Heart Beat: My late mother had what amounted to an obsession about the grass under the window. In times past my father and eventually myself would mow the lawn using an ordinary hand mower.
It was a task that aroused little enthusiasm in either of us. It was not very arduous as there were not exactly broad acres involved. In my case my involvement was to avoid economic sanctions like withholding of pocket money, thus weakly I complied.
It always arose when something far more important was happening, like football or cricket. In the case of my father it inevitably befell him as he was about to go fishing. The timing of this request (demand) was unerring and the resentment factor increased accordingly. I used to think that this showed a certain naivety on my mother's part and she might not realise how discommoded we were. I know better now.
The exercise benefits, although never alluded to, would have meant little to a youngster like me. They should have meant something to my father, but the concomitant rise in his blood pressure when he was caught, negatived any possible health benefit.
I learned a lot from this task. Firstly never to let the grass grow too long and never to cut it after rain; secondly to make sure the neighbours' dogs had not free access; and lastly and most important, try to get someone else to do it.
The problem was that it wasn't a simple matter of pushing a lawnmower up and down. There were free-standing shrubs and fruit trees to be negotiated and the grass was hemmed in by flower beds. This was not insurmountable, particularly if you allowed for a certain rate of attrition among low-lying branches and in floral displays. It was understood between father and son that any evidence of such depredation was to be carefully removed and thereafter we stood steadfast in denial.
But the grass under the window defied any lazy solution. The lawnmower simply wouldn't go through brick and an unsightly fringe occurred where grass and buildings met. It could only be cut by hand shears and we avoided it for as long as possible. My father always maintained that the stooping was responsible for his bad back, and indeed it was terrible to see him suffer.
Indeed the beneficial effects of exercise were early borne in on me by seeing the rapidity with which he recovered posture and abolished pain by the simple expedients of walking the river bank and casting his line.
Musing on the constancy of wifely obsession brought the above recollections. Mind you, it was not the grass under the window in the case of the Highest Authority. She knows I am incapable of such a complex task.
No, it was something odder still. Recently she has taken to worrying about the water supply to the house and how we would cut it off in the face of some unspecified disaster. To query what kind of cataclysm she envisaged was futile and moreover laid me open to the charge that I was not taking her seriously.
It was in vain that I pointed out that we had been living here for over 30 years and had as yet to construct an Ark. This would not go away.
Eventually she located a valve, which fact I greeted with considerable relief as it was obviously the answer to the question. I observed with wonder how clever she was. I wasted my breath; it had to be tested. I withdrew in dignified protest with a cup of coffee and the paper. It availed me little.
Seemingly quite suddenly the valve flew off, and Moses striking the rock paled into insigni- ficance. Mind you the Highest Authority had not touched it; she had only moved a chair in the vicinity. It did its own thing. Finger in the dyke became the order of the day.
Guess whose finger? "Stay there, don't move, and don't even think." I felt a bit like the National Treatment Purchase Fund; treat the symptom not the disease. However, that's not the way of the Highest Authority who was able to procure a Polish plumber out of a hat in mid-morning. He worked wonders and stabilised the situation.
I was slipping. I should have noted the obses- sive talk accompanied by the gleam in the eye, and simply got out of town, thus saving my mind.
For some unfathomable reason the Highest Authority does not want this salutary story circulated, so I find myself burdened with this secret, like King Midas's barber. It's a bit cold to go outside and whisper it into a hole in the ground so I'll just write it down on the understanding that none of you will repeat it. If you do, may you wind up with the ass's ears.
Now back to the fantasy world of the HSE. It is official; there are no cutbacks. Some units exceeded their service plans or targets so that to make the activity fit the projections there is a minor adjustment.
Ignore those old notions you had that illness could strike at any time. That's all passé in this new wonder world. It depressingly goes on and even gets worse. The new cancer centres are to be "cost neutral" like the nurses' pay awards. It's all going to be done with invisible money.
I heard Micheál Martin, on being asked for his reaction to Ned O'Keeffe's brave and principled stand, saying that Ned was a great guy "possibly a little left of centre". I can't get my head around that. Isn't Bertie a socialist? Tell me. Is this country run by imbeciles or by a parcel of "cute hoors" who think the rest of us are imbeciles?
Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon, but not much of a plumber.