Teatime

The List 

The Back 

It was nestled in the onion skins.

And I spotted it at 50 paces.
I love miniscule prods from the Universe to stop mucking about and sit at the keyboard. 

A true writer would do anything but write, apparently. 

Despite having numerous deadlines, 

a Treatment due for a Director for the Adaptation of my book which I have been commissioned to produce, and the tiny matter of trying to corral 3 men in the imminent launch of a Rock Band and their debut album, 

I spent days conjecturing about the identity of another author.

Who wrote this list?

On a daily basis I frequent a supermarket where I am known by name to all the staff,

 from the Manager to the Flower Guy  - 

(whom I breast about the 2 and 8 of the plants and how much can I have them for) -  

thus they have become immune to me hanging a Pig umbrella from their Tannoy and doing 87 laps of the store in a vain attempt to recall what I actually went in for.

And trying to order bales of briquettes to be delivered when your man is already at home with his feet up on the couch eating bacon and cabbage after getting soaked to the balls 400 times.  

If someone interrupts me mid scout I have to perch back to the door and start at the baskets again.

And wander past the fridges of special offer meats, huge joints of topside and legs of lamb that I sigh wistfully over imagining I will cook them, one day.

I march to the fruit section and collect the bag of bananas I eat to stave off Hypos when I am Beloobas. 

A tray of Pink Ladies for something to crunch when I'm watching Grace & Frankie on Netflix

Then a sharp right past the cakes, biscuits, and Easter Eggs into the Coffee aisle where I grab the strongest Fair Trade espresso I can put a liver spotted hand on.

God forbid I should remember what chocolate tastes like with the Oul- Dia- Bee -Hiz.

Washing Powder, Conditioner, Dog Food, Tealights, Pigs Ears, and a pack of Camels and I'm good to go.

Until I step out into the lashing rain, blowing  a hooley up from the Quay and go back in for the Pig.

The cardboard scrap nestling in the bottom of the basket is torn off the box of the type of tea you buy if you have €3 left for the week. 

I think you get 800 teabags for about 37 cent. 

 And it tastes like mouse piss. 

I don't even drink tea.

Well, not since I was engaged in a battle with my Father as a wilful child who refused

 "even a sup of it for your chest" and thus wouldn't be let  down from the table while the rest of them were inside scourging Fizzle Sticks watching Larry Grayson 

I amused myself caking the radio in swirls of Kerrygold while he read the paper.

I know, right? 

First I thought it was a woman, and I instantly called her Edna Welthorpe in deference to the legendary Joe Orton - whose black comedy I am trying to channel to adapt the book. It's no big deal, it's only the story of my life, and the death of my Mother, so no pressure then. 

I imagined Edna with a home perm and a tweed coat squeezing Sour Dough loaves.

Running her fingers over the Batch, tapping the crusts on the ducks. 

Did I mention the list is written "As Gaeilge" or "IN IRISH" ? (pronounced Oss Gale Ig Eh)

Arán = Bread

(pronounced A - Rawn)

Then getting herself a nice big lump of roast beef and a few Aunt Bessies for him indoors.  

Of COURSE she has a man! 

Just because she's cross eyed with pink Clinic glasses and a hairy wart on her nose  doesn't mean she can't have a significant other roasting the hole off himself at home over the coalfire  in the shiny pants of his good suit.

He folds the racing post and stares out the window at the rain wondering will she bring home a tart.

Or will she come home at all at all.  

Feóil = Meat.

(pronounced Fee Ole)

Women be LOVING cake.

Anywhere after 47 cake becomes a thing.

I know because it happened me.

I spent my life running away from cakes, 18ths, 21sts, 30ths, 40ths, 50ths .................

I wouldn't eat an eclair, a doughnut or a cream horn if I was to be paid paper folding money.

Or someone was to tell me the 4 last things. 

Or the third secret of Fatima.

Then I got an overwhelming urge to knock people down out of the way to get at  coffee cakes.

With walnuts and frosting.

So I was convinced Edna got herself a nice Victoria Sponge with jam and cream.

And 6 Butterfly Madeira Buns  for €1.99.   

Cáca = Cake

(prounounced Caw-Ka)

And then we come to the thorny matter of the Tay. 

Not only does Tea feature in the list, it also serves AS the list. 

And there is a comedic reference to the PGT type stipulated -

which is underlined  - 

ie note to self - NEVER drink mouse piss again no matter HOW chape it is.

Té = Tea

(pronounced Tay)

Moving swiftly to the water that makes it, as the stuff that comes out of her taps is not fit for man nor baste. 

It also leads me to deduce that she is of a certain vintage as the preposition of the F is archaic and superflous. 

She's about 73.

And her bunions are crucifying her. 

Thus her husband cut the sides out of her tartan slippers with a Stanley Blade. 

He is at home gluing a combover to his pate with Brylcream eyeballing the clock on the mantel. 

Uisce = Water

(pronounced Ish -ka)

Edna has been forgetting things lately.

Just doing odd things.

Like the day she found her good shoes in the fridge

 and extricated them in mortification 

and hid them under her apron

 when she was getting the milk

In case he noticed and his eyebrows went up in his hair -

 again. 

So she forgot the Irish for Blue - Gorm - (pronounced Gurr-Im)

And the Irish for Toilet - Leithreas - (pronounced Leh- Ress)

Blue Loo = Skid Marks 

She throws a bunch of carrots  and a net of onions bent up in a bow that shed their papery skins higgledy piggledy and fumbles for her purse, tapping the pocket of her good coat for the 100th time to check it is there.

Glasraí = Vegetables

(pronounced Gloss -Ree)

At first I thought her black pen had run out.

And that she had hurled it at the wall in temper.

But there are no tell tale signs of scratchy faintness, 

no digging into the paper to just make a mark with a nib, 

and then I realise it is an afterthought. 

A Codicil.

Added later with a different pen.

To remind her to get the Digestives he loves dunking into the mouse piss watching Vincent Browne and cursing. . 

Biscui = NOT Biscuits 

(pronounced Biss Kee)

The actual word is Briosca - pronounced Bree Us Ka

And I felt sad for Edna and her life which would end with the illness that claimed my Mother.

Until I re-read the whole thing again and realised it's a man.

Of COURSE it's a man. 

The slant, the weight, the underline,

it's her husband, Ernie Welthorpe

And he's sound as a pound. 

"Not a Bodder, Boy".

MDM March 29th 2017

MDM/The Scourge 

MDM is a Writer and Performer of One Woman Shows who lives in Wexford, Ireland.

She is the Author of the critically acclaimed Novel "Scourged" which she is at present adapting into a stage play following the commission of same.

She is also working on the sequel to her Memoir.

And manages a Band called "The Frantics" - which is apt. 

She lives alone with her dogs, Walter and Ernie.

And is a Scourge. 

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