What? Montenotte? I suppose all that walking up hills while looking down on people is bound to have an effect. I have developed a cream that you can rub to girls to convert them from Norries into respectable people. (It’s like the opposite of fake tan.) I call it Sunday’s Well For Some. I put in on my cleaning lady the other day and didn’t she go straight out and apply to join Douglas Golf Club. Not that they’ll have her.
Exactly how daft is this Italian one, on a scale of one to 10? (Where one is a tiny bit daft and 10 is eating something off the ground in Drimoleague.) She’s hardly after you for a bit of a farm in Dunmanway; that’s worth less than a council house on a road named after one of those 1916 patriots. Anyway, your wildlife shows will come in handy.
Remember, you’re in Kerry. No one will take a blind bit of notice if you come running out of the bushes, thumping your chest and roaring “Me You Sex Now!!” And if all your one knows is Italian men, she’ll just be glad you don’t interrupt your nooky with, “Sorry Audrey or is it Lucia, I need to check something on Tinder.” I have experience on that front. Too much of it.
It’s worth spending the extra few quid alright to mask the smell of farmyard. I hear your pain on the din in restaurants, now that the boom is back. I was in Rachel’s myself, and all I could hear from tables around me was “Pres”, “Mount Mercy”, “Sunday’s Well”, “second skiing holiday” and “he spent five grand on a carbon- frame racing-bike but I hear he’d much rather ride the au pair.” My Conor told me not to print that in case it identifies the person. I said the only person it identifies is every man in Posh Cork over 45.
I’m going to run for cover. Drisheen is what our grandmother cooked to make sure we didn’t call around too often. It smelled like the Waterford man who forgot to have his bath, two years running. Mind you, so did she, but my mother and I made sure to call in every Sunday in case the old bat left her money to the nuns. She didn’t, thank god.
Maybe he could draw a salary. Hardly. Relying on an artist for money is as risky as leaving your wife unattended in Kinsale. (My Conor went to bed as he was feeling under the weather. Ten minutes later I was feeling under an auctioneer from Innishannon.) I’m sorry to hear about your conscience. There’s nothing worse. I initiated an out-reach programme two years back to wean Norries off using the present continuous. Talk about ingratitude. No one turned up and only one of them texted me, saying “I do be having better things to do.”