2 Rissoles and a bag of Mushy Peas

November 1975.

Franks’ beard was festooned with peas and the assorted remnants of previous brunches/lunches he had consumed with alacrity and some considerable dexterity. I watched in fascination as his nicotine stained fingers flew up and down the strings. It was five minutes of beauty. Then he removed the still lighting cigarette from its perch at the tuning pegs, drew in his cheeks, breath, stomach, curtains and the night and through a cloud of Major enquired –

“Can you play it NOW??”

Ahem. I responded in the negative. Nay, nay, and thrice nay  -  as the Bishop said to the actress – I am,  Sir, but a small child who has followed the crumbs of the hordes of donkey jacket wearing, nature trek and doc marten shod, pimple ridden youths who have beaten a track to your door, drawn like  locusts, to the Pied Piper of Peters Square, and amid the haze of smoke  and purple  have worshipped at your feet. I have, sir, begged and cajoled and sulked and stormed to be allowed to cross the road on my own, and relieve my Mothers purse of a pound. Please -  Sir, I beg of you, take pity on me, with the attention span of a flea and the tiniest hands on the planet, and play it a second time .

That he could play was a given. But could he teach. And more importantly could he teach me? The first room on the left was where the lessons were in Olde Pound House. Even then, he was like a character from a book.    And the house was filled with books, and papers. Negotiating safe passage through said papers was hazardous enough, but then there was the tiny matter of where to sit. At one point, due to penury, (his/mine/ours) we shared a single instrument. He, playing impossible riffs, scales, and snatches of songs from the Top 40, (tell me what song you like and I’ll teach you that ) while I sat reading the headlines on the papers upside down, ( the papers, not me !) or watching him incredulously as he manically played as fast as a dervish could whirl, the impossible chords he expected me to replicate.  Ultimately, we would give up simultaneously. And then play a game of “Who can keep the match lit for the longest time without screeching?” He always won. Well, he would with nails that length. The very fact that he was lighting matches in a room filled with papers and a small child speaks volumes. One night, I refused to part with the pound.

“You haven’t taught me anything but sing all that old Pink Floyd stuff” says I, huffing back across the road.  

When I lived in an apartment in Cornmarket  -  that was almost but not entirely constructed of plasterboard and spiders webs and the previous occupants hair - Frank was a nightly presence on the window sill outside. Dear reader, do not fear. He was not and is not stalking me. Well, not in a weird way, although due to the circumstances I now find myself in maybe this is a lie. He consumes my waking thoughts. At this time though, he only consumed the silence. It is bizarre how one can get used to pretty much anything, and the human is boundless in its resilience and capacity to endure, so not only did I cope with the swollen windows that would not shut, and the drip drip of the weak shower – (  where you had to run around to get wet ) – but the nightly salutations of him to the world at large and to random strangers who traversed in their finery to the various hotels, theatres, and arts centres around the corner. Did I mention “Marys Bar” is on an intersection of 3 streets. A trinity, a triumvirate, and an idyllic spot ( with an arse -sized window sill ) for him to heckle humanity.

“HOWYA”………….. he would roar at passers by. Men, women and childer. His random shouts have been known to make strong men blanch and fall off paths, women turn puce with mortification, and children begin to bawl stridently. Dogs however are a whole other story as the curtain holder said to the conducter. He loves dogs all up. And they reciprocate. Frank has a nightly routine where he marches into Marys at opening time ( 7pm) and conducts proceedings, and his business between sips of tea,  glugs of stout and mustache -fulls of  crisps. He normally has 2 pints of plain, and on rare occasions 4 (  when  he was spotted  in unsavoury company heading Bullring-wards at 10pm for more of the same, as opposed to home to the leaba where he can normally be found) and he runs in and out like a demented weather man every 5 minutes to light another smoke. He makes and receives calls in a fug of fags and roars his business down the phone like a commentator in the last 5 minutes of an All-Ireland. ( He does not know how his phone works, and cannot send or receive texts, or photos and has no access to his sim for phone numbers. He REMEMBERS  them !  Ahem. ) His voice mail says “Leave your car keys and your credit cards and I WON’T get back to you – Frank. “)  To know how to handle him is a clue to any interaction with him.  Never show fear, or let him see the whites of your eyes.

Do’s and Don’ts of Dealing with Frank.

1.Do respond.                      Do NOT run away shrieking.

2.Do engage.                       Do NOT try and win.

3.Do laugh.                    Do NOT try to be funnier

Someone asked me were Frank and I working as car park attendants - ???

 Oh, if only I had such lofty aspirations.

No. We are the defenders of the Friary. I stand smiling and waving into cars while they proffer their beads and missals and joined hands to indicate their attendance into the friary for mass/confession. I have taken to asking "Mass or shopping?" like "Crucifixion or Release " from Python .......... Frank just glares and bristles his beard at them and harangues and harasses at a rate of decibels not heard this side of a foghorn. We play good cop/bad cop but it varies depending on our mania/and or drug intake. He wears a high viz and I wear a succession of Mama Cass Kaftans, Poncho's and Rainbow Bright dresses that not only intimidate the friars/pensioners but have been known to frighten horses and neighbouring terriers. He likes to take time off for the races,  not that he attends, he just likes to shout in the bookies.

Line of the day from Frank Sinnott - 
Frank : Meeee shell, can I have a curry and will you do half an hour for me to get me hair done tomorrow. I'm havin' an Indian head massage.
Me: Its Shepherds Pie and yes. Half an hour only.......
......................* 4 hours later*..........................
Frank: Oh, beaut - eeeee- full Meee shell, the smell of it !
Me: Indeed.
Frank: The SMELL of it , ha ha ha .............
Me: Enough, Frank.
Frank: We'd be horrible together, Mee Shell .
Me: We're already horrible together. Get out Frank.

Line of the day from Frank Sinnott - * shouting from front door* - " It better be something lovely , mmmmmm, what is it Meeee Shell ?"
Me: "FFS Frank, can you not come in nice and say hello how are you. ?"
Frank : * advancing like a majestic galleon down the hall * .......sotto voce.......... 

"hellohowareyou, what is it though ? "
Me: *hopping dish off the table* Stuffed Pork with pepper sauce.
Frank :" OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH lovely, ROCK N' ROLL !!!!!!!"
Me: "Get out, Frank."

Line of the day from Tom Mahon , and Frank.
Tom - "Do you know who I bumped into in the opticians this morning ?"
Frank - "Who?"
Tom - "Everyone!"
Frank : Ha ha ha h ah ah aha ha h ah ah ha ha ha.
- ha ha ha ha h ah ah ah ah ah ahha ha ha ha
Tom - "Did you ever see henshit ? Frank ............
Frank -..................." yeah why ?."
Tom - Do you know what those white rings are around henshit ?

Me:  - * sighing at cooker* .............
Tom - "They're henshit as well.
(Whole company chorus ensemble ) Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha h ah.
Frank - *Shouting* ........... "what are you pouring on me ham Meeee shell ?"
Me: "Henshit sauce. Get out Frank 

Line of the day from Frank Sinnott - * coughs * ........, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, Meeee shell .......... splutter, Cough, belch,cough,fart.cough, Clears his throat, ahem ..... Cough, cough, cough, ............. "Can I use this as an ashtray ? "
Me: That's a money box . Get out, Frank ! .

Line of the day from Frank Sinnott as he was leaving with a shepherds pie in a tea towel yesterday ..................... "Did you ever try Heroin, Meeeeeee shell ?" 
Me. "No, get out Frank."

Frank Sinnott as he left with 11 fish fingers in his pocket -. ( Ok , I ate one ) - ................. 

"The body on Maurice, you'd never think he came out of me Ma, he looks like he came out of a wardrobe".
Me. "Happy Easter, get out, Frank.

Frank : Here's your Da.
Tom: ANOTHER new shirt, Frank ? 
Me: It must be summer. Frank took off his coat.
Frank: Your Da has no coat .
Me: Ah, but he is wearing a damart thermal vest, and a string vest under all that lot, and a jumper. 
Tom: ...........and a pair of hearing aids, a pair of glasses and a tie. 
Me: My Uncle Ollie was a butcher in Athy. 
Frank: What's for me , Mee shell ..... Shite and Cabbage, finely mixed. ?
Me: It's heavy on the shite, hold the cabbage.
Frank: Me Ma died about 10 years ago. A wind blew in from Calcutta and she keeled over. 
Tom: Christ. 
Me: Get out, Frank.

Line of the day from Frank Sinnott - "Stop, stop, stop, there's enough in the bowl to feed the Bishop and 10 of his horses." 
Me: (sighing and taking some back out - ) "Huff".
Frank :" Stop, stop , stop, don't take it all back out !" 
Me: "You're in some mood today boyo ".
Frank : "I'm happy Meee shell, ............. no, I'm not."

Me: Jesus.
Frank : Oh, fish............... lovely. 
Me: Mind the dish, you are letting it all flop out.
Frank: That's what she said last night. 
Me: Get out, Frank. 

Line of the day from Frank Sinnott Monday . 
(Half an hour early !! ) 
Me: "Jasus, Frank. What's the story ?"
Frank : "I'm starvin' Mee Shell. I am going to eat this while I wait." ( Indicates a Chocolate Kimberly on table. )
Me: No, you are not. You can have this." ( opens fridge and hands him a coffee slice with cream that needs to be scourged quick. ) 
Frank: - through a mouthful of crumbs and cream like a tiny geyser. - "Me Ma is a heathen Mee shell , she only listens to Daniel  O  Donnell and reads the "Irelands Own" .
Me: She is 96, man. She is entitled to do what the hell she likes.
Frank: "You are such a dictator, Mee shell . You would make a monk masturbate! "
Me: Actually - I would make him stop !

Line of the day from Frank Sinnott . ( 8am ) 
Frank: "Meeee shell, 3 things.

ONE : when will you wash the dog ?

TWO:  Will you write that feature today ?

THREE: What's for the dinner ? 
Me. Saturday. How many words. Spaghetti. 
Frank : Is that the stuff like worms you have to twirl around ? 
Me: You don't have to be all Lady & the Tramp about it. I am doing fusili. 
Frank: WHAAAAA?
Me: Those small wrinkly lads. 
Frank : I know a few men with that problem. Will you give Alabama’s yoke a twirl of a cloth?
Me: ..............................
Frank:Sherlock Holmes is opening a chipper in the Faythe.  
Me: Good LUCK, Frank

Frank is perched at the kitchen table 5 minutes before the appointed hour. He is punctual to a fault, a legacy of his Mother he informs. He also informs that yesterday was his brother Maurice’s birthday, while he laughs. He is 64. We both burst into a spontaneous chorus of “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, chicken @ 4 am ?”

“I doubt if he even remembered it is his own birthday ........... maybe I should buy him a mars bar or something. He is the bitter end”

Everybody is the bitter end with Frank. Or a peculiar hen, an oddball, a puke, and many many other epithets. However  - like the old man who said  - “If you don’t like the Irish weather, wait a minute” – I am so used to his wild outrageous pronouncements now that I barely turn a hair. I also know that he probably blows hot and cold about me, from day to day and hour by hour. He describes me as “domineering” (a remark with  which  everyone who knows me will concur ) and it is only the more salacious of his outbursts that I feel the need to rein in. Pleading for the sanity of the neighbours and the sleeping baby for example when he is shrieking at a rate of knots not often heard this side of  the Tuskar .

I begin by saying how frustrating it is to be told something interesting on the one breath, and in the same sentence not to use it under pain of death.

He back pedals again -  

“Use it all, Meee shell, use it all.  Use it in a nice sensual way”.