It was most unusual for Vinny Fitzpatrick to march into Foley's and order a whisky chaser to go with his pint.

But on this Sunday evening, he was flush with the exhilaration of accomplishment and in need of a wee Scotch steadier.

“Make it a double,” he barked at Dial-A-Smile, who was moving with customary sluggishness behind the counter.

As the smoky firewater hit the back of his throat, Vinny raised his glass of malt in defiance and said, "on yer bike, Ms Tabatha Tregoning, and good riddance too".

The PR nymph had been a thorn in Vinny’s fleshy side since drifting into his life, spinning yarns and oozing false charm. Vinny’s head, as well as his heart had been comprised by the Welsh vixen who undermined the burly busman’s socialist leanings and hinted at a clandestine courtship despite the huge age gap.

At least, that’s how Vinny interpreted her touchy-feely attentions, which flattered him for he was no oil painting and disliked what he saw in the mirror every morning.

Ms Tregoning had somehow sweet-talked her way into Vinny’s old family home in Causeway Avenue where she bedded down for two months, without paying a red cent in rent.

She’d even cheekily sent a card at Christmas to Vinny, signed ‘with love to my favourite water boy, xxx’ which he’d headed off at the pass before Angie started asking awkward questions.

As Capricorn tip-toed into Aquarius, Vinny decided enough was enough. It was his house and time to play by his rules.

Hall door

It was close to eight bells when Vinny boldly bearded the green-eyed dragon in her den, or rather his den.

He knocked casually on his old hall door, tucked down a one-way street behind the bus garage.

Ms Tregoning greeted his arrival with a sense of alarm, instantly tossing her rouge mane in the direction of the main road. “No Lynch mob with you, eh? I suppose you can come in.”

The cosy three-bed always revived memories of Vinny’s childhood, when he lived contentedly in the bosom of his parents and sisters, Bernie and Mary.

Despite being the oldest, Vinny had stayed put until he was 50, having pointed out to his Ma, Bridie, many years earlier that he had everything a man could ever want, ‘a roof over me head, food in me belly, and a boozer, bookies’ and a job, next door.’

“And what about a woman?” asked his mother, to which Vinny had smiled, shrugged and thought, ‘sure, who’d have me?’

The artisan dwelling was steeped in history. He’d since taken out a loan for a comprehensive rebuild, which included an extended kitchen, en-suite upstairs, giant flat screen telly, and, joy of joys, a downstairs loo. The house was still small, but more perfectly formed.

“Can I tempt you to join me, Vinny,” said Tabatha suggestively, holding up a bottle of merlot.

Nightgown

She was in her night gown, which revealed a hint of bosom. And with her crimson tresses draped around her shoulders, and those flashing emerald eyes, she reminded Vinny of Maureen O’Hara as Esmeralda to his hunchback.

It was time to ring the bells, the bells.

Fixing his eyes on an imaginary point on her forehead, Vinny went for broke. “You’re in my house Tabatha under false pretences and must leave by the end of the week. Before you protest, I want you to know that I recorded all our phone calls, for my own protection.

“Never mind the snide denigrating comments about me; I have it on tape how you repeatedly refused to engage in any dialogue about entering a rental agreement.

“I’ve reported the matter to the local gardaí and the bailiff will be here on Friday afternoon with an eviction notice, if you’re not gone already.

“Should any of my property be damaged I will pursue you for recompense with vigour in the court of law. Do I make myself clear?”

As Tabatha reeled, in a stunned silence, Vinny turned on his heel and pulled the hall door firmly behind him. Once outside, he puffed his cheeks hard and wiped a drop of sweat from his brow.

Delicate matter

An hour later, suitably revived, Vinny headed home to Mount Prospect Avenue. Armed with a supper of curried chips, he was happily whistling

The Skye Boat Song

when it struck him that he was as content as he’d been in a long while.

He’d shown strength, conviction and brought a delicate matter to a head. Ms Tregoning was out of his hair, not that he had any, and his full focus was on Angie, the mother of his twins, the light of his humdrum life.

In their seven years together, Angie had stood by him loyally. He hadn’t been the easiest to live with but Angie had never judged him; rather, she showed support, compassion and love.

As he turned into the drive, Vinny thought of his throwaway line to his Ma all those years ago. He still had it all, a roof, food, the gargle, the gambling and his job, but now he had extras added on.

And what extras! He had a wife he loved to bits; twins he doted on and a stepdaughter who had become like a mate.

Breaking into song, he trilled: Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,

Onward! the sailors cry; Carry the lad that's born to be King, Over the sea to Skye.

With that, a light shone in the porch as the door opened and Angie stood in the hall, a statuesque silhouette.

With a grin, Vinny thrust forward the steaming chips. “Never let it be said, I don’t think of you, love.” Only Angie didn’t return his smile.

“Step inside for a minute, I’ve something to say.”

Vinny didn’t understand the significance of the term ‘minute’ but he did later.

“Is everything alright, love?” he asked, listing slightly due to the whisky’s effects.

“No, it’s not actually,’ said Angie, which instantly grabbed Vinny’s attention.

“The thing is, I’m seeing someone else, and I think it’s best if you left.”