A terrible Tadhgie lie: the non-existent Lios Póil burglar...
Dear Diary - I have another great story for you about me.
It's Wednesday night, and we're sitting down having a cup of tea when I hear my sister, Áine, worriedly shouting from the back kitchen: "Why is the shed door open and why is the light on?"
"I don't know," I lie. I walk out to the back kitchen, pretending to be interested.
"Were you out there earlier?" she asks.
"No. No I was not," I lie again, feigning worry more convincingly this time.
I don't know why I'm lying and am happier having my family thinking there's a burglar outside than telling them I made an honest mistake. But in for a penny, in for a pound. I throw on my jacket, grab a light, and head into the bear-pit to 'investigate'.
When I walk into the burglar-free shed, the ridiculousness of the situation hits me. I came out here for a can of Coke earlier and had gone back indoors to see if there was a colder can in the fridge. There was, I took it, but I never though to return to the shed to turn off the light and close the door.
This time I do switch off the light and close up, and I return to the back kitchen. But sure I'll keep up the act - why not?
"Nobody out there," I tell my sister.
"You were out there earlier on, weren't you, and you forgot to close the door - didn't you?"
"Yes I was. And yes I did."
I've been exposed for the liar that I am, but all lies have consequences. In going out to check the shed for make-believe thieves, a fly entered the back kitchen, and now it's driving the dog mad. More importantly, it's driving me mad too.
A sad end to a sorry episode.
Dear Diary - I was interviewed for the radio today, Thursday. Helen Ní Shé and Raidió na Gaeltachta's Saol Ó Dheas team are in Lios Póil to carry out a recording with members of the parish at the Tomás Ághas memorial in Cinn Áird, and I've been asked to participate.
'Why you?' I hear you ask. "You do nothing for your parish, and you're neither interesting nor pleasant. And your glasses make you look like Harry Potter's disappointing son." You're right, again.
But Helen has seen something in me, or more precisely in this diary, something which I always knew was there. A greatness? No, I wouldn't call it that - but there is something.
"You take a very sideways view of things, don't you?" Helen asks me (in Irish, of course).
"I'd call it more arseways than sideways," says I to roars of laughter from those sitting around listening. So quick, so witty.
But that second line didn't happen. I thought of it when I was driving home. It has taken me 20 minutes to come up with that vaguely clever answer.
At the time I just settled for 'b'fhéidir' ('maybe') and laughed nervously. That's me.
It was nice to be part of the broadcast, though, which will air on Tuesday (July 28). By the time this goes to print, it'll probably be available on the Raidió na Gaeltachta website, and I'd encourage you all to take a listen.
Not for me - I only take up about five minutes of a 50-minute broadcast - but for the people who were around me today, people who actually make Lios Póil the great parish that it is. This place still has a big reputation, even if this diary has brought it down a peg or three.
Dear Diary - It's a few hours since my radio interview, and I'm hungry. I'm going to get a kebab from the Bay Restaurant.
My friend who travelled with me won't want his name publicised in the diary, so I'll just call him Chad because I'm certain there's nobody in West Kerry called Chad.
Dingle isn't short of fine takeaways - they'll all give you something unique - and while this one is less central, it's also fantastic. I don't know the name of your man who owns it, but he is a delight.
"How are you?" I'll always ask him. "I am good," he'll say, "but more importantly, how are you?"
Love the spirit that man shows.
Chad and I collect our kebabs and then call into a mutual friend of ours. I'm sure he also won't want to be named, so I won't say where in West Kerry he lives and I'll call him Preston. There's nobody in West Kerry called Preston either.
Preston has an interest in donkeys, and he has in his possession a DVD about donkey care. He puts it on. Over the next half hour, I learn a lot about donkeys, who come from Africa originally. Did you know, for example, that donkeys won't drink from a bucket if even a light film of dust forms on top of the water?
I did not know that.
It's quite clear there's a lot involved in donkey care, and I wonder to myself if they're the safest of the lot from COVID given the protection the donkeys on this DVD are given.
"I wish I were a donkey," I say.
"You are," says Chad. Tough but fair.