(pictured above: Brian Geoghan and his wife Harold Shipman)
Mary’s eyes narrow as she watches the children at play, running around in the snow all willy-nilly. Free fun. How is such a thing permitted? Couldn’t someone have foreseen this and added some kind of snow levy? If the snow was made profitable, if you could charge children to play in it, it might attract some overseas investor to purchase the snow from Ireland. Then it would be the investor’s job to clean up the white shite too, doing a better job than the councils no doubt and saving exchequer revenue to boot. ‘God I’m good,’ thinks Mary as she bites into another Wagon Wheel.
‘It’s no surprise you’re so fond of them Wagon Wheels because you’re a wagon yourself’ is what Brian often says. He’s such a joker. He loves to tease. It’s not all cut and thrust with Brian. He has room for fun. Mary has nothing against fun. She had fun herself as a youth. She was a little wild, truth be told. She even considered getting a tattoo. A lovely little portrait of Augusto Pinochet on the left buttock. She was such a romantic. In love with the struggle for fiscal rectitude and those who embarked upon it. Whereas her peers all had that corny Che poster, she had Milton Friedman looking down at her from the wall of her student digs. Milton, so much like a kindly uncle. Mary would often lie beneath that poster, winding down from her studies, lost in the pages of The Fountainhead. Dreaming of her very own Howard Roark. And, you know, in a way, she eventually found him. Brian is her Howard. ‘Wagon!’ he roars again from the other room and Mary giggles, her little trotters quivering in her boots. ‘Trotters’, that’s what Brian called her feet. He gazed at them once and suddenly said, ‘you’re like a pig with them trotters’. Mary gave a playful little snort in reply. He’s so affectionate at times. How lucky Mary is to have him. ‘You’re my little efficiency in life’ she often tells him. ‘And you’re a wagon, a WAGON!’ he always responds. It’s their little joke. Mary chuckles at the thought of it as she reaches for another bucket of Wagon Wheels. Munch Munch Slurp. Wagon indeed.