THIRTY-SIX
‘Would yer loike a dropeen of Jameson’s, Father?’ Colleen was waving a tumbler of Irish whiskey in front of the nose of the yet-to-be-defrocked Jack, and acting out the role of Mrs. Doyle in Father Ted, ‘Aaah, go on, go on, go on, go on… go on, go…’
‘Right, Windahs, a creditable performance,’ Jack answered, as he took the whiskey, swirled and sniffed. It was not the same. The earthy smell he loved so much had a tad too much cow pat. Mandy had made him take his shoes and socks off and leave them outside, but Jack didn’t want the foxes to have his tan brogues, so he tied them up with string and looped them over the back gate, but there was still a very evident pong, and he put this down to the liquid consistency of the cow poo, and its propensity to splash upward. He had remarke
