Recompense for the troubles.

And so we say a sad farewell to last week's great shows and look forward to this week's great shows.

Who knows what this weeks great shows will bring? One thing I do know, as long as your great shows are heard by headbangers, weirdos, care in the community and - Jordie, anything could happen. Tommy my cat came into the room, wearing a lovely, sheer, nylon, big girl's blouse over a dirty, grey simmet and said,

"I see the security reserves are being well recompensed for the part they played during the troubles."

"Fine, well and dandy!" I yelled. "But when are the ordinary people going to be recompensed for the psychological damage done to them by the troubles? I found the troubles-harrowing," I said. "I found the troubles very harrowing. When am I going to be paid for all the harrowing done to me?"

"Never!" said Tommy. "You were not a combatant like comrade Coyle. You were a civilian, a mere onlooker."

"The troubles aged me!" I yelled. "I aged thirty years during the troubles and I want spondulects to repair the thirty years' wear and tear done to my visage."

"You were born old," said Tommy. "You are as old as time itself and as ugly as sin."

"That may well be," I said, "but do you know how many times I was stopped and questioned by the army? 856,931 times!" I yelled. "And always the same question, "animal, vegetable or mineral?" The number of times I have responded, "Vegetable," to the Royal Anglican regiment is beyond recall."

Tommy sniggered and said, "Be off with you, you old rat bag. For you, zee war is over."

Then Tommy began to pull his sheer, nylon, big girls' blouse over his head. I averted my eyes and walked out of the room. Even in the close relationship between woman and cat there are boundaries.
It was a quarter to seven in the evening. Tommy and I were sitting on two cast iron commodes from the first world war.Noel Thompson was walking and TALKING on BBC Newsline. Suddenly, we heard the bang of a wheelie bin lid close. Tommy looked at me and whispered, "Nolan!"

The back door burst open and Tubby Nolan lumbered in. Lard Boy pulled up three chairs and sat down. I looked at Tubby sitting there in all his pink, plump glory. Tubby held a prehistoric bone he had purloined out of the natural history museum and began to gnaw at it.

"Steven!" I said.
"Yes?" said the oval one.

I giggled and said, "Are they filming a remake of the Maltese Falcon?"

"Not that I know off," said Steven. "Why?"

"Then why are you going around in Sydney Greenstreet's big baggy suit?" I cried. Laughter erupted from me like like projectile vomiting and I fell to the floor in a giggling heap.

But Tommy took umbrage. Yes, little Tommy took umbrage. He leaped to his feet and cried,

"Who do you think you are?. Jeremy Clarkson? Andrew Neil? Carol Thatcher? Prince Phillip?"

"It was only a joke," I mumbled.

"Yes, it's always 'only a joke' with your kind," stormed Tommy.

"Steven," said Tommy, "come away into the kitchen I want to talk to you."

Five minutes later, the two appeared, tight lipped and serious.

Tommy looked at me and said, "Steven and I have decided to ostracize you."

I clamped my legs tight shut and yelled, "If one of you dare approach me with a sharp knife, I'll scream and scream and scream."

All this and more have I seen as Lynda Byrons pushed nine eggs into the pockets of a protesting Paul Clarke.

"It's nothing Paul," said Lynda huskily. "I know you would do the same for me." On my way out of UTV, I saw Frank Mitchell sitting in a skip thinking up another 'ten best in Ulster'.

It may be time again, for Ulster to say "NO!".