PICTURES OF PORTLAOISE

`Surely you don't mean -'
`I do.`
`Mr. Murphy! I can't believe this! Even Emo... Togher... Our beloved local-'

`Knock them all. Think of the starving millions. All the coffins you could make, instead of planting them in rags.'

I was prepared to leave it at that, but she launched into this sermon about poems made by fools like me but only God could make a tree.

`Exactly. Now you're talking. Do you know what trees are? They're arrows. Arrows fired by God to keep us in our place. Everywhere we turn, we're hemmed in by trees. They're a symbol, a metaphor for mankind's lack of free will.'

The bitch gazed right through me, at the rent-a-crowd, the clink of sponsored glasses.

`Prison bars. A stockade to keep us from seeing beyond our own little patch. And another thing. Did you ever feel the urge to get up on a tree? A big strong oak or chestnut?

`Certainly not. Why should I?`

`Because they're phallic symbols.'

`Disgusting!'

`And did you ever collect conkers?'

`Please, Mr. Murphy, be serious.'

`Of course you did. And do you know why?`

`Mr Murphy, I really don't think-'

`It's a manifestation of every woman's desire to emasculate a man.'

`You drunkard. You pervert. You... gatecrasher!'

The things that come into your head. Is it possible to have a single second with nothing happening, an instant when your brain is as barren as a skull? I'll find out. Quiet please. Dim the lights. Experiment No. 1. 5-4-3-2-1… continue