The latest exciting installment of the ongoing saga of “Denis’ letters from Paris!”
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 HOME .. LETTER FROM PARIS .. PHOTOS .. FILMS .. AGONY AUNT .. BIOGRAPHY .. CONTACT DENISHome.htmlPhotos.htmlFilms.htmlAgony%20Aunt.htmlBiography.htmlContact%20Denis.htmlshapeimage_7_link_0shapeimage_7_link_1shapeimage_7_link_2shapeimage_7_link_3shapeimage_7_link_4shapeimage_7_link_5shapeimage_7_link_6
     Good People ! It  occurred to me, not but a few, fertile evenings hence, on my Paris-bound, steel-horsed return trajectory from my visit to the fine French Department of “La Drome“ ; as guest of the “Association des Producteurs de Fromage de Chèvre Artisanal de L’Appelation Controlée Biologique et Anti-Mondialisation“(a.k.a.“Goat’s-cheese-r-us“!) ; where I gave a well-received, Mao-esque, nine and a half hour discourse on the possible implications of fluctuating apricot prices, rising sea levels, abundance of hyper-anotated copies of Joyce’s “Ulysses“, the phenomenae of artesian well overconstruction and essential oils under-application, and the continued revival of those twin evils of cow-tipping and vegetable labotomy, for both the volatile global stock market, and the average extended Mae-Kong riverboat family : with a special sub-treatise on submolecular impartiality, the convection of negative polarity through semi-permeable hairspray vaporisers and the peculiarly high resolution of my digital revolution holiday snaps with the kids on the beach in Normandy….
….now where was I ….. 
      oh yes !… it occured to me that, relieving mineself of excessive ureaic acids in a high-speed cubicle of the marvellously lithe, swift, and equilibrious T.G.V.( “Train a Grande Vitesse “) that my steaming excretory stream most surely reaches the staggering velocity ( depending of course on when, where,  and in which direction one points the nozzle ), of almost 400 km An hour !! Yes, 400 km an hour !!…i.e. 250 miles an hour, 600 carthorse donkey derby power ,  faster than an unmarked brown envelope at a council planning committee E.G.M. 
     Impressive stuff ! I think you’ll agree. Enough to cut through steel or put a polished edge on a rough-hewn gemstone…… if you will permit me, my Liege.
     Thereafter, upon my pensive return to my seat ( having rinsed somewhat my didgits ), I recalled  with fondness how much the integritous, burly chairman of the Cheese Advisory Organising Committee thanked me earnestly and profusely for my efforts ; and the whole through his voluminous and bitfull, wingcommander moustache which served as a fortuitous keratine barrier between between gums, saliva, breath, and his hapless interlocuter. 
     I was obviously very touched….. and very wet.
     In the immediate aftermath of these deeply moving formalities, an “Apperitif“, a dance, and a general merriment outwelling were held in “Rentanirishman’s“ honour at the “Salle des Fetes“ amid astronomic ingestion of the ubiquitous, pungent, fermented Goat curd, and the acidic, mechanical-parts-cleansing, afterburnish local grape sap, and much, much, much, much, much MUMBLING…
      “Aaah ! The simple, clumsy joys of the pastoral world“- I mused humbly …“oh to be a Peasant !“.           
      Yes, the more I  think about it, the more convinced I am that this would make for a catchy saying on a tea mug ; or to adorn a thin, stretchy t-shirt of the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Victoria Falls, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Kathmandu International Airport, Tara Street “Dublin Area Rapid Transit“ train station , San Remo waterfront,  Cavan…. or any-old-where, for that matter, frequented by the blight of confused, bottled-watered, backpacked, and map-brandishing suburban tourists that descends on every major thouroughfare of Europe during that heady, double-booked month of August, only to bump into their mildly aquaintable next door neighbours, their next door neighbours’ incontenant, cholostemy-bag-wielding gran-aunt, and the simpleton, gob-drooling cousin up from the wops, and wearing not just his heart, but a selection of the contents of his stomach, on his sleeve.
     So, shortly before the scrum of rustic merrymakers fell into a collective ditch, I deemed it time, and addressed my vascular-felt gratitude to those argyle tank-topped, and string-vested attendees left sentient. Amid much denture juggling, single-strand-of-straw-gnawing, ruddy hobnailboot shuffling, and intented staring blankly at the cold, hard floor, those hardy few found it in their solid, agricultural hearts to manifest something akin to reciprication…. or was it more …. indigestion. 
     Only the wind in the trees will ever know….
      I remarked to mine own self before retiring, the peculiarity of how all the diligent citizens of this modest, rural commune manifested chronic symptoms of that peculiar agricultural affliction : the perpetual countryside collective obsession of the dire need for more, or for less, or for just that bit of… : life-giving MOISTURE ! ( i.e. “rain“, to the likes of “I “ and “You“). Rain.
     Good people, my ears still ring to the tune of those omnipresent, passionate, hearthside “Precipitation debates“ ;  complete with hotly-contested comparative analyses of precipitation patterns and recurrence over previous years, frequently evolving into fiery arguments, occasionally developing into Mexican Stand-offs ( as opposed to Azerbijani stand-offs ) and, more often that not, degenerating entirely into the dull-sickening-thud-punctuated manifestations of vicious bouts of fistycuffs, elbowycuffs, knee-to-chin-y-cuffs, any-old-kitchen-appliance-or-farmyard-tool-within-armslength-y-cuffs : oftimes involving the swift and forceful intervention of the local constabulary, the re-arrangement of the odd denture cavity, the splintering of a jaw, the amputation of a limb, the unfortunate decapitation of a bystander, the laying for e’er ‘neath the heavy sod of one old cantankerous git from one moisture camp or the other ( i.e. the “too muches“, or the “not enoughs“), and thus perpetuating and propogating the dreaded cycle of family death fudes so ferocious in nature as to denude the throbbing countryside of it’s finest, brightest, strongest and youngest…
      It’s humanity’s dried old Brazil nut kernell once again, and dare I presume to suggest ye ponder ye this yeerselves, ye ( I must confess that I can never quite decide myself ), .… is the voluminous, calibrated, lab-beaker of life half empty…or is it half full ?…
     More of that anon, faithful lecturer. More of that anon.
     As my trusted ironhorse whisked me back to one of the great urban centres of the modern world, I took the time to nourish my inner being with nothing less than the simple fodder of life : I positively delighted in the wheatfielded undulating views, I marvelled at the symmetrical, sunflowered rows upon rows, I bathed my tortured soul in in the “Auvergne’s“ forested volcanic hills and plateaux, and in the humble mud, stone and baked earth of the indigenous settlement dwellings…
     Aaah ! to quote the Neapolitan bard :“I fall upon the thorns of life,… I bleed ! ….….and my brother still owes me twenty quid over that whole sorry taxi-driver, restauranteur and dis-inherited Slovakian princess business“( end quote).
      Thus soothed by the slender, downy fingers of contemplation, and having taken into caresome consideration the rudimentary-my-dear-Watson, farmyardish squaller of this burly-limbed folk’s living conditions, all the while generously bearing in mind the fact that they did indeed book early, and pay promptly,  “Rentanirishman“ magnanimously afforded these worthy citizens an unprecedented 14.78 percent discount – usual lodgement and travel fees and conditions notwithstanding.
      Now that’s what I call, a REAL deal !… 
   …And all just in time for a decanted caraffe of “Château-neuf-du-Pape“, a refined St.Fellicien, spread on fresh and crusty rye bread, and a sweet and reviving tomato salad : dressed in the purest of first-press olive oils, the finest cuttings of freshly-chopped raw Perigordian garlic, the most aromatic of aromatic, ground Punjabi cumin seeds, and the bulkiest grains of biting, angular Camargue rock salts. 
     A joust or two on the old Backgammon board, interspersed with the usual intellectual thrust/parry/counterthrust exchange, in the great company of my erstwhile banter companion ; former Botswanan upland goat-herding “Great Bluey-White Hunter“, shamen, Welshman, anthropologist, pragmatologist and prestigious partrutrant ; that celebrated epicentre of “Bonhommie“ and “Balderdash“, the infamous “Makaka Makaka“, “Garcon des Bois“, or quite simply, to those such as myself and thee ;“Bush Boy“……
     But more of that next week, faithful lecturer, for the candle wax hath been spent, the goose-quill weighs heavy in the fading attic light, the inkwell is desertified, and the porcelain bedpan is in dire need of egestion… 
     Until the septium has past, faithful literary « accompagnon »…..adieu….