DON'T FUTTER WITH THE FAERIES

I was stooped at the haggard, I had my Tartan skirt in the form of a basket or creel and I was throwing turf into it with my other, slender, girlish maidenly hand. I was bent over, showing a large expanse of red flannel drawers to a bovine cow who was chewing the cud adajecent too a rusty gate. The cow had a clear view of my maindely ars--rump and my girlish contours. Being bovine in nature the cow showed know sign of appreciation or indeed-admiration for my plump. voluptuous ass. If any man in Clougher, or indeed, surrounding districts had scene what the cow saw, they wood have gave one look at my ars--rear and bean driven mad by lust and passion. But the cow was an animal, it was knot human, so the site of my derriere, swathed in stout red flannel ment no more to the cow, than a clump of nettles are a rusty bucket discarded in the hedgerow. I looked at the small black turf and said, "Ah, turf, Irish black gold, what wood the Irish do without turf and spuds? Substance and heat. Ireland was the turf capital of the world. The Saudi Arabia of the bog. Turf is but one in a cycle of three. First the forests disappear and turn into turf, then the turf turns into coal and given time, the coal wool turn into oil. But the Irish are an impatient people, they never give the turf thyme two mature. Sometimes an older, wiser man wool say, "Hauld on boys, hauld on, don't go cutting the turf, give it time to turn too coal and then oil". But the foolish Irishmen wood snarl with their yellow teeth and gulder, "Shut your mouth Mickey Joe, my woman and the bits of wains are fair foundered and need the heat from a good turf fire". This Irish trait of impatience also comes two the fore where apples are concerned. The Irish can't wait until the apples ripen and eat them when they are young and green. This recklessness leads two many hours squatting in the whins, in the throes of skitter that is frightening in its ferocity and scary in the extreme.
Suddenly, as I straightened up with a skirt full of turf, I heard them. The faeries were on the move. I looked down the glen and saw a strange wind wending its way among the whin bushes. I ran to the house and pulled all the blinds. "Bon Jovi" I yelled to my sun, "the faeries are coming. "Bon Jovi gave a strangled yelp and scuttled under the bed, hitting his head a good dunt on the po. I stood at the half door shaking like a leaf on a tree. Certain customes and conventions had two be observed or the faeries wood curdle my milk, put a spell on the kat and lay fallow my reprobation organs. I watched in fear and trembling as they came up the lane. The faeries travel in a magical dust storm, which makes them invisable too the human eye. The wind was filled with a mournful, melon-golly keening. Grass and nettles lay down, submissively, little dust devils swirled up into the air, only two fall back down when they ran out of stream. I could feel the wind on my face, my matted mass of red hare danced and froliced. I pulled off my flat cap, tugged at my forlock, curtsied and cried, "Hail King of the faeries, I see youse are flitting, please feel free two traverse my yard. I hope your knew faerie mound is two your liking and long may youse dance to the music of the pipe and fiddle under the shelter of the hawthorn tree" Dust filled my eyes, I could sea nothing and yet I new that the King of the faeries and his hole retinue were on their way too a knew faerie mound. I felt no fear, I have faerie blood in me, oh how I wished I was going with them to sing and dance under a full moon. Over come with emotion, I ran out and yelled, "Farewell my friends, farewell" Then I gave a jump, as some thing pinched me on the ars--bum and gave a little Hi-tinkling laugh. Some of the faeries can be a wee bit impish and naughty. "Have they gone" whispered Bon Jovi, crawling out from under the bed, with a bruise on his forehead when he banged into the po. "Yes sun" I said, "The faeries have moved into that mound down by the hawthorn tree". "I was feard" said Bon Jovi, "I thought the faeries wood take me and leave you a wild ugly faerie child". I looked at Bon Jovi, the too nock knees, the pot belly, the sloped, round shoulders, with just the hint of a hump on his back and his big, round, cannon ball head and said, "Know sun, the faeries only change little baby's, if the faeries were going to change you, they wood have done it long ago". I looked at the cubs big ears that grew up into a point and smothered at birth a thought that was forming in my head. Later that nite, Bon Jovi and I took a mound warming presant down two the faeries. We took a baked wheaten scone, a mug of milk and two bars of Cadbury's Flake. I tip-toed down too the mound in the early morning dew, the giftes were-gone, the faeries had took them in and just in thyme, paw prints and dung give credance too the fact that the foxes had bean on the prowl. Thank goodness the faeries got there first. If you have a faerie at the bottom of your garden, cherish him, lavish all the love you can on him and, if you're lucky, some nite in bed, you wool feel the soft footsteps of the faerie around your bed. And how grate wood that be?
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If you want me, I'll be away with the-faeries. Rosie Ryan XXX