The Joys of Gardening.

by Kate R | Uncategorized | 0 comments

         Miss Marguerite turned over the sod in the patch of her garden she had marked out for her new flower bed, all the time singing that famous tune from Frozen, “Let it Go “which she had adopted as her new mantra, following news of the mini reshuffle which had just taken place in Coven headquarters.

       As you might know, Miss Marguerite, a keen party member, yearned for a call up to the front bench, and when she heard that a vacancy was imminent following an unexpected resignation, she felt sure that her time had come to shine at last.    For ages now she had watched as her arch rival Miss Helena had secured promotion after promotion and made a pig’s ear of every department she went to. There aren’t many people who have the gift of failing upwards,  but Miss Helena seemed to manage it.  Miss Marguerite marvelled at her uncanny ability to manage it.    She just went from department to department shedding voters with her every pronouncement.    Miss Marguerite’s  teeth were on edge every time she saw her appear on T.V. With her lovely blond locks ( not quite Holly Cairns lovely, admittedly), but then she would open her mouth and demonstrate that those pretty locks covered a pretty empty head.  

“Surely, surely the Council can see at this stage that a change of personnel on the front bench is needed,” muttered Miss Marguerite as she turned on the TV and that’s when she heard that the upwardly failing nepo-baby had scored yet again.  Foreign Affairs this time!  And that’s when she took out her shovel to do some digging in her garden as she sang along to the famous song “Let it Go”, but she didn’t really know if she could.

     After about thirty minutes of sweaty work which left her red faced and panting, she felt spent as she came to terms with the realisation that she was passed over yet again and she was probably never going to get her chance to display her political talent to the nation. She felt ready to forgive the dear leader and Miss Helena, his acolyte and faithful follower. When suddenly her eye was caught by that gorgeous blue flower nestled beneath the oak tree in the boundary ditch.  She approached carefully, yes, it was! Monk’s Hood, that most beautiful, but poisonous plant was flourishing right here in her garden.  This raised possibilities in her mind that she hadn’t previously considered.  Maybe she was being too impetuous in her “forgive and forget” approach.  

     In the twinkling of an eye, Miss Marguerite slipped on a pair of gloves and carefully dug up a good clump of Monk’s Hood and headed indoors to look up suitable recipes as she sang “Morning has broken, like the first morning.” 

     I’ll let you know what happens next.

     So Miss Marguerite consulted recipe books, but no matter how many she looked at,  she found nothing featuring Monk’s Hood that wouldn’t land her in Limerick prison for a very long time.  They would all make her more notorious than the Australian mushroom poisoner.  So, with a heavy heart, she decided to replant the clump of beautiful blue flowers back where she found them.

    And while she was doing so she spotted old Miss Jemima over the boundary ditch working in her old tunnel which had  rotting doors falling off their hinges.  Little old fat Miss Jemima was a source of endless amusement at coven meetings when she turned up with her hat askew and talk of ancient remedies that no one would dream of using nowadays.  “The very woman,” thought Miss Marguerite as she “Yoohoo-ed” her across the ditch, but she got no response. “Darn it, but she has got much deafer lately, lets hope she is not “trine cheile”  or even seafoideach as well!” She thought, as she made her way across the grass to where Miss Jemima stood. “Good morning, Miss Jemima, lovely morning, isn’t it, if a bit chilly,” she bellowed into what she thought was the old lady’s good ear,” and the old lady was so surprised she nearly jumped out of her skin and dropped her book and  and wooden spoon.

      “Oh dear, oh dear, I didn’t see you there, Marguerite, and what are you up to dear, and what is that you have in your hand, I do declare, I could have sworn it was a clump of Monk’s Hood, but that’s impossible, I’m the only one in the locality that grows it, and you’d never take it from my garden, would you? No, no, what am I thinking, of course you’d never do such a thing.”

       Miss Marguerite was a bit taken aback with this response. It was growing in her own garden, of course, but taking cuttings from neighbours gardens was a long tradition with the coven, so why was Jemima making such a fuss?

   “Of course I didn’t take it from your garden, Miss Jemima, it was growing under that oak tree on my side of the boundary ditch.”

    “No, no that’s not possible dear, I only plant it over those  secret documents and on my own land, oh my goodness, I’ve said too much,” the little old lady spluttered as she clutched, Marguerite’s arm and looked at her wild-eyed,  “please, please forget what I said, I’ll take that clump from you and replant it, no need for you to bother your head about it,” and she grabbed the plant from Marguerite’s hand, and despite her girth, waddled back to her cottage at surprising speed.

     Marguerite stared after her open-mouthed . “What the heck was that all about,” she thought. She went over what she heard in her  mind as she slowly made her way back to her own garden. When she came to the old oak tree, she paused, looked at it thoughtfully, and taking a deep breath, she walked purposely towards it.

      She pushed her shovel into the loose soil where the Monk’s Hood was growing and heard the sound of metal on metal.  “Well, well, what have we here,” she thought and knelt down and used her hands to scoop clay out of the hole. It was a two foot by one and three quarter foot metal box, with two handles and about one and a half foot deep, quite heavy, it wasn’t buried too deep so she managed to haul it out without too much difficulty. Sitting on the grass Marguerite examined it carefully, it was locked and she couldn’t see any clue as to where it came from or what it might contain.  “Hm, I’ll need a wheelbarrow to get this home, and check it out.”  So she found  a wheelbarrow, hoisted the box onto it and headed back to her cottage, but when  she got there she was disgusted to find that despite her undoubted skills at lock busting using a credit card or a hanger, the lock on that box simply would not yield.

     “Well, I guess, there is nothing for it but to go back to Miss Jemima and get the key.”  But the memory of the old lady’s  strange behaviour gave her pause and she decided to sleep on the matter and not rush into anything.  “Let’s see what a new day will bring.”

     Fresh out from ideas, Miss Marguerite, donned  raincoat and wellies, braved the torrential rain and made her way to Jemima’s cottage, next morning.  She had  scarcely  lifted the knocker on the door when to her surprise it was flung open by the little old lady herself. 

     “She must have noticed me coming across the field,” 

      “Come in, come in before you catch your death, you wouldn’t put a dog out on a day like this,”

      Miss Marguerite wasn’t expecting such an effusive welcome, but before she could state her business, the old lady continued:

     “Was the traffic from Dublin bad, Monica, dear? Was it necessary for you to make the journey in such weather?  Surely these documents could wait for burial?”

     Miss Marguerite was completely bewildered, documents, burials, and who was Monica?  And was Miss Jemima blind as well as deaf? Or just demented? She felt there was some mystery here and she was determined to  find out about it before she left the house.

       “Let me take off my wet things, and maybe we could sit down and have a cup of tea?” 

        With surprising agility, given her age and girth, Miss Jemima, whipped around, eyes popping, she gasped, “but you’re not Monica, who are you? And what do you want here?”

       At this point, Marguerite had a good look around the kitchen and was astonished to see several boxes, identical to the one she had found under the old oak tree.

       “ Of course not, Miss Jemima, I’m Marguerite, your next door neighbour, and hadn’t we better clear these boxes away before this Miss Monica turns up, what’s in them anyway?”

     At this point Miss Jemima had collapsed onto the nearest chair, and cried

“How I wish I had never met that woman, she told me I’d only have to dispose of a few boxes of documents for her, but they have been arriving with such frequency recently, I can’t possibly handle them, digging holes to bury them all is way beyond someone with my arthritis.  And I don’t know what she’ll say when she realises you are in on the secret.”

     “But what’s in the boxes anyway?”

     “ Oh for goodness sake dear, surely you know there is no stove in Government buildings for burning sensitive documents, everything from orders from Brussels, Government formation negotiations, roll calls for Dail votes, talks with NGO’s that “public service media” never reports on, etc. These  have to be disposed of safely and discreetly.”

     “Well, it’s certainly discreet, I haven’t been able to open this box, which is why I’ve called.  Do you have a key?”

     “That’s just it, I’ve lost the key!”

     “And what are you going to tell Miss Monica when she arrives with another batch of documents?” 

     “I’ve just thought of the solution, dear. It’s a lucky thing for me that you turned up today.  I’ll just tell her that I’ve sold my business to you and that you’ll deal with the service from now on.”  And with that the little old lady took her coat from the hook behind the door, put on her wellies and lifting the latch of the back door, was gone down the boreen before Miss Marguerite could think of a thing to say.  When she recovered her power of speech, she just shouted after the little old lady:

     “Wait, I don’t know what to do, where are you going? Where will I find you?” But it was like she was talking into an empty mist.

      But Miss Marguerite wasn’t someone to be down for long. Searching the pantry of the cottage she found a tool box and using a variety of wrenches, screwdrivers and pliers she managed to get one of the boxes open, read what it contained and whistled to herself.  “ Not so discreet after all!  No wonder these were never meant to see the light of day.  And clearly burying these boxes is not a safe  solution, if I can open these boxes, anyone can, there must be a better way to bury the evidence that Government don’t want people to  know about.”

    But while all this was going through her head that niggling feeling of anger at being passed over for promotion raised its head again. And this battled in her heart with the knowledge that maybe she didn’t really want to be part of the shenanigans that this Government was engaged in. Pacing back and forth across the floor of Miss Jemima’s little kitchen she  came to a realization which perhaps didn’t quite show her in a very noble light.

There and then she decided that if she couldn’t join them she would use them!  She would sell her silence and discretion back to her erstwhile colleagues and still hide their documents but for a price. But these darn boxes would have to go. Too difficult to hide and not safe anyway.  But what was the alternative?

     Miss Marguerite gave a little chuckle to herself as she caught a glimpse of those beautiful deep blue blossoms growing under the oak tree when she looked out the kitchen window.  Rumaging through Miss Jemima’s little writing bureau she found pen and paper and she sat down at the table to compose her letter to headquarters and began thus:

       Dear Secretary,

       I write to inform you that your contact in the important work of secure disposal of confidential information has resigned her post and disappeared. She left me in charge of her library of documents . I am happy to continue her work on your behalf for a consideration. I require you to  forward the said documentation to me in compostable envelopes rather than the metal boxes used up to now, and I will see to their safe disposal for the sum of 1000 Euro per envelope.  Should you wish to discuss the matter further I can be contacted on tele 072 254398.

  Yours sincerely, 

    Miss Marguerite 

The reply arrived by return post.

     Dear Miss Marguerite,

                                       Thank you for your information regarding Miss Jemima’s resignation.  I’m certainly interested in your proposal regarding the disposal of sensitive documents, but I would need to see evidence that your system is superior to what we have been doing up to now and thus I’ll pay you a visit next Friday to inspect your system.

         Yours Faithfully,

         Simon Moncton,

         Secretary.

 On reading this, Miss Marguerite clapped her hands with glee, put on her gardening gloves, grabbed her shovel and set to work, singing, ”High Hopes” as she worked.

    When the beautiful Mercedes rolled up the lane the following Friday, and suave Simon emerged, most inappropriately dressed in cream trousers, Miss Marguerite, took him on a tour of her facility.  She brought him to a series of raised beds, which were labelled, Killarney Fern, Cottonwood, Serrated Wintergreen, Saxifrages and Wild Orchids, and nearby was a large sign saying KEEP OFF: it is an offence to cut, uproot damage or sell any of these species, or to disturb their habitat, they are legally protection under the Wildlife Act 1976 and the Flora (Protection) Order 2022. 

     “Your documents will be as safe as houses in compostable envelopes, buried here under endangered plant species. People are far too politically correct  to dig them up,” said Miss Marguerite, leaning on her shovel.

  Simon turned to her with a smile, hand outstretched, “You have got yourself a deal. Let’s retire to you’re kitchen, boil the kettle and make a cup of tea and drink to our arrangement.”

      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.”

Miss Agatha

Miss Julianne watched in dismay as Miss Helena, the Justice Minister, came such a cropper following the Dublin riots that Thursday night. As far as Julianne was concerned, it was a mistake to entrust such an inexperienced politician with such a sensitive Ministry, and alarm bells should have been ringing when the rank and file Gardai  voted no confidence in the Police Commissioner. And as for the Minister’s  hate crime legislation, what a gift to the next Government- of which she is so unlikely  to be a part-no great loss, of course. As she watched on T.V. Julianne shook her head in disbelief when she heard the minister describing her fellow citizens as “scumbags” and “thugs”, as if that would do anything other than alienate more people. At that Miss Julianne decided  that an emergency coven meeting was in order and scheduled one for the following Wednesday night.

Agatha opened the meeting, which incidentally was very well attended, with a call to action. “Ladies, we need to do something, the Justice Minister is floundering and our Leader seems to have lost all interest in trying to keep the show on the road and it looks like he will just throw in the towel and let the Opposition take over at the next election. Why, we even have public representatives calling for intifada in Gaza. If only we could have an intifada against wokeness here! Has anyone got any ideas?” Miss Agatha looked  around the table to see if there was anyone anxious to speak. There was absolutely not a murmur from anyone around the table.Julianne piped up, “Come now, anyone got any ideas? Agatha surely you’ve seen situations like this before, have you anything to suggest?” But Agatha just shrugged her shoulders and in a weary voice said, “Julianne, we live in strange times and I really have nothing to say to the unfolding chasm opening up before us. When our dear leader peopled his cabinet with inexperienced sycophants we should have known that this situation was inevitable. No, I can’t think of anything to avert the situation where Mary Louise will become the first female Leader of our country.”

There was a collective gasp around the table, with everyone trying to speak at the same time. “No no no, we haven’t prepared for this eventually, Sinn Fein, appointing the Justice Minister, and Garda Commissioner and Judges with access to all the files in the various departments AND the power to redact whatever they wanted AND with the help of the new hate crime legislation allowing the Garda to access homes without a warrant to size computers and phones on the foot of a complaint from anybody, why the situation would be unbearable,” said Julianna, “we really do need to do something, think of our own records, if the wrong people got hold of them.” 

A shudder went around the table.

         “Hm, I see what you mean, I certainly wouldn’t like the minutes of every meeting we’ve had be scrutinised by the thought police. How long have we got, do you think?” 

        “About a year, I reckon.”

        “ Well, for starters we’d better find a safe home for our records, and all new communication between ourselves must to be in person, or else hand written notes delivered by carrier pigeon, which reminds me, we need to recruit a new carrier pigeon trainer, can I leave that with you, Julianna, and I’ll see about finding a new home for our records.” And with that Agatha, lost that air of despondency which characterised her demeanour at the start of the meeting, and her bearing was a lot more resolute looking.

           But when Agatha got home that evening the cold chill of insecurity coiled her innards. Brexit was just in the tuppenney halfpenny place compared to the thought of a Nationalist party full of left leaning and tax raising spenders some of whom had links to organised crime. And in a country so dependent on corporation tax… all those years nurturing foreign direct investment… to think it might all slip away … and not even having the comfort of free speech to warn the public … without the risk of thought police checking one’s musings. Agatha had a blinding headache at the thought of it all. She tossed and tuned all night, but by morning she came to the conclusion that the most urgent item on the agenda was finding a secure place for the records of the coven. She saw a documentary once about people who when faced with persecution and with precious records they wanted to preserve simply divided the records among themselves and each memorised a section, then they destroyed the written word and when times were safe again, as usually happened, they got together and restored the records.

           But when Agatha got home that evening the cold chill of insecurity coiled her innards. Brexit was just in the tuppenney halfpenny place compared to the thought of a Nationalist party full of left leaning and tax raising spenders some of whom had links to organised crime. And in a country so dependent on corporation tax… all those years nurturing foreign direct investment… to think it might all slip away … and not even having the comfort of free speech to warn the public … without the risk of thought police checking one’s musings. Agatha had a blinding headache at the thought of it all. She tossed and tuned all night, but by morning she came to the conclusion that the most urgent item on the agenda was finding a secure place for the records of the coven. She saw a documentary once about people who when faced with persecution and with precious records they wanted to preserve simply divided the records among themselves and each memorised a section, then they destroyed the written word and when times were safe again, as usually happened, they got together and restored the records.

But Agatha knew that the demographic was against them, the age profile was unfavourable. Why, half the coven members had trouble remembering where they parked their brooms when they went shopping! 

How on earth could they memorise book loads of spells, recipes and campaign plans? It just wasn’t practical. Mindful of her advice to her colleagues about maintaining a low profile, she took a broom trip over the hill to Julianne’s cottage to discuss the situation.

     Julianne was delighted to see her, she too had been racking her brains to think of a place to stow the records with no joy.

     “Where will we store those records, Agatha, I’m at my wits end.”

      “Two minds with but a single thought, dear, I wondered if we could manage memorising them and then burning them, what do you think?”

Julianne looked aghast at the prospect, 

      “You must be joking! There has to be another solution!” 

       ‘Burying them, perhaps? Where though?”

Julianne put down her mug of coffee, “Mh, the only place I can think of is the old vault in the old church, I don’t suppose the ghosts there will talk about what they read!”

Agatha gasped in surprise, she hadn’t thought of that. Well, there was hope for the coven yet with bright sparks like Julianne  in their midst.

        “How will we get them in without being noticed?”

        “Could we restart having our monthly meetings up in Dysart, Its hardly likely anyone would notice our bringing the odd book up with us”

        “Far too cold up there for monthly meetings, lets just make it, Winter and Summer solstice and Spring and Autumn equinox. We have a year,  remember, four trips should do it.”

        Having decided on their strategy, their immediate concerns  were making sure the vault was in a proper state to store those records and letting the others know their plans. Now the vault was underneath the chancel of the Old Church ruin and accessed through a hole in the ground. Agatha well  remembered how she used to shimmy up and down that hole in her youth, but wasn’t too confident of her ability to do so any longer. “How ironic” she thought to herself, “this same location was used as a hideout for the old IRA and here we are now using the same location to hide records from the people who consider themselves heirs to those same people.”

She and Julianna took a broom trip to the old church and Young Julianna, a born shimmier if ever there was one, had no difficulty accessing the vault and she reported that the location was ideal, dry with  plenty of room. A few shelves, a desk and a chair and it would make the perfect library. With the plan in place, they left the vault and headed home and made arrangements to let the others know. 

     “This is a wonderful opportunity for us to sort out and archive all our records, Agatha, I’d enjoy that job.”

     “Bless you, dear, I’d hoped you’d volunteer for it.”

     “ Do you think the souls of the folk resting in the vault will mind us using their home for this?”

     “Oh I doubt it very much, I often heard that the rebels who used the vault to hide out during the troubles never feared the people lying next to them just the live people walking over the field.”

Neither of them noticed the solitary figure on the Derry road watching their movements. And after they had left, there was another soul shimmying down into the vault. It was the Warlock John/Witch Joan, who having been turned down for membership of the Dysart coven continued to frequent the place, a bit like Enoch Burke and Wilson’s Hospital, he/she just couldn’t let go! He/she was determined to fight that Coven membership refusal, he/she just wasn’t certain whether he /she wanted to just draw attention to the injustice of the refusal- after all trans witches were real witches, or if he/she wanted to get revenge on Agatha who had written that letter of refusal. He didn’t notice anything amiss in the vault, not the sudden draught that seemed to come from nowhere, but when he left that cold breeze seemed to coalesce around some bones on the second shelf to the left of the opening. 

      As John/Joan walked back to the road with a lighter step, he resolved to keep a close eye on the the ladies and maybe he/she could kill two birds

with the one stone depending on what they were up to and was completely unaware of the forces he/she had awakened in the vault with his/her malevolent intentions.

      As the Winter solstice was fast approaching the ladies had very little time to gather their books and records for storage in the vault. Agatha went round to each member of her little group and told them of her plans and arranged for them to hold their meeting in the old church on the night of the 21st and to bring their Book of Shadows and any any other records with them.It caused quite a stir as they hadn’t held a meeting there for years. Earnestina volunteered to make the mulled wine and Dorothy the mince pies. From a distance, John/Joan watched the activities, envy etched on his/her every feature, he/she longed to be part of that group. He/she was on the lookout that night of the 21st suspecting that that was the most likely time they would make their move and watching as each light was quenched in  all the cottages and he/she could just make out witches on brooms streaming through the clear night air. Living closest to the church he/she was able to get there first and positioned him/herself on top of the bell tower for a good view of the site.

You know, Warlock/Witch John/Joan had been going through quite a difficult time in the previous couple of years. After a moderately successful career as a Warlock in Dublin where he even rose to the position of Deputy Treasurer he relocated to Co. Laois because of its more favourable housing costs, but what he didn’t realize was that whatever Laois’s sporting prowess or lack thereof, when it came to Magick the wizards of Laois played Senior Hurling! He hadn’t a hope of getting on a team of Warlocks here, hence his decision to transition, as he felt that surely the Witches would welcome him. When his/her application was rejected by Agatha he/she was devastated and he/she made it his/her life’s mission to make people accept that trans witches were real witches. The difficulty with this position was that he/she found this mission so all consuming that he/she took little notice of anything else taking place in the world. The consequences of a change of government which so exercised the witches had no place in his/her consciousness.

       So when John/Joan noticed that the witches were all carrying books and notes into that vault he/she was at a complete loss as to what was afoot. He/she was so absorbed in watching the operation of shadow book transfer that he/she leaned forward and darn it! He/she slid off his/her perch and came tumbling down into the body of the church with such an almighty clatter that the roof of the vault shook.

What was that?” Said Agatha

No one volunteered to go and find out. So with her customary resolution and courage, Agatha went outside and walking around the perimeter of the church she called: “Hello, anyone there, anybody needing help?”

 John/Joan crouched in the corner of the old church hoping to escape detection but the moonlight betrayed him and Agatha spied him as she came through the tower entrance.

     “Good heavens John, what on earth are you doing here?”

     “I saw lights up here from my kitchen window so I thought I’d better investigate.”

Agatha thought quickly, now that John was here the coven would have to change their plans, but she still had a trick up her sleeve.

      “ Do you want to know what the coven are doing up here on this Winter solstice eve, John.?”

     “Well, if you choose to tell me that’s your business, but I’m not committed to secrecy of course, not being a coven member,” John/Joan replied with a smirk.

     “Come with me then, and I’ll fill you in,” said Agatha, as she lighted the way back towards the vault for them.

And when the rest of the coven saw John/Joan slither into the vault behind Agatha, they were so shocked that they completely failed to notice the sudden drop in temperature and cold draught that came from the second shelf to the left of the opening.While the ladies were recovering their sangfroid, Agatha grabbed John/Joan’s left hand and placed it on that shelf, the scream he/she  let out of him/her rattled the vault, but Agatha held it firm.

      “ I don’t know if you were aware, John,  but we arranged the internment of the bones of baby John, the son of our founderess , Miss Sophia, here during the summer solstice when the tower repair was complete, and goodness knows they have acted like a guardian to the site since,” Agatha said with a bright smile, “only those who swear fealty to the group have left this place intact.”

John/Joan was on his knees whimpering with the pain at this stage,       “Anything, anything, Agatha, please release me,” he said, failing to notice that Agatha had already released him but his hand was still clutching that shelf as though it had a life of its own.

     “Well, ladies, this does present us with a bit of a dilemma, what are we to do?” 

     Earnestina was the first to recover from the shock of what had just transpired. 

    “You know, we have had Warlocks as honorary members, consulting for the group, in the past, but clearly a transitioning Warlock just doesn’t fit the bill, we can’t have someone who is confused about their identity. Pity!”

    “WAIT, WAIT,” screamed john/Joan, “ I’m only questioning!”

    “ Well, you’ll need to find the answers within yourself before that shelf will release your hand, John,” said Agatha.

“Please, please listen, I only wanted to transition because there was no place for me in the Warlocks coven, and I heard you had a vacancy, it’s just been a social transition I’ve taken no potions nor had any surgery, I swear it! I could be that honorary member to you, the most loyal you ever imagined!”

     “But what if someone teases you about being a member of a witches coven, will you be tempted to go on with your transitioning then? Can we trust you to remember your place, we could do with a warlock to consult, not a make believe witch trying to compete.”

      “Ladies, please, please, take me as your warlock consultant, I’ll do all that’s expected from one in such a role,” and John could feel the pain in his hand easing ever so slightly as he spoke the words.

       “”Better have him in than out, I suppose,” said Earnestina, “after all, an honorary male member worked fine for The Derry Girls, it could be the answer, and we do have that second shelf to the left, if things don’t work out!”

And so the ladies got some help moving those records, I’ll let you know how things evolve.