TIE A YELLOW RIBBON ROUND THAT POOL OF PEE

After I had swept the darkness of the night out of the door with a sweeping brush, the light of the day crept softly and carefully into my home looking warily all around for trips, snares or gin traps disguised as small boys wearing short trousers. Finding none of the afore mentioned, the light flooded into darkened nooks and crannies, driving the dark out into the street, with shrill cries of, "Get out you remnants of the night and never show your black face in here again!" I patted the light on the head murmuring, "Good boy" and set down a saucer of Ribena and oil of Ulay. "Has it gone?" yelled Tommy the cat. "Has the horrible dark night departed?" "Yes, it has!" I roared in fluent Pinafore. "The night has gone and the light of another day is here, to guide our wayward step, as we turn, yet another page in the book of life". Tommy crawled out from under a blacksmith's anvil, gave a shudder and said, "I hate the night. The long, dark, never ending night. Each night," said Tommy, "I lie in bed, shivering, shaking, and trembling as I listen for the footsteps of the Bogey Man, who will put me in his deep, dark sack and take me away to his dark, gloomy house in the forest, where I will spend my time gathering faggots for the fire and cooking wombat stew for the Bogey Man, his bogey wife and his ugly brood of young bogies. I can't stand it!" yelled Tommy. "Do you hear me? I can't stand the night, when everything is, dark, dark, dark!" I threw a bucket of semolina round the quivering feline and yelled, "Pull yourself together Tommy cat. How dare you stand there on my Paisley patterned rug, exposing your phobias to the vulgar gaze of the rude and mocking multitude!" Tommy wiped semolina from his feline slitted green eyes and said. "Thanks for that. You are a true friend. Who else would throw a bucket of semolina over me when my fear of the night turns me into a slobbering, wretched, disoriented, vulgar grovelling wretch of a pussy?" "It's the least I could do Tommy," I said ."After seeing the state you were in, the bucket of semolina was your just-deserts." Oh how we laughed. Outside our window a group of workmen began to dig up the road with a large digger. As the house shuddered and nick-nacks flew from the tall boy, Tommy and I gave a WHOOP, clasped hands and danced the Mason's Apron as plaster from the ceiling fell on our jigging heads like snow. Ah, Irish dancing! What would we do without it? We would have to invent it by tarring the roads with tacks! In the afternoon, which always comes if you have patience, Tommy and I dressed up as Susan Boyle and set off round Belfast. "Come into the garden Maud!" I screeched, "The long dark night has gone!" "I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls!" screamed Tommy. A busker who was singing, "Sweet Caroline," picked up his guitar in disgust and thumbed a lift to Lisburn on a passing Chinese rickshaw driven by a sweating coolie called, One Hung Low. I threw back my head and shrieked like a cat kittling, "All I Want Is A Room Somewhere, Where I can Boke When I'm On The Tear! With One Enormous Po, Oh, Wouldn't It Be Luvvly!" Suddenly, a figure rushed out from behind some wheelie bins screaming, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" It was little Jim Rodgers, complete with biros in the breast pocket and the crest of Belfast city tastefully embroidered on the fork of his Armani khaki shorts. "Stop that noise!" screamed Jim. "Belfast is a city of culture and not a city of catheter induced caterwauling." "How dare you, you phlegm filled Philistine!" I yelled, "I will have you know that I studied under Caruso." "Robinson Caruso couldn't sing for toffee!" screamed Jim. "Sling your hook, or by the sacred thong of Lady Silvia Herman I'll call the police." There was a deadlocked silence. Then Tommy began to softly sing, "Every breath you take." I snapped my fingers and joined in, "Every move you make." Tommy and I stood there like Peters and Lee warbling, "Every breath you take, every move you make." It was too much for Jim. He began to dance and scream, "I'll be watching-YOU!" So now, Tommy, Jim and I have formed a Police tribute band. You may well ask, who is-Sting. Well, it's the audience. They get stung every night Jim, Tommy and I take to the stage, wearing PSNI uniforms singing into microphones that look like batons. Jim is a bit hit with the chicks. Some put it down to his singing, but I think it is the exciting forkal gyrations the wee man goes through every night. We can't keep him in trousers! Well, Jim does get very excited!

Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson and books of poems available at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
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www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com