THE TUTIORISM OF A CUB IN PHYSICS AND FIZZ-OLOGY

What a placid, pleasant, domestos seen it was. My Sun, Bon Jovi, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, combing the hare of a deceased stoat. I was reclining-gracefully on a bag of meal, reading the thoughts of Marcell Proust and making notes in the margin with a green crayon. A big fire of bog oak and old wellingtons was roaring up the chimney. On a crook hung a pot and in the pot, the haunch of a bager, six spuds, too handfull of diced carrots and a bow-k garney of herbs, bubbled and boiled in gastric harmony. It was like a seen out of Hands Kristian Anderson, a fairy tail. Mother and sun, One playing with dead vermin and the other, expanding her mind, with a delve into the works of Proust. I looked at Bon Jovi, picking his nose with one hand and his ringworm with the other and a tsuamei of Mother love filled my hart. There he was-my sun, he who had sprung from my lions. Deceived on honeymoon in Bundoran and born in Clougher. There he sat, fair in form and face. The stooped, round shoulder, the one good eye, the little pot belly and just the mearest hint of a hump on his back. As usual, both nostrils were shedding snotters-copiously. That meant that his brane was working and producing waste. His big, round, cannon ball head, that defied concealment by any skool cap. HIs big, red, ruddy cheeks and just the hint of a moustache on his protruding upper lip. My boy, my cub, my child, hatched from a fertilised egg by big Hughie Ryan and given sancturay and safety in the darkness of my womb. Allowed too develop--like a tadpole, before he was hauled out, like a terrier out of a rabbit hole and given a good slap on the arse by the midwife. Ah, the wonder of-nature. Two make one and then they are three. And there he sat, staring into the face of a dead stoat, my cub, my angel, my-everything. I looked at him, with the love only a mother could have and went back to Proust. I turned the page with loving care, feasted my oculars on the ritten word and ejaculated. "NEIN Marcell, Merci and Achtung". "What is it mammy" said Bon Jovi, "Has auld Proust came up with another cracker?" I leaped to my feet, stood with legs akimbo, both hobnailed boots planted firmly on the floor and red what was ritten, "A BON CHAT, BON RAT". "What does it mean mammy" said Bon Jovi, "My French is limited, you wool have to transubstantiate it for me". "A bon chat, bon rat" I said, "Means, To a good kat a good rat, it also means, Tit for tat, or Set a thief to catch a thief". "That's a quare good auld saying" said Bon Jovi "I don't no how Proust keeps coming up with them". "But Bon Jovi" I riposted, "Marcell has spelt kat with a-C?" "Oops" said Bon Jovi Maybe his mind was on something else, like-frogs or-gill-ah-teens" "I kan't understand it" I cried "Marcell Proust of all people, spelling kat with a--C, when everyone knows it starts with a--K". Bon Jovi, put the passed over stoat down got too his feet and came over and hugged me. "Mammy" said the cub, looking up into my face with his good eye "You wool just have two accept it, knot everyone is as wild smart as you, knot even, Marcell Proust". "You're rite sun" I sighed, "When it comes too branes, I am like the fox, away ahead of the hounds". I rung my hands and shrieked, "Oh, it's so lonely at the top, my grate brane and wild smartness has turned me into a reclusive hermitess. People shun me because of my grate intelligence. I have often herd people saying "Let's cross the road, there comes that head-banger Rosie Ryan and she thinks she no's everything". Bon Jovi peered at me with his good ocular and said, "Why are you so smart mammy? Why have you got loads more branes than the edigts in Clougher?" I put my slender hand wearily too my brow and replied, It;s heraldry, it's all too do with jeans. Us Ryan's has kept ourselves two ourselves for generations. People say it's because no wan else wood take us, but that's not why, us Ryan's were keeping the jean pool from kontamination. When I was just a cuttie, I was a prodigal, a prodigal genie. When other cutties were out skipping, I was in the wood shed, trying two split the atom with a hatchet. No one ever played with me, they called me, "Auld pot head Rosie" because of the size of my brane. Ah, 'tis lonely, very-lonely too be the only genie in the village. But-never mind all that" I said. Get the plates and spoons out and we wool partake of this scrumpus repast. Oh, but before you do Bon Jovi, put the kat out or it wool be up on the table eating out of our plates". Bon Jovi sniggered and said, "Is that kat, spelled with a K or a-C?" Oh how we laughed. But their is many raisons Marcell got the spelling rong, he mite have bean in a hurry, or in the throes of acute-heftness.
And with that, Rosie Ryan who is rotten with branes and her sun, Bon Jovi, grabbed too big spoons and got stuck into the bager stew. Nothing warms you up on a Winter day, like a good tightener of-BAGER!
Get my book, letters to Gerry Anderson at all good Eason's bookshops and from...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
NOW go to..www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
PS IF YOU WOOD LIKE MY RESIPE FOR BAGER STEW, JUST DROP ME A LINE.