There are a few houses up my lane.
We are a quiet bunch, apart from the yuppy family who hold crack parties from time to time and scare the sh*t out of Sandy with their fireworks.
Apart from throwing rubbish over each others hedges we keep pretty much to ourselves.
I don’t see that much of them, as I seem to be the only one who wanders around the lane. I like to bring the sawn-off in case I meet a tourist. We get a few of them wandering around as, for some strange reason, they seem to think the lane goes somewhere. If they are young, female and pretty, I give them a quick grope and invite them to see my etchings. That gets rid of them sharpish. Anyone else, I shove the sawn-off up their backside and politely show them the road.
Yesterday, I was wandering around and met Brian. He was sitting on a sofa in the middle of the lane enjoying the sun. It seemed to be a strange place for a sofa but it’s none of my business. He invited me to join him.
I don’t meet Brian much because he is one of the few residents who actually goes out to work, so he’s out most of the time. He’s a nice bloke.
We chatted for a while and then he said the dreaded words.
“I like your blog. Great laugh. I read it all the time”
“I’ve been telling all my friends about it”
“Did you like what I wrote about yourself” says I, being canny.
“Did you write about me?” says he. “I didn’t see any reference.”
[major sigh of relief]
“I recognised you on the telly the other week. Nice programme”
[so that’s how my cover was blown]
I excused myself and rushed home. I had to spend all last night reading through everything I have written. Not a pleasant task. It’s like going through the rubbish bin looking for a lost receipt.
I think I’m in the clear.
But I have to watch what I write in the future.
I’m gonna kill those b*st*rds in RTE.