HOLY MOSES, ROSIE DOZES.

Autumnal was the day, little, white fluffy clouds chased each other across the broad expance of azure blew sky. The wind in the willows was softly whispering, telling-pear-chance the willowy willow about strange and exotic things it had scene in Gortin and surrounding districts. Birds, as is there want, flew on Hi, twittering, chirping, cheeping and cawing. The dead, brown bracken at the sides of the road, hung over the drains and shucks like wraiths at the wake of the year. It was so-still, so silent, no squak of duck, no screech of moorhen, no moo of cow, no grunt from sow, nor fart from hefted Clydesdale horse. It was-SONDAY, a Sonday in the month of October, and I Rosie Ryan and my sun and heir Bon Jovi, were on us way to mass at the little church of Saint Judas on the hill. It was a day for-prayer, a day for medication, a day to look deep into your hart and ask yourself, "Am I worthy two enter the house of the Lord?". I was wearing my Sonday best, my good green frock with the yella butterflies on it, my late mammy's brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles on it and a pear of highly polished hobnailed boots, that wood bring a smile two a Seargent Majors face. I was holding my sun Bon Jovi by the hand, two the casual observer, we must have looked a site two behold. Mother and sun, off two converse with God, in the plaice where he aboded. Us soles were as clean as us feces, no mark of sin was upon us. Mother and off spring were righteous in the eyes of the Lord.
As we neared the church, trickles of people appeared from every hill.dale and valley, all making their way to Mass. The smell of Lifeboy soap drifted over the fields. Auld idjits on bicycles with no brakes, flew bye, leaving an aroma of mothballs and old age. The wall of the graveyard, was a veritable scrap heap of abandoned bicycles, all lying on top of each other, in a hurly-burly of spokes, chains and pedals. Their owners had leaped off like Frankie Dettori and were now two be found, deep in conversation with the dead in the graveyard. Hands, arms and elbows flew wildly in all directions, as the aged congeration blessed them selves, with many flourishs and dexteridy of limbs. Bon Jovi and I entered the gloom of the chapel, ah, you could feel the presants of the Lord. Coughs, sneezes, hawking and spitting were tempered in deference to the lord God almighty. I tip-toed up the floor, to stiffle the clip-clop of my hobnailed boots and we slipped into a phew. I looked around me, know new hats today, auld Nellie Ramone looked the worse for drink and Peter Poot's boil was bigger than ever.
"Oh Lord" I entoned, "May your heavenly grace enter my hart, and fill me to brusting with, love, piety, devoation and wild holyness, AMIN"
Then the priest came out on the alter, a bell rang and the mass kicked off. It was so-stuffy in the chapel, so hot, the smell of incense and old cloths got up my hooter and I could hardly keep my eyes open. Then with a wild fit of coughing, sneezing and blowing of noses, we sat up for the sermon. The priest got into the pulpit and said, "My deer friends, the subject of todays sermon is-SIN!" Auld Nellie Ramone got a wild red face and looked at the floor. "YES" yelled the priest-"SIN. Imagine" said the priest, Just imagine that God came down from the cross and gave you a knew pear of shoes. Then you go for a walk out the Clougher road and you get the knew shoes covered in, tar, muck, clabber and dog dung. What do you think God wool say when you hand back the knew shoes". The shoes my brothers and sisters is your sole and the tar, muck, clabber and dog dung is--SIN!. Yes-SIN!" The holy Ghost came upon me and I drifted off, but I could still here the priest droning on and on. "On the day of judgement" said the priest. "you wool stand before the Lord God almighty too be judged. One by one, you wool have to stand in front of the Lord with your soles in your hands. And woe betide you if your sole is blemished or blackened by-SIN!. The LOrd God almighty, wool leap from his throne, point his finger at you and say.... "UP THRONE" I yelled, coming awake with a start. Too say that komotion followed, wood knot be putting it to lightly. The priest turned three colours of purple-then puce and roared. "Remove that heathen, that-infidel from the presants of the Lord" Four of the money-changers jumped on me and dragged me too the door. I fought them all the way roaring, "Unhand me, I am the Clougher Joan of Arc, a hand-midden of the Lord." The door of God's house was slammed in my face. Imagine, me? Rosie Ryan, a paradox of piety barred from the presants of the Lord. I battered and kicked on the door and yelled, "Let me in, let me it, if youse don't let me in, I wool tell God on youse. Let me in, or at least give me back my 10 pee"
The priest came out to see me that nite. He didn't exterminate me from the church. He just warned me too keep of the Red Biddy and the nite nurse. All the grate saints have suffered for their faith, and now, the Lord has decreed that I, Rosie Ryan also suffer. I have bean choosen. God has laid his hand on me and said, "If you suffer the jeers of the rude and mocking multitude in my name, one day in heaven you shall sit at my rite hand on a golden poof"
"In omni patri, et spirite sanctus-AMIN"
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