“That’s right. Sang like a bird in the school show…”

SOCIOLOGISTS employ all sorts of clever-sounding techniques in order to determine how social systems, such as small rural communities for example, function.

They use the Historical, Laboratory and Functional Methods, and even fancier problem-solving techniques, like algorithms.

Of course residents of small rural communities don’t need fancy techniques and algorithms to help determine how their social system functions.

“You know Michael O’Sullivan?”

“Is that Michael O’Sullivan from Hayes’ Cross?”

“No, Michael O’Sullivan from Owenahincha, whose father is brother to Tim Whelton from Rathbarry.”

“Tim, with the mad head of hair, whose uncle is James O’Driscoll from Ahamilla?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Ah yes, I’ve placed him now.”

This is the method at its most effective; it’s taken half a minute for both parties to establish a connection between four individuals, each of whom has been pinned-down geographically. The procedure terminates speedily, so that the discussion of Michael’s business — which is crucial to understanding how social systems function, and the whole point of the conversation in the first place — can commence.

However, conversations don’t always proceed in such linear, satisfactory fashion. In other words, it’s less an algorithm and more a task that’s inordinately complex relative to its outcome. It is as doomed to failure as an attempt to catch a wild goose by running after it, so I call it the Wild Goose-Chase Chat or “Gooser” for short.

Take this conversation, which my neighbour initiated yesterday in my kitchen, with the opener, “You know Paddy Crowley?”

“No?” I say.

“Sure, you do know Paddy,” he says. “You know — down by the creamery?”

“Where down by the creamery?”

“Down, then up past the blue gates, swing to the left, you know — with the little Pekinese? One leg missing, kind of aloof?”

I consider for a split second asking my neighbour to clarify whether it’s Paddy who has lost a leg and is kind of aloof, or the Pekinese, but don’t think this will help matters, so instead I drive things forward by saying, “I think I know the house.”

“Well Paddy is nephew to the woman who lives there.”

“What woman?”

“Drives a zero six red Golf.”

“Oh,” I say.

Now that we’ve established Paddy’s aunt’s address, I ask where Paddy lives.

“Oh, nowhere near there. Over on Galley Head. You know up by the four crossroads… take a right.”

At which point my husband interjects.

“The Galley Head Crowleys?” he says, “four kids, one in Transition Year? Think I taught the middle one...”

This signifies the beginning of a conversational detour so convoluted and open-ended that my mind begins to flounder.

“Is that one with the amazing voice?” my neighbour asks.

“No, that’s the eldest,” my husband says.

“What’s her name again?”

“Niamh, I think.”

“That’s right. Sang like a bird in the school show…”

“That’s her,” my husband says.

“No,” my neighbour ascertains, “Paddy is no relation to those Crowleys, those Crowleys are cousins to the Coughlans — you know the Coughlans — big into boats, over in Rosscarbery? Different family altogether.”

Now my mind has officially come apart at the seams.

“Paddy Crowley has a couple of lads, you know one of them — the doctor, up at CUH.”

“What about Paddy Crowley?” I venture.

“Oh yes,” he says, “just had a litter of pups, saw them yesterday. Six of them. Pomeranians. Lovely little foxy things. You should see them,” which would of course be a possibility if I knew a. who Paddy Crowley was or b. where he lives.

Like I said: less an algorithm and more of a task that’s inordinately complex relative to its outcome.