm Payment has arrived.”
And shaking my hand vigorously, he called other staff members to come look at the screen.
“I had given up all hope in you,” says he, “and your ridiculous farming business. But your Basic Farm Payment is here, it hasn’t sank without a trace. You did it. You are saved!”
And it being such a rare occasion that money appears in my bank account, he duly produced a bottle of the hard stuff and poured me a large glass.
“Denny,” says he, “this truly is nothing short of a dream come true.”
Last Monday morning, I couldn’t agree with him more.
