Whatever. If they are Morlocks, the worst they can do is eat me, which will at least stop the horrible jackhammering going on somewhere just behind my sinuses. In the meantime I swill the beermonkey out of my mouth, pop a couple of pills, and head back to bed.
My wife appears at the bedside, attempting to communicate. It could be about shopping, it could be about infanticide – her voice has suddenly become a cross between a foghorn and those “mwah mwah mwah” adults from the old Charlie Brown cartoons. After a couple of sentences she notes my expression of goggle-eyed, pasty-faced incomprehension and goes away again, possibly in search of a ouija board.
A few minutes later a big glass of water and a cup of coffee miraculously appear on the bedside table. God bless her little cotton socks…
St Patrick yesterday, in his various Ulster incarnations. That man has a lot to answer for.
10 comments:
So the fellow on the right, with the cool shades and the Russian instrument of pacification in his hand, is the Republican saint?
A morlock? I thought the Irish imp was a leprechaun.
Des - correct. Tho' properly speaking it should be a baggie of crack in his right hand, not shamrock.
And GB, you're right too. Hangovers do not make people look like leprechauns. HG Wells' morlocks are a much closer parallel...
Ivan, the perfect antidote to March 18 distress is to listen to Loreena McKennitt howling at you at 6:00 AM. I'll send her round. Golly, I love that woman.
Cheers.
Am getting thirsty, reading your post. Tonight, I drink!
I have overnight childcare and don't have to get up at cock's crow with the children (YAHOOO!) so I'm planning rather a nice little hangover for myself.
We have to take some food to the party we're going to tonight, so am off now to do something fabulous with a leek and some potatoes. Bring on the green!
Sorry - don't get out much.
Randall - I don't know who she is, but no loud noises will be welcome just now, however melodious.
Sam - you go girl!
Canty, they may do, but I only see 'em when I'm hungover...
'Irish head and English heart' or was it the other way round.
I don't suppose a digestif would have helped?
Silly boy!
If St Patrick wasn't dead (and mythological), I'd curse him to an infestation of fleas of a thousand camels in his armpits. We're blaming him for the formal complaint lodged against my best friend for indecent exposure.
The one with the kilt, Jamie? Could happen to anyone. It's happened to me, anyway...
Yes, now I know that it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt.
Post a Comment