While finishing her breakfast that sunny Tuesday in July, Miss Agatha’s attention was caught by a magpie tapping on her kitchen window. When he caught her attention, the bird dropped a piece of paper on the windowsill and flew off. Miss Agatha was surprised as most Dysart Coven members had given up the old fashioned magpie delivery system for passing messages in favour of texting. But being an old fashioned lady herself, she was quietly thrilled and rushed outside to pick up the message.

     Miss Agatha was surprised to read  that an EGM of the coven was called for the following Tuesday night, usual time and usual place. As the Secretary of the coven and one who prided herself of having her finger on the pulse of all action in the community, she was  shocked that this was how she was informed of such an event.  Sh wondered if due process was followed in calling a meeting like this.  She called her best friend Miss Beatrice about the matter.  

, “Yes, I got that message this morning too,”  said Miss Beatrice, “ Let’s just go with an open mind, find out what’s up and not get too bogged down in processes and procedures.  I’d love to know what’s up.”

”Fair enough,” said Miss Agatha, “I’ll tag along with you so.”

The ladies were in plenty of time for that meting on Tuesday evening and took their places and awaited developments. Al thirteen members attended that evening and Miss Constance stood and taking a letter from an envelope she held in her hand, she said.

”Ladies, I felt I had no option but to call an Emergency meeting  on foot of this communication I received from Dublin.”  She paused and looked around the table over the rim of her rather old fashioned wire rimmed spectacles.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, Connie, read the letter!” Said Agatha

“It will wring your heart strings, Agatha:”

Dear Miss Constance, 

                                      As a journalist yourself, I’m sure you’ll empathise with my dilemma and hopefully you’ll have a solution.  I took this job with the National Broadcaster thinking it would be a straightforward , well paid sinacure and that a gold plated pension would follow in due course.  I was hardly in the job a wet week I was called before the public accounts committee.  I still have nightmares and panic attacks when i recall the humiliation of it all.  And when I realized that the organisation is completely dependent on Government funding for its survival, I could have wept.  Since then I’ve kept my focus exclusively on making the Government look as good as possible in the circumstances. I keep the public’s attention riveted on Gaza and Ukraine, every news bulletin leads with that.  I make sure that contentious issues such as immigration, IPAS centres, gender ideology, the cost of energy , lack of school places for children with special needs,  hospital waiting lists etc. are mentioned as little as possible, and if they are mentioned I make sure that whoever raises the issues are labelled “far-right extremists” or racists.

So what’s the problem, you ask, well, I’m worn out showing the same pictures from Gaza again and again, repeating the statistics supplied by HAMAS and having a camera always at the ready to catch Simon Harris’s reaction to the latest newsfeed and his facial expression showing   for Ireland.  Staff are simply unable to keep up with his tsunamis of sorry. In short how do I get off this rollercoster ride of playing shotgun for the Government without ending up before another tribunal?

Hoping you can help,

I remain, 

Yours sincerely,

Kevin.

         Miss Agatha was the first to break the silence that accompanied this letter.  “Well that certainly is a cri de coeur if ever I heard one, but I’m not sure we have an answer. Does anyone have any suggestions as to what we might do to help?”  The silence continued.  

    “Well in that case, I suggest, we disperse and let each put our thinking hats on, maybe something will emerge.”  It was a despondent group that left that meeting. It was the first time they had been asked for help all year and it didn’t look like they could deliver.

     Miss Constance was the most despondent of all.  Being a journalist herself she felt Kevin’s pain most keenly.  So next morning she set to work in her garden to take her mind off the matter.  Her first job was cutting back the lemon balm. She tied some around the stalks about 6 inches from  the roots and cut below the string.  The intoxicating scent of the lemon balm worked its magic as she inhaled deeply and as she exhaled she could feel her whole body open and relax. She wished she could bottle this feeling and send and send it to Kevin.  Action followed that thought as night follows day and Miss Constance took her phone out and like every self respecting witch  googled “best ways to use lemon balm.”

       The most interesting recipe she found was Carmelite wine, which, the story goes, was made by the Carmelite nuns in the 14th century for King Charles the 5th. He was the French king who won back most of the French territory lost in the 100 years war.  Immediately  it came to Constance, the lemon balm infused wine was what gave King Charles the courage and confidence to take on his enemies.  This was her eureka moment, she would make her version of this wine and send it to Kevin.  First she would have to clear the plan with the rest of the coven.  She made a couple of bottles of the wine for the next meeting.

     The next is history, as they say.  It went down a bomb with the ladies, there wasn’t a drop left at the end of the meeting and the mood of the gathering was most convivial, the despondency of the previous meeting completely banished.  And needless to say, she got the go ahead to dispatch a case of it to poor Kevin, which she duly did.

     Alas, the old adage, “you can bring a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink,” applied in this instance.  The case was returned to Miss Constance with a sharp note from Kevin, which concluded with the paragraph,   “I expected better from you, Miss Constance, I was looking for magic, not simply cheap wine.  You disappoint me.”

    Miss Constance sighed, as she opened one of the bottles and poured herself a glass,  and she thought to herself,  “Maybe people are right, the national broadcaster really is beyond the help of the coven and is not worth saving, if they can turn down gift horses like this.”     She resolved to publish her recipe on her Facebook page when she got the chance.

   The Witches of Dysart are not immune to the usual problems that afflict  most members of the community, as Miss  Agatha’s recent experience shows.

    Miss Agatha hosted a New Year’s Eve party for the coven and their guests in her newly erected log cabin. The coven celebrated in style and with optimism in their hearts, wishing the incoming government well and hoping that  2025 would herald a new dawn for rural dwellers with this change of government. And why a new cabin for Miss Agatha, you ask? Well, that’s what I mean by the the ‘usual problems’ that afflict most communities nowadays. Miss Agatha’s niece Maeve and her little family were evicted from their rented accommodation as the landlord needed the property for his son who came home from Australia with his family. Maeve could find nothing affordable for her family in their area and appealed to her aunt Agatha for assistance. Agatha rose to the occasion, took her savings out of the Credit Union to construct a small cabin for herself in the orchard behind her house and gave her home to her niece, thus saving Maeve and her family from homelessness. Joy was unconfined at that year’s New Year’s Eve party in Agatha’s new cabin. And Miss Agatha lived in a glow of self satisfaction all through the New Year period at having been able to help her niece.

    Maeve’s present to her aunt was to erect a new post box next to the old one on the wall leading up to the cabin and label it ‘Miss Agatha’s post’. Agatha thought it a charming touch and even during the snows of early January she went out with her little key to check for mail each day. She was very surprised to find a letter there from her local Co. Council on that Tuesday morning in January. 

      As a woman who was fairly prompt about paying her bills this was a surprise to her and  she went back into her warm kitchen before opening it, and she gasped in shock when she read its contents. It informed her that she had no right  to erect a cabin on her land and that the Council  was  prosecuting her for this and that the date of her court case was Monday February 3rd, where they were seeking permission to demolish her cabin.

    Her hands shook as she made a cup of tea to try to calm her nerves and she turned on the telly to try and distract herself. “Surely people had some rights on their own land,” she thought, “this isn’t what our ancestors fought and died for.” But try as she might, she couldn’t shake the sense of doom that the letter with the summons to court brought on.  She didn’t know where to turn, she didn’t want to worry her niece and the family. 

      Agatha decided to contact the local county councillor for whom she had canvassed at the local elections the previous summer, she told him her story but to her horror she found him remarkably unhelpful, pleasant but unhelpful. He explained that it was government policy to stop one-off rural housing if possible as it was too expensive to connect to the grid. Even when Agatha explained that she had her own generator, he wasn’t impressed saying that he thought that this contributed to greenhouse gases.

He went on to say that connecting to water mains was also horribly expensive, and dismissed her explanation that she had her own well.

 This prompted him to ask if  she had a licence for her septic tank—-she had,  he then asked if it had been inspected recently— no it hadn’t. He suggested that she would be as well to just dismantle the cabin rather than risk the fines that could ensue from having a septic tank that wasn’t up to current regulatory specifications—- she didn’t know he knew such long words. Her hands shook as she hung up. From the corner of her eye she saw Gerry Murphy from the Meterological Service on the news. She immediately tuned in as the weather service was the only service on RTE she trusted nowadays. 

   So, a severe storm, a life threatening event even, was about to hit the country. Storm Eowyn, a beast the likes of which we haven’t seen in many a long year. Agatha didn’t fear for her cabin as it was in a sheltered location, so she just tied down any loose pots and garden furniture and settled in to await the wind. Well it came, it howled, it moved on and Agatha breathed a sigh of relief when it was over, and went outside to check for any possible damage. Cabin fine, apple trees fine, her own old cottage also fine, no electricity though, this didn’t bother her of course, she just went back inside and lit her little stove, put a kettle on the hob and waited for its cheery whistle to alert her that it was time to make a restorative pot of tea. Before she had time to pour herself a cup, there was a knock on the door—-it was her niece to report that there was no running water!

      Agatha didn’t know that storm damage could knock out treatment plants for running water, but she didn’t question it, she just opened her door and invited in anyone in need of clean cold water from her well, while she kept the stove going for hot drinks for perished people in the neighbourhood who only had air to water pumps for heating in their houses, no stoves and no chimneys. People kept coming on days 2,3,4 and 5. It didn’t look like the ESB was going to be able to reconnect their neighbourhood in under a week. Agatha’s generator was pressed into service to provide hot water for showers, hot food and to recharge devices, for which every mother of young children blessed her as trying to entertain children while the schools were closed was some challenge and the schools were closed because of the lack of heat and water.

     One of the people who called for assistance looked very familiar but Agatha couldn’t place her, wondering if  she had seen her photo in the local paper in connection with something? Anyway she welcomed her and provided whatever assistance she could. At least all this coming and going took her mind off the upcoming court appearance. 

     When the appointed day dawned, Agatha having had a sleepless night, was up early, and having made herself presentable she headed into town for her ten o’clock court appearance. She chose to represent herself and didn’t engage a solicitor for the case. It wasn’t long before someone shouted out “all rise for judge Macay” which she dutifully did and who should walk into the courtroom but the familiar looking woman who had presented herself at her door on four consecutive days looking to avail of her heat, hot water and charge for her phone and laptop. Agatha gave a huge sigh of relief and smiled broadly at the judge, who returned her smile. The case was called.

     The representative of the council presented the councils case for seeking demolition of Agatha’s cabin, It contravened the planning laws and it was irrelevant that it was the only structure in its neighbourhood that was able to provide water, heat, hot food and shelter in the recent extreme weather event as far as the Council was concerned it was against the law and it had to be demolished. Agatha tried to protest that what needed to be demolished was the planning law, not her cabin. Alas, the judge ruled that the law must be upheld regardless for how irrational it was. So she directed Agatha to demolish her cabin or she would be in contempt of court and like Enoch Burke could face a pointless prison sentence.

      Poor Agatha looked aghast and could only mutter  “well, I guess there is truth in the old saying that no good deed ever goes unpunished”

  Judge Macay didn’t even have the grace to blush as she delivered her sentence.

       Blankety  Bank 

       Remember Miss Corrine? That little hedge witch who tried setting up a hen-petting business during the Covid lockdown? (See “Hens Lay Plans Too” on www.witchesofdysartparish.com.) Remember all her travails in relation to banking? Well, things haven’t changed much for her. Her small country market baking business never recovered after Covid, whether it was everyone having learned how to make banana bread during the lockdown or everyone trying to lose the Covid stone or so. She found that the demand for her delicious home-baked treats just never recovered, and neither had her income. So when the sky-high energy prices hit in 2022, she knew she had to budget very carefully if she didn’t want to have her electricity cut off. To that end, Miss Corrine decided she would be better off with a chequebook to help her budget rather than the direct debits she had signed for her electricity, insurance, home security, and other vital service providers, so she got online and canceled all her direct debits.

      Well, needless to say, that didn’t work out very well for her. The lights went out, the house was cold, and the home security company threatened to take her to court for three months’ subscriptions in lieu of giving them three months’ notice of intent to stop their service, which she no longer felt a need for, as there was nothing in her home worth stealing any longer.

       When Corrine went to her bank and patiently waited in the queue to talk to a member of staff at the help desk, she had every confidence that the representative would see that she was on the right track in seeking a chequebook to help her balance her budget. After all, this bank ran ads on Instagram where home of the year judges gave advice on how to keep one’s house warm and cut down on food waste. She was shocked to discover that the helpful staff member wouldn’t recommend a chequebook at all but gave her a quick tutorial on how to pay her bills by bank transfer. It looked easy enough; Corrine was sure she could manage. But when she got home, she found transcribing the twenty-two individual characters that constituted each individual payee’s IBAN was a bigger challenge than she realized.

     When Miss Corrine went in to sort out things the first time, the bank staff were most helpful at the information desk, with one young lady helping her sort out her issues with her energy provider. The following week she needed help with the car insurance, and the next week her house insurance. On the fourth week, when she sought help to make a small donation to Concern, she was met with a very frosty bank manager, John, who told her the bank was unable to provide her with a personal assistant to sort out her finances. Miss Corrine very sweetly explained to him that she wouldn’t require any such assistance if the bank would just provide her with a chequebook for her account.

“Sorry but no, that will not be possible; the bank has a policy of all transactions going digital and is phasing out chequebooks.”

“But surely some accounts have chequebook facilities.”

“Business accounts only, I’m afraid.”

“But paying bills is my business!”

But Miss Corrine failed to change the hard-hearted banker’s mind and came away from the encounter without the chequebook. As she limped away, she blushed as she recalled how foolish she felt following her skirmish with Miss Delphine regarding the hen-petting business. And she muttered to herself as she straightened up, “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me,” and she resolved not to be bested by this banker.

Corrine had a little spiel prepared for her fellow active retirement group members who met the following afternoon at their club for a bingo session. She stood at her table, cleared her throat, and started: “Ladies and gentlemen, can I talk about a disturbing situation I encountered lately before we get down to the business of the afternoon? I’d like to go back to paying my bills by cheque rather than by direct debit, but when I visited my bank to request a cheque book, I was informed that the bank was going fully digital and had a policy of not providing chequebooks. Has anyone else had this experience?

“Well now that you mention it Corrine, I find it so difficult to cancel subscriptions that I’m completely broke paying for services I don’t use at all!” Said Myrtle.

“And I’ve completely handed over my financial affairs to my daughter as all these bank transfer business is completely beyond me. I yearn for the old days when you just wrote a cheque and got a receipt,” said Alison.

 “Since I was scammed out of so much savings last year by clicking on that link I thought was a bill from Revenue, I’ve completely lost confidence in my ability to sort out my financial affairs,” said Edith.

“Well, I think it’s high time we reclaimed control, or we won’t be able to call our pensions our own the way things are going on” said Corrine.

They all looked at her expectantly, hearing aids turned up, as she leaned in and whispered her plan.

      Friday was market day in town. So at 8:30 AM all the members of the active retirement group queued outside the bank and took some money out of the ATM machine in 20 Euro denominations and then went about doing their shopping using cash only. The vendors were delighted initially with the cash but it did make them question the wisdom of investing in those card reading machines their bank had promoted. It wasn’t long before the retirees needed to replenish their stash of cash, leading to more queues at the bank. The bank ran out of 20 Euro notes and had to put a notice in the ATM’s advising that cash could only be dispensed in 50 Euro denominations so the retirees queued at the counter and the bank needed to put more staff there. At this stage the queue was out the door, and the bank manager, John, who was at a meeting with an inspector from head office at the time was rung to provide advice on the situation. 

       He ignored the call, silly man. His deputy at the bank thought there was a run on the bank initially, but about an hour before the bank was due to close, even more people started piling in, this group were the vendors wanting to lodge cash before the weekend, the queue was down the street, the deputy rang the manager again this time he picked up:

“What on earth is the matter, that it can’t wait until Monday?”

“Please come immediately, we have a crisis on our hands, we have queues of people wanting cash transactions stretching down to the town library. And only two tellers at the cash desk.”

“Stay calm Denis, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

John made his excuses to the inspectors without any explanations and headed off back to the bank. When he saw the queues he nearly hightailed it back to the head office. He was spotted by one of the vendors he usually met only on the golf course who hailed him with:

“John, can’t you do something about all this, we all have to get back to business you know.”

Everyone looked around and John felt like a rabbit caught in headlights, he smiled weakly, 

“Just give me a few minutes, folks, I’ll have this sorted in no time.”

And out of the corner of his eye he spotted Miss Corrine in the queue taking out cash from the ATM, initially he couldn’t place her but as he rolled up his sleeves to open another window at the counter, he remembered, “ah yes” he thought, “the little old lady who wanted a cheque book.” He plastered a smile on his face and asked the first customer he had to deal with how he could help him. 

“Well you can give me my money back on this card reader for a start, none of my customers will use it, they’re insisting on cash only transactions” said the man as he placed a fair sized bag of coins on the counter.

“Oh, I’m afraid we don’t take coins any longer, maybe you can use that to shop in the grocery store or something?” Said John keeping his smile in place with difficulty.

“I am the grocer, dammit,”said the customer “and if you can’t give me better service than this I’m moving my account.”

“Well, just leave it here with me and I’ll see what I can do, have you counted and bagged the coins?”

“Haven’t you got machines for that?”

“We haven’t used them for so long, I’m not familiar with them any longer.”

“Well here’s your chance to re familiarise yourself, isn’t it?”

“Is there any chance you would just step aside, let me deal with the other customers and I’ll sort out your business then?”

“A resounding no, I’ve queued long enough, and anyway most people here, are on the same errand, lodging cash, including coins. Deal with it.”

John looked over the customer’s shoulder and called out:

“Is anyone here looking for any service other than cash lodgement?”

Miss Corrine waved her hand and piped up “I’m just looking for a cheque book.” John gritted his teeth, “just step over to customer information desk, ma’am, and I’ll see what we can do.”

    The Warlock Eugene, a dairy farmer by trade, really fancied himself as a cow whisperer. He had no need of one of these fancy new milking parlours, his cows headed slowly back into the old-fashioned milking parlour each evening with smiles on their bovine faces when they heard Eugene’s melodious voice fill the air with “Come ye back my lovely ladies, it’s milking time in the valley.” Only one thing upset his image of himself as a truly wonderful cow whisperer, it was when his girls gave birth to bull calves, because of course, no dairy farmer could support these animals, and the poor things were usually exported to Europe because veal was such a desired delicacy especially in French restaurants.     

     When calving season came around that year, Eugene was very busy taking care of his cows, ensuring they had the best possible birthing experience. Alas, one of his favourites, Mila, gave birth to a bull calf and Eugene, with his exquisite sensitivity couldn’t but feel her anguish, knowing her baby was due for slaughter. As he petted her, noting the tears in her eyes, he said “There, there, Mila, I’ll see what can be done.” But his heart was heavy as he went inside to clean up and make himself a well-deserved cup of tea.

       He turned on the telly. In a bid to escape the relentless bad news about Climate change, the wars in Gaza and Ukraine not to mention Sudan and Yemen, he switched channels to YouTube and after surfing for a while came across  a podcast on gender transitioning. Eugene found this fascinating, it featured a swimmer who had transitioned and now was beating women’s world records. “Good Lord,” he thought, “this could be the answer, what is true for humans is probably also true for cattle. I wonder if Teagasc is researching this?” He resolved to ring them in the morning with the hypothesis and if they weren’t already doing the research he would volunteer his herd for a research project, and with that happy thought he turned off the telly and went to bed, so full of the exciting possibilities he imagined lay ahead that it was some time before he could sleep.

       Next morning, he was out of bed like a shot when the alarm went off and was humming to himself with joy as he sipped his morning coffee. Next he was skipping over to the haggard with such a spring in his step when he heard the sound of Mila crooning to her little bull calf. He couldn’t wait to share with her his brilliant idea and reassure her that he had thought of a way to save the little calf. He stepped into her pen, careful not to get between herself and the calf. 

     “Mila, I need you to teach that little calf to act like a girl calf, you know, the walk with the slow swing of the hips from side to side, the gentle flutter of  eyelashes as bull calves approach, the skittish kind of dance away if they get too close, that kind of thing.”

     “Good heavens, Eugene, what nonsense is this? How on earth is that going to help him, he’ll be ostracised by all the other little bull calves and his short life will be totally miserable.”

     “But Mila, suppose he/she is not a true bull calf, suppose he has been born in the wrong body and he/she is really a little cow, with treatment he could become a she and be the best milk producer in the herd. I’m contacting Teagasc to check on this today and see at what stage we will start treatment.”

     Mila sighed and just walked away and gave her little calf another lick. 

   “You go ahead Eugene, if you think that will work, but I’m not convinced it’s a good or even useful idea.”

Eugene didn’t allow himself to be discouraged by Mila’s lack of enthusiasm and after he milked the herd and checked on and fed the ones who had recently birthed, he went back into his kitchen for a hearty breakfast and picked up the phone to his Teagasc advisor.

    “Tell me Paddy, are you lads doing research on transitioning cattle?”

    “What the heck are you talking about?”

    “You know, transitioning humans is working brilliantly. There are now trans women who are world beaters in all fields of sports, surely you are researching the implications for other mammals. Why, this might be true for cattle as well, just think, increased milk yields with fewer cows. The Greens would be delighted to fund the research, I’m sure. Good for climate, good for the planet.”

     “Who is this? What did you say your name was again?”

     “It’s the warlock Eugene, the dairy farmer, don’t you remember? We met at the last dairy farmers protest outside the Dept. Of Agriculture, I was just sure you would want to be involved in this Great Experiment of transitioning bull calves, it’s…”

The phone went dead. Eugene could hardly believe someone from Teagasc would hang up on him when he had such exciting information, it had to be a faulty line. He rang back. The line was engaged. Eugene thought he would try the Ag. Science Dept in UCD, he didn’t have any contacts there but he was sure there was bound to be some ambitious PhD students anxious to make a name for themselves. He got through to what he thought was the switchboard:

    “Hello, my name is Warlock Eugene and I’m looking for an ambitious young Ag. Science student to conduct a research project on my dairy farm which I’m prepared to fund.”

     “ Just a moment Mr. Eugene, I’m sure our financial controller would be most interested in talking to you. How much did you say you were prepared to fund your research project to the tune of again?” Eugene had got through to the staff common room and the phone was on speaker.

      “Well, I didn’t say actually, but I suppose I’d be prepared to put up a couple of grand and as many bull calves as you need for the experiment.”

     The look of intense disappointment on three faces in the common room was a sight to behold. They knew bull calves were essentially worthless and a research project with just a couple of grand behind it wasn’t going to go very far. All three young scientists quietly exited the room leaving the phone unattended.

      “Hello, hello, anybody there? Hello? Goodness another faulty line, maybe”

      But Eugene wasn’t a lad to be easily put off and if mainstream scientists weren’t interested in testing his theory, he would just have to set about testing it himself. He knew he would have to give it some thought to find the medication he was looking for, if the social transitioning alone wasn’t sufficient. While he was mulling this over, who walked into the haggard but his old friend Warlock John, who was walking in the neighbourhood and thought he’d drop in for a chat and a cup of tea, knowing that all Irish farms constantly had a kettle on the hob.

     “Welcome John, what’s  up in your world, I hear you’ve got yourself a new job, a consultancy with the local witches coven.” And with that it was like a light went on in Eugene’s head. Of course, witches, probably most of them on HRT, there’s where he would probably source his medication, and with that he persuaded John to sit and listen to his theory about trans cows. It would be fair to say that John listened to him with a fair degree of skepticism, but he was a practical warlock and if this job with the witches’ coven didn’t work out, he would be back trying to get accepted in the warlocks group, so winning friends and influencing warlocks was his game.

      “Well, I can certainly introduce you to Miss Agatha, the coven chair, and you can make your case to her, but I’m not promising anything, mind.”

      “Fair enough, John, make the introduction and I’ll take it from there.”

Now, as it happened, Miss Agatha, a skilled herbalist, had been trying to persuade her fellow witches to abandon commercial HRT in favour of her own concoction of evening primrose oil, black cohosh, ginseng and St. John’s Wort, but the younger members were completely sold on the commercial ones, Premarin being their favourite, so when Warlock John invited her around to meet Eugene, she listened carefully to  his theory and to  his  request for HRT and she saw a golden opportunity for her to persuade her colleagues to give up their Premarin. Of course she thought the experiment was the most hair brained thing she had ever heard of in her life.

      Agatha opened the next coven meeting with:

“Ladies, I’d like to introduce Warlock Eugene, a local dairy farmer, who has a request of the group. He needs our help to conduct a most interesting experiment on his cattle. I just knew that as the coven with the most progressive membership in the county, you would all be anxious to facilitate him. I’ll let you explain your ideas, Eugene,” and with that she conceded the floor to Eugene. He spoke eloquently for twenty minutes and when he left the room he had twelve months supply of Premarin in his pockets. He whistled lightheartedly as he mounted his broom for home. Before she concluded the meeting, Agatha offered her own concoction for menopausal symptoms to anyone in the group who was interested in trialing it. Several took her up on the offer.

The months rolled by and various members of the coven grew progressively less enthusiastic about Agatha’s menopausal concoction despite her best efforts to talk it up until eventually Earnestina decided that enough was enough. She persuaded her colleagues to stop donating their Premarin to Eugene and he wasn’t long coming round to Agatha’s begging her to give him another opportunity to address a coven meeting. She scheduled him for the following Tuesday.

     “Ladies, please,  just a few more months supply of Premarin should do the trick, I do believe the treatment is working. Why just this morning the little he/she sidled up to me, fluttered his/her eyelashes and gave me a ‘come hither’ look over his/her shoulder as he/she sashayed into the shed, I’m sure this is working.”

    “I’m sorry, Eugene, but we all are in dire need of our own medication. With all due respects to Agatha’s concoction, but I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in months.”

   “Maybe if we saw the evidence with our own eyes we could be persuaded” said Agatha, “how about if we visited your farm, say tomorrow?”

    The following morning dawned fine but chilly when the ladies arrived at the haggard for a cattle inspection. 

   “This way, ladies, we can walk through this paddock, the treated calf is to the left and untreated one to the right.”

And sure enough the animal on the left looked at them doe eyed, batting his/her eyelashes and gently swaying his/her hips to the rhythm of “I only have eyes for you” the tune that was playing on Eugene’s radio at that exact moment, while the one on the right looked at them with a gleam of menace in his eye as he approached the fence. But alas neither animal had udders, there would be no milk from either of them.

     The witches looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Which of them was going to tell Eugene the truth? But it had to be done, none of them were prepared to donate anymore Premarin for this experiment.

     Agatha cleared her throat, and spoke as kindly as she was able, “Eugene, I can see you have raised a couple of fine specimens of bull calves, and I think you’ll agree there is no evidence of  transformation in either of them.” 

     “But, Agatha, clearly the one on the left, is transitioning, can’t you see that?”

     “Eugene, the one on the left is gay, that’s all.”

     “What, will I have to send him to the French veal market after all?”

     “Of course not, Eugene, surely if every household can support one lady, then every dairy farmer can support one confused bull who thinks he’s a cow.”