We've just had two local people call who would like us to vote for them in the upcoming local elections...this is a huge mistake on their part. I just let rip you see...quietly and nicely I point out my thoughts about the rubbish on the bog...they have expressions of pained surprise...I say I've been complaining now for the past seventeen years...they look more pained.
Then one says they're going to open the old railway line as a walk for tourists...I say what about the cillin...they look bemused. I say it lies beside your proposed walk...they say there are hundreds of cillins in this area...I say but this one is special. Then I'm afraid I reeled off all the names of the people I've been in contact with over this particular cillin...most have Doctor in front of their name and all are 'quite important' people in the field...
The chaps begin a hasty retreat down our garden path to the safety of their car...one has a frantic puff on an electronic ciggie...the other just looks frightened.
He is littler than me and I'm only little so I could sort of loom over him and state firmly the cillin needs to be blessed and we need a memorial stone erected...and he started to twitch a bit and stammer and pulled out his fancy 'phone with millions of feckin apts on it and all the while he was backing backwards to the comparative safety of his car while I told him I wasn't related to Cromwell and wasn't a bloody Catholic but those people needed to be remembered...and he looked seriously puzzled at that and said but they were only babies and I put him right. Not just babies...adults who died in the famine and suicides and people travelling through and those who lived in the ring-fort two thousand years ago and the expression on his face was a picture so it was...
Then I delivered the coup de grace...I said...Michael Mulligan said, and they both shuddered and scrambled for the door handles and dived into the car while handing me totally useless feckin leaflets about their feckin campaign and they promised they'd be in touch and I laughed a hollow laugh...
For the past seventeen years I've been banging on about the amount of rubbish left on the bog...plastic bags of dirty nappies...plastic bags of drowned kittens...plastic bags of puppies. Silage plastic and Coke tins and dead calves...ancient mattresses and heaps of newspapers...broken children's toys and old cars...you name it...it'll have been dumped there and it drives me to total despair.
And every four years the local folk who have aspirations to become a member of the Dail come and visit and I tell them the same...clear the bogs of the rubbish. I've offered to take them to the very worst dumping places...they look cross-eyed and beat a hasty retreat.
The cillin? Well...it doesn't much matter in the scheme of things if those who lie there are recognised or not...but I'd like them to have some sort of a memorial. Brian, who owns the land is perfectly agreeable...the local stone masons will make a memorial for nothing...and erect it...the garden centre promised as many Daffodil bulbs as we'd need to plant around the outskirts...but the old Bishop was having none of it. I've not approached the new Bishop...partly because I'm fed up to the back teeth with being accused of being in league with Cromwell...and partly because I rather lost my impetus...
But this proposed walk for tourists along the old railway line goes through Brian's land and your man doesn't even know who owns it...
Honest to god I could cheerfully bang their heads together...