A bit late to be making enemies

Once again there has been a week where nothing worth mentioning has happened. I had no response from my solicitor about the new witness evidence, not a word said about a transfer to more relaxed and progressive locations - and that fickle ould boiler Lady Luck must have sent her boots to the cobblers because she hasn't kicked me in the polar regions all week.

Having said all that, the reason my mailbag has been so poor this week could well be on account of the behaviour of the postal workers who seem to be determined to commit suicide and won't be happy until their industry has gone the way of the coal mines and everything else in this country - apart from the service industries, of course.

So, the upshot is - nothing to report.

I did have a letter from the young fellow who is the new witness in the case, although he has not mentioned the case at all. I explained in a letter to him last week that discussing the case and details may be a poor plan - well, you never know who might read the letters. He wrote to tell me a little bit about himself and his family - a nice gesture really, I could do with more correspondents in general. I call him a young fellow but really he is in his mid thirties - but at my age that makes him a young fellow - I hope he doesn't mind. Some people can be a bit touchy about their age - ask Sza-Sza Gabor about hers, see what she says.

So, here I sit, staring at the page before me and wondering what words of wisdom I can impart and I have come to the conclusion that there's not much to be said. But to get back to the business of age for a minute or two, I wonder why some folk are so bothered about it, being old I mean. We all get old, we all start to fall apart and sooner or later we will all have to face the fellow with the scythe - the Grim Reaper.

This reminds me of a story I once heard at my mother's knee (or some other low joint) and it went like this:

An ould I.R.A. man is dying and he is lying on his death bed While the priest, Father McGonagle reads the Last Rites.
The priest says to the dying man, "Are you ready to renounce the devil and all his works, my son?"
The dying I.R.A. man opens his eyes and croaks out, "It's a bit late to be making enemies now, Father." (Pause for sniggering).

So, as must be blatantly clear and obvious by this stage, I've got nothing for this week. I suppose I could mount a tirade and an abusive rant about the various fools operating within the prison and legal system, but that would only serve to annoy them really - and, as the ould I.R.A. man said, 'It's a bit late to be making enemies now.'

The Voice In The Wilderness