A Golden Age

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat had been feeling a little cat melodeon in the morning. His pulse was racing round the room like a clockwork toy and his blood pressure was as high as an elephant's eye. But when Tommy heard Mr Coyle yell, "COOEE, do you know what I watched on TV last night?" he crawled out of bed and dragged himself to the radio. I threw a rug over him. It was an old wig Dickie Rock had given me one night when he ran out of spit. Ah the 60's, when young girls in Dublin were running about covering in Dickie Rock's saliva, but the health authority put a stop to all that in 1972 when a bad outbreak of Dickieitis broke out in many parts of Ireland. The symptoms were baldness and an overwhelming desire to sing ballads very badly, but with great cheek and style.

Suddenly Tommy did a Sean Coyle. He looked at me and said, "Your father,"

"My father-what?" I yelled. "Will you please talk in sentences?"

"Your father," repeated Tommy, "how did he walk?"

"My father walked like an Egyptian," I said. "All you ever saw was his profile. No one ever saw the back of my father's head, or indeed a full frontal shot of his visage. I can still see my father," I said.

"Where? Where?" cried Tommy, looking all around.

"In my mind's eye," I said. "I can still see my father, sitting, legs akimbo, on his favourite chest of drawers, wearing a lovely pair of moleskin trousers and his raunchy, low cut, soup stained simmet. He sits there in-profile, petting a dead seagull and gently humming. "They're coming to take me away, Ha-Ha."

"It was a golden age," said Tommy.

"It sure was Kid," I replied. "You could leave your mouth open all day and no one would steal your teeth or that little dangly thing at the back of of your throat."

Tommy gave a little cough and said, "Did you hear that? Did you hear that? Did you hear me coughing?

"Go to bed Tommy," I said. "You're far from well Kid."