The cat was on the rug, sitting vigil over the body of a dead mouse, which I suppose he wanted to present to me as a gift. But I don’t eat mice, so I took the gift by the tail and laid it outside on the windowsill, knowing that the magpies in the spruce tree would appreciate a little extra lunch.
Which reminded me that the General too might appreciate a little lunch, and so I phoned to see if he would come out to the BR Bistro in Carrick-on-Shannon, a wonderful restaurant that he particularly enjoys. But I could get no answer so I drove around to his place and found him peeping out from behind the curtains.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” I wondered.
“I’m afraid,” he replied, “after the Trump victory.”
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“And why should that matter to you?” I wondered.
“The wife-separate!” he declared. “She’s raging that Trump won and she knows I worship him. I will only get into a row with her if I answered the phone.”
He was wearing underpants and a white T-shirt, and his nose was stuck in the computer, scrolling down litanies of praise for the infamous Donald.
“I love this man,” he sighed. “I love his golden locks. I love his enormous body and the fact that he can climb up into the cabin of a truck even though he is the same age as myself.”
But Trump doesn’t drink, so there’s really no comparison with the General.
“Put on some clothes,” I said, “and we shall go out to lunch.”
I was wearing my second-hand Louis Copeland suit, bought in a charity shop in Stranorlar.
I spent decades living with my clothes on the floor but now my suits hang like vestments in a Victorian wardrobe that came from a noble house in Limavady; a town whose name proves that Munster Irish was spoken in Ulster long ago. Limavady – the leap of the dog – contains the distinctive V of the dialect, whereas if it were pronounced in the Ulster fashion it might be LimaWaddy.
All beside the point, but I love my Victorian wardrobe. It’s a tabernacle where I keep my various “identities”. Each suit on its separate coat hanger is the embodiment of some particular Self; a facade I present for business, or parties, or summer barbecues or Christmas dinners. And sometimes I put on a suit just to cheer myself up on a wintry day.
I know it’s ridiculous to wear a suit and tie when I only commute across the backyard to my studio shed, but I am able to become the cheerful person defined in the suit no matter what my mood, and sometimes dressing up is a way of avoiding depression.
Not that I have been depressed recently. The last dark period was more than 10 years ago, and since I began mumbling the rosary every so often I have trained my mind to avoid the dark woodlands of melancholia completely.
So after the cat presented me with the dead mouse I opted for the Louis Copeland suit fresh from the Limavady tabernacle, because the BR Bistro in Carrick-on-Shannon is a stylish restaurant where it feels good to be well dressed.
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At the table next to ours an elderly lady sat with her two daughters trying to select something from the menu. The young women were warning their mother against the kofta meat dish.
“It’s like a kebab,” they said, “it might be too spicy.”
“I know what a kebab is,” she said, and then the waiter said the kofta wasn’t spicy at all.
“You see,” she said to the daughters, “this man says it’s not spicy. And I seem to remember you told me that Daniel O’Donnell was retiring and that wasn’t true either.”
She turned to the waiter, declaring with some determination that she would have the kofta.
“Sure you can’t believe a word the young ones say nowadays.”
The daughters ordered a seafood pasta, perhaps just to be awkward.
“The kofta for me too,” the General whispered enthusiastically when the waiter came to our table. And I went along with him.
But then out of nowhere his ex-wife appeared at the door, stunned to see him, and he froze when he beheld her. She walked slowly across the floor to our table as the General cowered.
“So,” she said, as if observing something as disgusting as a dead mouse. “I see the Maga Boys are still celebrating,” and without further ado, she turned on her heel and left the building.