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This Morning

December 12, 2006
09:29 AM

As I headed down to the shop to get my papers; the Irish Times and the (English) Independent, a little confident dog passed me on the pavement trotting towards my house, tail up, purposeful.
I immediately thought to my self, that’s him, that’s the little bugger who has been crapping on my front lawn.
I walked on a few discreet steps (you don’t want to be seen kicking neighbours dogs without sound evidence) I then glanced over my shoulder.
There he was the little defecator, standing at my gate, head turned to me waiting for me to go around the corner before he went to do his duty.Sometimes you can’t win.
In the paper shop my friend Tony had my two papers ready rolled together once he saw me coming.
It was only when I got home (yes, the dog had done his duty) that I noticed he had given me the Irish Independent instead of the Times.
I headed back to the shop.
Tony saw me coming, guessed immediately what had happened and then wordlessly, with his hand covering his eyes in shame, he gave me the correct paper, equally wordlessly I swung home out of the shop. The customers regarded this pantomime with disbelief, and as I went home I realised that it is this type of humour that I will miss when I get to spend more and more time in France.
I remember a few years ago going one morning to my bank, a fairly large city centre bank, normally very busy.
For some obscure reason it was empty on this particular morning, all the cashiers looking up at me expectantly when I came in.
Very deliberately I stood in the middle of the floor and said in a loud voice;
“Right!, Which of ye wants me most”
To their credit they all laughed.
The best of these shop moments happened to me a few years before that again.
I was dealing with Kervicks, a mad busy greengrocers in Ballybricken.
Here there were always about six people behind a counter and about twenty eager houswives clamouring for service.
As I came in the door, (bear in mind I am taller than most), Kevin, one of the people behind the counter said;
“It’s Martin Dwyer! Duck!”
To a man, like synchronised swimmers all the counterhands ducked.
The twenty busy housewives were left astonished, as they looked around themselves like babes in arms saying;
“Where’re they gone?, Where’re they gone?

Maybe I misjudge the French but somehow I think their sense of humour is not the same as that.

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