There was a knock at the door, this must have been, ach, we’re talking eight, half eight, for I was halfway through me dinner. And up I got to open it, and there they both were, large as life. And the taller fella, though, to be fair, there was no more than an inch in it.
Jesus wept.
The slightly taller fella, he says to me, says he, “Do you know who we are?”
How’s a body supposed to enjoy his dinner?
And I says to him, says I, “Well, I can’t be sure now, but maybe if you took off the balaclavas.” And then he says to me, the slightly taller fella does, he says, “Step aside. We are armed.”
Class.
And that’s when the smaller fella, although, as I say, we are talking an inch…
Mammy, make it stop.
…an inch and a half at most.
I need a drink.
He has the bright idea of tying me to the radiator, you see. And I remember saying to myself, says I, “Colm, it’s a good job you have the Economy 7 on the old timer, or you’d be roasted here.”
Did you go for the Economy 7 in the end, Colm? I thought you said the hot water settings were a minefield?
For the love of God, Sarah, no diversions, please.
Aye, come on, let’s pick it up. They tied you to the heater.
They did indeed. And there I am, shackled to the thermostatic valve with me new shoelaces, when one of them, the smaller fella, or, hang on, maybe it was the--
It doesn’t matter, Colm.
Well, it was one of the two. He’s looking for the keys to the van, all ranting and raving and getting himself all worked up, threatening to set fire to my good chaise lounge and all sorts. By Jesus, they were absolutely desperate to borrow thon van.
Colm, they didn’t borrow your van. They stole your van, used it to move arms across the border, and then they blew it up.
Aye. Nightmare altogether.
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