Well, Peggy is driving me demented. The election is only just called and already she’s up to high dow, ranting and raving about what she’ll say to the scoundrels and blackguards that will call to her door looking for her vote. She says she’s only sorry she doesn’t have a dog because if she did, she’d have him trained to go straight form the jugular of every fecking wan of ‘em. When I was foolish enough to snap and say how in the name of God would the dog know who to go for, she says that she’d have him in training since the summer scrutinising the candidates’ faces in the paper so he’d recognise them when they’d call. That way, she says without a hint of a smile, he wouldn’t go savaging innocent neighbours like me who’d be regularly calling in for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat.
When Peggy gets like this, there’s no talking to her, I’ve told you this before. So I sit there like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car as she goes on about the self- serving gombeens who’ll say anything and promise anything to get into the Dáil and of course, once they’re inside, with their arses warming the seats for the next five years, they’ll be no more thought of the promises and lies they spouted without a blush on the doorsteps to get themselves elected. She says that she’s too long in the tooth though to be fooled by such crookedness now and she’ll be the one getting rightly stuck into them when they plank their big ignorant feet on her doorstep. Honestly, if I had the money, I’d leave the country or at least, get some place well away from Peggy for the next three weeks to avoid getting my head done in. I really fear that I could end up a gibbering idiot before the campaign is over. And if Peggy won’t drive me mad it will be this endless talk of fiscal space. Why can’t they speak in simple English, for Christ’s sake?