Porridge,Portraits and Proust

On Saturday, which is the Jewish sabbitical.

I was sitting, gracefully at the kitchen table, spooning Quakers oats into my glamorous, alluring gub.

"I wonder why it is" I said to the kat "That the Quakers is the only religious detonation who make a breakfast serial?" The kat made know comment and continued to lick it's you no what!.

"What an exquitite morning" I said to myself. As the Autumnal son sent a meagure ray of lite through the soot-stained, fly-speckled dirty winda. "What a morning to be an artist!" I ejuclated. "To sit on one's stool in front of a blank canvas. To mix burnt umber, grecian red and duckie egg blew and-THEN! conjour up from the artistic depths of the mind, a brown donkey grazing in a green field. Oh the fullfilment. To grab a brown donkey out of the ether of the mind and plop him down on canvas. Why it is akin to turning your head inside out. To take what is in, out and make it factual. To give birth to ideas. What a wonderful thing that must be. To conceive by thought. To nurture the thought in your mind and then to give your idea form, shape and a sense of identity. Fertilised thought born in reality. In the shape of a sculpture, a painting, or a poem about the red flannel drawers that Maggie wore. I get my best ideas in the morning. When the Quaker oats is falling into my empty belly with a sodden plop!. I was just going to grab a green crayon and draw a self portrait of a goose when I heard a fissle coming from the straw in Bon Jovi's cardboard box. I watched with pride, as my sun crawled out of the darkend box and into the son lite. As Bon Jovi emerged from the box head first. I winced. It reminded me of the nite he was born.

Bon Jovi stood up, wearing a tattered simmet that came down to his knees. I could not help but admire the strong, sturdy fizz-eek of my first born. I saw too fleas flex their strong back legs and leap back into the dark recess of the cardboard box. The fleas had probably been busy biting Bon Jovi all nite and needed a little rest. It is a good thing too sea fleas on a cub. It means the cub is healty and is knot lacking in iron. Fleas detest a white, pale freckled cub with red hare. Their blood is week and the fleas have to work twice as hard to get a good tightener.

"Bonjour Bon Jovi" I said. "This is Saturday. Know skool today. Know sums are cyphering for my wee sun today"

"Thank goodness" roared Bon Jovi.

"My brane is fair deved with complicated sums, spellings and searching for the origin of all the dark matter in the Universe".

"What do you plan to do today my little dumplin'?" I said.

"Today" roared Bon Jovi.

"I shall race a donkey through the bog, from the hours of ten in the morning, until fore in the afternoon.

And when I race the burro through the bog, I shall be letting yells, shouts and indeed, gulders out of me".

"How I wish I could join you" I said.

"As you persue the burro. I two would like to gallop after a lop-eared donkey. And I two wood be letting yells, roars, shouts and like you say, gulders out of me. But that big, fat gulpin Nellie Granite is coming round for tee. So I must tidy the house and ensure the floor is devoid of dirt, dung, insects and dead, or dying rodents".

As big sweating Nellie Granite through her big leg over the bar of her bicycle. I saw an unwanted panorama of Green Flannel drawers. The gusset was hanging low. like the paraschute on a space shuttle.

As Nellie sipped her tay and nibbled at a paris bun. She looked all around and said.

"You and Bon Jovi is nice and snug in here. It wool do until something better comes along".

"Listen Nellie" I said.

"This wee cottage, is the ancient, ancestral home of us Ryans.

"Many Ryan eggs have bean fertilised here" I yelled

"And them eggs developed into Ryans. Mail and femail who grew too maturity strong and sound in limb and mind".

Nellie sipped her tee. Looked at the wheel barrow with the bag of meal leaning against it and cried.

"Here! Did you heer what my Willie went and done? My Willie only went and bought me a lovely three peace sweet, in a lovely puce colour with wee yella flours on it. What do you think of that Rosie? A lovely puce sweet of furniture, with wee yella flours scattered all over it".

I leaped up and roared.

"Listen here Nellie Granite. You must be getting me mixed up with someone who's just had a shit! Get out to hell. Or I swear by that scared hart picture on the wall, I'll brust your big ugly face".

Nellie jumped to her feet and bawled.

"A strumpet!, that's what you is Rosie Ryan. A strumpet, a tramp and a harlequin. I don't no how you can sit on that auld sofa. Futterin' and fisslin' at that big ugly brute Chuck Corona. Rite under the picture of Jesus, who is showing you his bleedin' hart".

I grabbed the tongs and the poker and chased the big gulpin down the lane.

Nellie leaped on the bicycle like Frankie De-tory and peddled off yelling.

"Harlot. strumpet, fallen woman, slapper and big ugly bitch".

I returned to my abode. Filled too the throat with anger and ire. With trembling hands, I picked up my well thumbed copy of Proust.

A line from Proust leaped out at me and I became calm and decomposed.

"Alter ipse amicus"

"A friend is another self"

How true. I am Rosie Ryan. I don't need Nellie Granite.

I don't need anyone.

Apart from Bon Jovi, Chuck Corona, The Parish Priest, The bread man, The boy who sells the toilet rolls and the little Taiwainese cutties who make my red flannel drawers.

Piece be with you. GO IN PIECE.