Knock. Knock. Who was calling now? ’Twas the padre. I hadn’t seen him in months.
Put the kettle on, I am wrecked. I have never done so many funerals,” says he, bursting through the half-door.
“Tell me this,” says I, getting out the Barry’s Tea, “why do so many people die in January? Why is that?”
“Oh, it’s very simple,” says he, “sick people always try to make it through Christmas. They never want to screw it up for the family – but then they drop off in January like flies. It’s torture.”
Honest to God, the padre is always full of interesting stories. He was telling me a story about the theft of St Laurence O’Toole’s preserved heart from Christ Church Cathedral about 10 years ago.
Now I have to tell you, I saw the heart once. ’Twas a grim looking yoke, a 13th century relic housed in a wooden heart-shaped box, secured to the wall inside an iron cage. Creepy.
You see, the padre is friends with the Dean of the cathedral.
“St Laurence O’Toole was the patron saint of Dublin City and was known for his kindness to the poor of Dublin, so you’d wonder why anyone would want to steal his heart,” mused the padre, tucking away staggering quantities of my homemade scones with butter and jam.
“A gang of thieves actually cut through the iron bars of the cage protecting it. The strange thing is they didn’t take anything else. And there were valuables around.”
A retired detective, a friend of the Dean, spread the word that anyone who stole it would be cursed. And what happened? The mother of the lad who stole it had a heart attack the week after. Oh yes.
In a state of superstitious panic they buried it in the Phoenix Park. It was there for years, but after a tip off it was recovered and is now back to where it belongs. The things that go on around us. Eh?
On Tuesday, I rattled my way over to the NCT centre in Deansgrange to get my auld jalopy tested. I can tell you now, I wasn’t over optimistic. Sure my old banger is just a bucket of bolts.
The NCT Centre is an interesting place, despite the fact that the waiting room has no doors, and the icy wind tears through it – so you literally freeze your arse in the hole of a place they call the waiting room.
I can cope for sure – but the little glamorpuss beside me couldn’t.
She was in her early 70s, was absolutely tiny, and looked frozen to the bone. Her whole frame disappeared behind a high-necked furry leopardskin coat and red scarf, and she wore a mind-altering shade of orangey-red lipstick and high-heeled patent black booties. She was clutching a little radiator near the wall for some heat.
Imagine, the radiator is going full throttle – but there’s no doors to keep the heat in. Only in Ireland.
Anyhow, we got straight to the talking. Her name was Delia. ’Twas a bit hard to hear her at first, through all the layers, but eventually I adapted to the whispery pitch of her voice.
“Believe it or not,” she says, “my car is 34 years old. I mean, I can afford to buy a brand new one – but I just can’t part with this little number. I love it so much I keep a photo of it in my purse. The memories are priceless,” she says.
And just like that the whole of her life jostled in her throat and leapt into action.
“I bought it the week I found my husband in bed with a redhead from Roscommon. Do you know what he said when I confronted him? He said I was boring.
“And he wasn’t a bit f**king sorry. His exact words. Well, feck him, I thought, I’ll show you boring.
“My car is what you call ‘a screamer’,” she said. “I love it. I keep everything I need in the boot, little bottles of rosé, my favourite crisps, wipes, extra shoes, make-up, an overnight bag, a torch, a high-vis jacket. I had to empty everything out for the test though.
“It’s like this Biddy, If you don’t look after yourself, no one else will…”
Suddenly, we were interrupted by an ear-piercing, ear-bleedingly loud noise. I heard a familiar roar of an engine alerting the whole place to its presence.
“That car has a very loud fart box,” cried Delia. I scratched my head. I knew that sound from somewhere.
I peeped out the door and noticed a few people had gathered to see what the fuss was. A gleaming, bright green Lamborghini was revving away. ’Twas sporty and powerful for sure, I thought, as Delia and I watched the clouds of blue smoke coming from the exhausts.
In the growing excitement, two of the NCT mechanics came out to have a goo. No wonder I recognised the noise. Why wouldn’t I? Who was getting out of it?
The Dalkey Dangler. Jesus, does this man always need to mentally assert his ego?
“Oh,” says I to Delia, “I know this article. The noise of his car wakes the whole of Dalkey up.”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” says she, mischief in her eyes. “If you could get someone to wire a lump of mackerel into the air conditioner box, the smell will go everywhere. He’ll soon want to get rid of it.”
Begod, the bould Delia was deadly.
“Oh, hi Biddy,” says the Dangler, readjusting his goolies as he exited the car.
I was mortified. The last person I wanted to be associated with was the Dangler and his crass and vulgar displays of testosterone-fuelled wealth.
So I quickly disappeared to grab a cappuccino, anything to escape. Well, you never saw Yours Truly move so fast.
And guess what? He brazenly followed me down the corridor to the coffee counter, ordered a triple Americano in a loud drowning voice and proceeded to download all his news.
“Lisa and I are going through fertility treatment,” says he, “we need another investment banker in the family. Haw. Haw.”
Honest to God, his voice was as loud as his car. I didn’t want to tell him I read an article last week claiming that only four in 100 would-be sperm donors make the cut. Let’s hope his dipstick works.
Of course I kept that one to myself.
Outside, I heard a shout goodbye. It was Delia. I couldn’t believe the car she was climbing into.
“Jaysus, that’s f**king cool,” says the mechanic beside me. “That’s a Dodge Viper.”
Delia’s car was red with a black stripe down the middle. I laughed when I saw the sticker on her back window. ‘Powered by Bitch Dust’. Go girl go.
Oh, and in case ye were wondering, I passed the NCT. It was a miracle.
As I left the centre, I couldn’t help but notice that a bird had feasted on berries and left his opinion on the roof of the Dangler’s Lambo.
Sure I s’pose the padre can call in aul St Laurence for help if his heart misses a beat.