Summary
THE high-nosed ladies with varnished talons formed a circle of malice and their comfortable bottoms spread over the green-leather chairs, as they leaned on the table, where a coffee pot steamed conspiratorially. And then they clamped the cork tips of their cigarettes between lips, which would soon be pursing, arching and pouting to the rhythms of their long-practised art of gossip. On this day, as was often the case, the subject under discussion was the progress of their sons and daughters. What a parade of gowns and caps, parental pride, certificates and honours, was unleashed in the fuggy atmosphere of the old cafe. One said her son had settled for dentistry, another that her daughter was researching tropical diseases while a third spoke of her girl's ambitions in architecture. Banking, engineering and law were soon added to the mix.
But one lady of haughty-bearing from an ancient Catholic line, or 'Roman Catholic', as she would have preferred it to be described, remained steadfastly silent. Finally one of the group said to her, 'And what is your son doing, my dear?' After a dignified pause, she said, 'I expect that he is taking drugs in his room as usual '. This was the same young man, who had on an earlier occasion, questioned the ladies' opposition to LSD, believing that they would all benefit from a spot of mind-expansion with a psychedelic vision or two thrown in, while listening to the experimental band, Tangerine Dream. When told firmly that they had no intention of tripping on LSD or magic mushrooms, because tea, coffee and the occasional sherry before a meal provided all the stimulation they needed, he countered by suggesting it was foolish to reject something without trying it. At this point, I was touched by the agreeable notion of these women, striding down the high street in their tightly woven Donegal tweed skirts - seeing sugar mice frolicking before them, sensing that lampposts were made of marzipan, and feeling sudden urges to flap their arms up and down, confident that they could fly in circular motion like buzzards. After that, they could say to the astonished Agnes, God-fearing stamp-collector and the caf's faithful waitress, 'Hey man, dig those hot-buttered scones'.See the full content of this document
Extract
Hey Man, Dig Those Hot Buttered Scones
Anyway, with the stark observation about her son, the lady had ended the conversation, as quick as a frog blinking an eye in the gr...
See the full content of this document
Sponsored links
