Lighten Up: Guarding Cork's Christmas knickers
The Christmas season, as you can imagine, was extremely busy and one where the crime of shoplifting, the art of stuffing three pairs of underwear down inside your own, was widespread.
Long before I became the great, and indeed much sought after, man of Irish farming, I had a whole host of other jobs.
You name it, I probably did it. And I was mighty good at it too.
Failure, back then, was a word I rarely used.
I was young, you see, and thought l could do almost anything, given the right encouragement.
Nor would you find me down at the local bar busily drinking a pint.
No. You would have to go onto the bustling streets of Cork. Patrick Street, to be precise, and there, guarding the door of a prestigious clothing retailer, you would find me.
Guarding the premises and all the knickers and bras owned by the store, as if my life depended on it.
I was a security guard and I was a very good one, too. For it was all about standing idly by and looking like you were capable of doing a whole lot of stuff.
Anyhow, the Christmas season, as you can imagine, was extremely busy and one where the crime of shoplifting, the art of stuffing three pairs of underwear down inside your own, was widespread.
We had to be on our toes, or at least on our feet.
Dressed to kill, with the grey uniform and cap of my employer, I must have looked like Richard Gere from the movie .
But there was more to the job than simply looking like Richard Gere. I also had to apprehend those with a tendency to whip a garment off the rack and speedily dash to the exit.
But alas, given my eyesight was never really that good, this was a big ask.
Bar not having the eyes to spot a thief, I was a great store detective.
And through the technology of walkie-talkies, we at the door could be tipped off before the felon arrived, and would then kindly and with great care steer the culprit from the exit and back into the store.
The same way really, that a fellow might steer a calf down the pathway at Bandon Mart of a Monday morning.
With little fuss, but perhaps with a firm hold at the same time.
And this all worked well, except for the fact I was a country boy who was completely spellbound by the beautiful women of Cork City.
Arrest them? You must be joking!
Again, like Richard Gere, only with less grey hair, I was a right gentleman.
I'd open the door and wish them well.
There was one lady in particular who was a supremely gifted and stunning-looking shoplifter, yerra, she could rob the whole shop and you would never notice a thing.
A raven-haired beauty, she was famous all over Cork City at the time.
God only knows what she stole — all I do know is that she was never caught.
And where she ended up, has never been disclosed, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was on the roof of the Louvre with all the jewellery in the world.
As for me, sure, I ended up here on the farm in Kilmichael, only 30 miles away from the hustle and bustle of Cork City, but a million miles in other ways.
I still recall my store detective days with fondness, particularly now at Christmastime. And particularly, when I happen to be strolling down Cork's Patrick Street and passing the workplace of my youth.
For it was here I stood guarding the shop, but unable to arrest the stunning women of Cork.
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