One 
    Sure and I�ve been told and told that me Mam was after bein� loved somethin� terrible by every single soul who knew her. And when Granny looks at me dead Mammy�s pictures, which are everywhere in our wee house, she cries and whispers to me, �Yer da loved her with everythin� in his heart and soul, Jaysus knows.� Then she�s after blessin� herself and whisperin� to me, �If there is only one saint in all of heaven, Siobh�n, dear, it�s yer Mammy.� 
    It seems that I was the only one who never got to love Margaret O�Toole, R.I.P. She died of heavy bleedin� two days after I was born. It had been just ten months since she had given birth to me brother Paddy. But me da didn�t blame himself for gettin� her preggers too soon again� after all, Paddy was a normal-sized baby, even a wee bit underweight, Gran says. But I was the biggest baby ever seen in County Wicklow. I just tore Mammy apart on the midwife�s table in Molly Byrne�s front room. Gran says Mam held me fer those two days, cryin� and kissin� me over and over, weakly callin� me Siobh�n, the name she had been savin� for a precious daughter after bringin� me brothers Liam, Mick, Colin, S�an and Paddy into the world. Gran crosses herself again every time she tells me that Father Dolan baptized me just minutes before he anointed Mam for her final journey to God. Sure and it wasn�t the last time the priest put his hands on me. 
    �Tis said that if yeh�ve never had somethin� yeh can�t miss it. Well, �tis true of me that such a sayin� is nonsense. Ever since I first toddled on me chubby pins, I�ve missed me da showin� me any affection, never a hug, hardly a look. His pints made him plain cranky, to boot. He�d be mutterin� about me and what I had done to Mammy. He never harmed me with his big, rough-red hands, but �twas still really hurtful as we all lived cramped in the very small rooms o� Granny�s cottage on Coolgreaney Road, jest up the hill from the roundabout with roads leadin� further north to Bray and even further south to Arklow. Me sweet Granny tried to make up for Da�s distance, cuddlin� me, smoothin� away tears from me fat cheeks, tellin� me that I was her girl, her pet and not to forget it. 
    �A dhia in-a bflaitheas! God in heaven, Siobh�n, makes us as we are and He loves yeh as you are, me love.� It was years before Da began to think I might be worth somethin� to him, too, after all. 
    Now, I may not actually have had an official �fattest� title but I was bleedin� close. As I said, as jest a wee kid I was more than normal size, then yeh might kindly say chubby, maybe over-fed, way past pleasingly plump. Downright fat was comin�! �Tis true, I was soon goin� off them charts fer ideal weight and height, but all our Irish history before and since the feckin� famine had made me a kind o� big braggin� badge fer some of me prosperous family who can now, by God�s good favor, overfill their larder and overfeed the likes o� me. Da was the exception. Whenever anyone in Ballyfin or the family connected me fatness with our new Irish prosperity, he�d bury his face in his hands as if he smelled somethin� rotten. Me baby brother, Paddy, told me that Da nodded when he overheard unkind remarks like when Johnny 
    Mac, Coolgreaney�s� neighborhood brat, hollered that I was a sister o� that big flabby Michelin boy with red hair and freckles to match. 
    On the walk home after school, some times feckin� brats from the Protestant National School spotted me. They�d shout themselves silly, screamin� and laughin�, puffin� out their cheeks, puttin� their schoolbags under their jumpers to mock the fat girl�s big gut. They�d hoot and holler sometimes at me skinny classmate Matchstick Mary, too, but not as much. Fat is after bein� funnier, I guess. Besides, she could run away from the gobshites much faster than me. All I could do is trudge me big arse as fast as I could to the comfort o� Gran�s after-school treats waitin� in me one sure refuge, her warm kitchen where she hummed old Celtic airs and hugged me over and over and fed me her love in spoonsful, helpin� after helpin�, dish after dish. 
    That roarin� Celtic Tiger the papers tootle about has finally given this island enough. Mebbe too much. Kiddies get taller faster now with bigger feet, most lads have bigger willys than their das�, and girls outdo their mammy�s boobies. It�s me tonnage that summed me up, swollen everythin�, me feet and me boobies, no willy to check out, mind yeh. But �tis true, so help me, Jaysus, that Ireland just isn�t ready for fat. Them supermarket shelves that claim they�re after stockin� everythin� have nothin� fat-free, salt-free or sugar-free. A Yank cousin of Doc Buggle�s opened up somethin� called the Foods for Good Health Shop down Lower Main Street, next to Ginty�s Pub. Business was after bein� so good he was out o� it in a month. He was givin� most o� his wares away. da tried to feed some o� it to our dog, Teddy, who never turns down anythin� edible. This time, he sniffs the stuff, 
    Me 
    backs away and howls as if Da�s tryin� to put him down before the usual life span fer an Irish setter. 
    The only weight watchers in Ballyfin are the noseys who watched me weight climb. Blokes on the Yanks� telly like Richard Simmons tell fatso fans to dance off their big arses, them eatin� carrots and celery and rice and drinkin� enough water to blow up a kidney. Who picks up them fat toe-steppers when they faint on the floor? Gran says she�s tempted to send some Irish CARE parcels to the poor man and his disciples, please God, before they all turn to white bones yeh can see like them X-rays through their shriveled skin! 
    Me aunties and me granny love their kitchens. Forget their parlors, not for sittin� or eatin� or loungin� unless one o� the priests comes �round or if there�s a wake with the stiff guest of honor centered on the carpet that always stinks o� wet wool even when it�s dry and Hoover�d every other day. In Ireland it�s the kitchens where our lives are lived. 
    Sure and me family�s cooks would be feckin� furious if yeh ever handed them a cookbook to check recipes. Their busy hands and fingers measure everythin� to perfection, nothin� experimental, all Irish favorites. Yeh only have to mention any dish and the pots and ladles appear on Granny�s big black stove that throws its heat like a horny chap jest leavin� puberty behind. Yeh�d think yeh were in a great laboratory o� secret formulas known only to the saints in heaven. Out comes the lard, the 
    sugar, the salt, and flour to work magic into every bowl and plate. More meat these days because we can afford it, but only fish from the Atlantic coast. Blame Brits fer that with their feckin� nuclear wastes pollutin� our sad Irish Sea. Granny swears, by Mother Mary, any catches from 
    those waters glow in the dark! 
    Our family teas are works o� art from scratch. Sure and wasn�t I seduced by the chips and sweets and fat-fried everythin�? I et what the family eats. They down pints o� Guinness and treacly orange squash, and they pile heavy cream in their cuppas. Granny solo can polish off a two- decker box o� soft chocolates from Duffy�s confectionary while she watches more o� that crappy telly we get from the other side o� the pond like Jerry Springer and Rikki Lake. At least tubby Rikki looks like she�s had a few good teas, and me da says Jerry must down a few pints before he deals with all the feckin� freaks on his show. 
    Gran is fair certain to take totes o� toffee in her coat pockets, chewin� away on what�s left o� her uppers, at the hurlin� matches me brothers play, them comin� home bleedin� and bruised and sore and stinkin� o� sour sweat and horse liniment that Sweeney, the county veterinarian�s givin� the teams for free, big gobshite that he is. (Everyone knows he�s runnin� illegal pools that the Garda� should run him in for, but it�s some Garda� chaps who secretly chip in their bets to Sweeney). Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, Gran says, �It�s no wonder the Holy commandments are going out of style in the Republic!� 
    After the matches, me brothers get home, crowdin� in shoulder to shoulder, their liniment out-stunk by the steamy, grey clouds o� irresistible cookin� smells in Gran�s amazin� kitchen. Praties, fried, mashed, and boiled, bangers as big as a really fat man�s thumbs, thick slabs o� Irish brown bread (Da swears it keeps him regular), cod fillets buried in coats o� butter and flour, beefsteak cooked bloodless, draped in shrouds of thick, fried onion rings, all topped off by dumplin�s. The big plates o� boxty, Da�s special potato cakes, and smaller ones of black puddin� and his favorite crubeens, pickled pig�s feet, are always set right in front o� him, and gobs and gobs o� trifle. Oh, trifle-nothin� triflin� about it-rich sponge fingers, layered with heavy whipped cream, and strawberry jam put up by me aunties and Granny every summer. Afterwards, me brothers clean Gran�s table o� bowls of chocolates washed down with cuppas refilled fer their noisy slurpin�. While they belch, heads down, me aunties and Gran make �em sit a wee bit longer fer prayers that they are all after survivin� another game, hurlin� bein� a big claimer o� blokes injured bad, some payin� with their lives fer love o� the madness. 
    Me brothers are jest after runnin� off their sinful gluttony at the next hurlin� practice. It�s me who ballooned. Me feckin� weight jest got loose like a huge cloud around me bones, goin� straight for me hips, me arse, me thighs, layers and layers o� fat. Jaysus, I forget what a belt is fer. Gran says �Yer waist went to waste, love.� Then she hands me a large bag o� crisps to make me feel better. As far as Da�s concerned, I continue to be the elephant in the house like the Yank shows go on about. That is, until he�s beginnin� to see this elephant through some others� eyes. 
    But fer a while, Da wasn�t the only one I disgusted. Liam, my oldest brother, was as mean as an unhappy nun. Mean-Liam me other brothers call him. He was always after checkin� the small mirror in our �loo, standin� up on the toilet seat, huntin� fer the great hairy signs of Irish manhood-armpit and pubic kinkies. On the one day when he left the toilet door a wee bit open, he caught me spyin� on his grand show. Known fer his hurlin� speed, he grabbed a good fistful o� me jumper, pulled it off me, bangin� me terrified head against the sink and forcin� me to take a look in the mirror at me huge brown tits hangin� at the end o� me enormous white boobies, all shakin� somethin� fierce with me cryin� and sobbin� and himself behind me reflected over me shoulder, him chokin� with laughs like the divil�s child that he is. 
    Gran heard the commotion and gave him a tongue- lashin� about him bein� a feckin� piece of shite. He was a bollix, screamed mild, saintly Gran as she smacked him on the side of his head with her heaviest iron pot lid and banished him from her house, hollerin� at him all the way to the back door. Then the only parent I had ever really had covered me fat salty face with kisses and had me sit in her kitchen fer the biggest tea I had ever seen, every biscuit and sweet I loved. She was even after fillin� her Waterford goblets with her precious currant wine, toastin� the two o� us. �Ah, Siobh�n, me love, to us and to Ireland! Erin go Bragh.� 
    I just had fat, rolls and rolls o� it. Sure and even me dimples were after havin� dimples. In me early years, Doc Buggle kept assurin� Gran that it might take a while, but he was sure that I�d outgrow me puppy fat. If she�d keep me exercizin� and watchin� me take-in o� her wonderful cookin�, I was certain to slim down. He talked about all the fat little Irish kiddies he�d seen grow through the very same stages, always turnin� out to a reasonable size. He�d wink at Gran, tellin� her that, one day, there�d be horny guys waitin� in line for courtin� me. He must have felt a waterin� down o� his prediction by me sixteenth birthday when he watched me stuffin� down most o� the three gooey rich layers o� me Napoleon cake. Sure and it was me birthday, wasn�t it? I guess Doc thought he�d shame me to dietin� and exercizin� when he gave me a case o� Sure-Slim diet drink samples which I washed down with me cake. Delicious that. 
    There even came a time when Doc said me takin� smokin� might cut down on me huge appetite, curb what he told Gran was me �whacko oral complex.� I heard him say somethin� more to her about me missin� out on early nursin� at me mammy�s breast. He shook his head, laughin� a bit when he said that it was too late fer me to use a rubber dummy nipple like Irish kids some times have in their mouths long after weanin�. 
    �Tis a fact that himself was bone-thin, forever puttin� out his chain fags in a dirty ashtray shaped like a lady�s buttocks on his desk right under those big Irish Cancer Society warnin� posters, and him coughin� up thick grey blobs into a specimen cup. Everybody knew he smoked away at intimate dinners with Dr. Teresa Monaghan whose surgery office was over his. We all were also after known� that he was doin� more than smokin� with Teresa while his wife stayed home with four kiddies and her strugglin� with somethin� called lupus, Jaysus save them all. 
    Sheila and meself had smoked a fag once in the alley behind Kelly�s Greengrocer�s, and we were both sick as dyin� bug-eyed pike. Besides, me da�s da went to his grave, coughin� and gaggin� like Doc, and him spittin� up wee pieces o� dark blood just before he left us. Over tea, jest the two of us, Gran would wipe her eyes with her big patched apron and tell me how she nursed him until he went limp in her arms fer the last time, his dentures all framed by dark yellow stains like Celtic amber and her kissin� him into the hereafter, stains and dyin� smells be damned. Mother Mary, food just had to be more o� a friend, smellin� and tastin� better than stinkin� shite- colored nicotine. 
    I couldn�t feckin� squeeze behind me desk at St. Columcille�s so paper-thin Sister Agnes sat me at her work table up front, on display, so to speak, between big statues o� St. Bridget and St. Columcille. She even had the school say special prayers that �our Siobh�n will gain control over her gluttony, please God.� I said me prayers, too, but piety made me hungrier. I learned to hide the day�s snacks Gran put in me book bag because Sister searched fer them every mornin�. After a couple of her tut-tuts, I began to hide me nourishment inside the elastic o� me knickers and me size 52 brassiere with EEE cups. Me trips to the girls� toilet became me nosh breaks. 
Two 
    Every so often Sister Agnes sent me to Father Dolan fer a talkin�-to. He had a very small office in his rectory with two hard chairs facin� his desk and a padded chair with a high carved back that looked like a throne. He�d wheel around on his chair and sit opposite me plopped on both visitors� chairs pushed together. Our knees would touch and me big arse would itch from the uneven crack o� the two chairs and Father would pat me on me huge thighs, a bit higher each time we met. I was after bein� terrified to say anythin� to Sister or Gran, fer that matter, but I did ask if I could meet Father�s new assistant Father Donnelly, and he said he would be happy to take me off Father Dolan�s hands which was sure speakin� the truth. It was a relief because Father Donnelly was pretty feminine, yeh know what I�m sayin�, and no danger to me virginity. Now, I had no objection to losin� it but not the same way many Irish girls have lost theirs to clergy they and their families trusted. Actually, at their school run by Christian Brothers, me brothers had tales to tell about fightin� off unspeakable advances. And wee Paddy, me baby brother, cried whenever Gran washed and ironed his cotta fer altar boy duties with Father Dolan. She just thought Paddy was shy about bein� up there at the altar in front o� everybody. 
    All the sisters warned me that I�d never make it to the nunnery. Please God, none of us ever said out loud that we didn�t plan on convent life. Except prissy Tessie Murray who was thin as a candle and godawful ugly. Me pal Sheila said Tessie was too skinny to hold a really good fart. We thought the nuns should be after recruitin� her and tuckin� her away in a cloister for 24/7 prayer, somethin� mercifully hidden, let us pray to the Lord. 
    I tried to do some checkin� on me curious own. I ruffled me chubby fingers through all the saints� books in the school library, lookin� fer a Patronness o� the Fat, maybe a revered one like poor, blind St. Lucy o� The Eyes. Yeh�ve seen pictures o� her holdin� a pair o� pitiful eyeballs in her palm, outstretched like an offerin�, her sweet and all smilin� with encouragement and silent petitions. 
    For us, the faithful fat, I fancied a really plump religious presentin� a sinlessly satisfyin� stack o� jam- filled biscuits and other sweets. I was after bein� desperate fer a holy icon, one who would make me normal, at least whatever passes fer normal in Ireland. 
    Dear Gran told me to count me blessin�s. �Sure and yeh don�t have pimples like other kids yer age or bad teeth from this fluffy Avoca water or wild Irish hair that curls like black onion rings in the damp air.� She�d croon, �More of yeh to love, sweet girl.� 
    Somewhere above me chins she�d see a pretty face with a smatterin� o� Irish freckles and me eyes she said were as green as spring grass in our glens. I almost loved meself when she went on like that. 
    She had to make all me duds from scratch. She�d buy two pair o� the cheapest stockin�s, then unstitch each one and sew two together to fit me huge, rippled thighs. She tore apart school skirts and jumpers she found at St. Vincent de Paul�s from big piles turned in fer charity by snotty rich girls livin� in big houses up on the hills above the golf course sweepin� down to the fishin� boats floatin� on the Avoca out to sea. 
    Sister Catherine gave us those talks that were supposed to be about life. It was mostly stuff she mumbled, red-faced as ripe berries. I guess she couldn�t quite bring her celibate self to say that word, so, in her lectures she�d quickly spell S-E-X aloud. She�d clear her embarrassed throat, diggin� out tissues from underneath her habit to cover her face as if all of us girls at the old library table had let out gas in an off-key chorus. 
    With grave authority she�d almost whisper about a sinful male disorder, practiced on themselves by boys the likes o�them guys over at St. Michael�s when Sheila blurted out, �Do you mean masturbation, Sister?� I was after thinkin� the poor nun was goin� to need some kind o� revivin�. And, when Maeve piped up, �Is it a sin for us girls to do that?� there was a scary moment when Sister put her head on the other side o� the table, her whole black and white person shakin� like a dead tree in a winter wind. Praise Jesus, she revived in time to continue toutin� celibacy. Her finale was that meself and me classmates could avoid havin� to deal with possible shames from our untrustworthy bodies if we �entered� the convent as soon as possible. 
    We were after bein� sorry for Sister Catherine. We all knew that S-E-X stuff cold and a lot o� it direct from the likes o� Noreen O�Brien whose three visits by age sixteen to her midwife auntie in Liverpool certified her fer all the feckin� tutorin� we needed. Noreen was after bein� a pretty slow learner, �though, the tart. She continued fer several years, or so we heard from our brothers, to gratify town blokes down behind the bandstand after midweek choir practice fer the youth Mass. She often dozed off in class but, Jaysus, was she alert when she told us about �it.� She was after bein� all-knowin� and really primed up fer her sharin� with us. 
    She must have been missin� some major parts when she said that she got all the facts from her older sister, Molly, who already had three kids at twenty-four, no weddin� ring on her feckin� finger and, Mother Mary, how many trips to Liverpool? 
    Noreen always concluded her seminars, insistin� that a girl can�t get �that way� if she does �it� standin� up. I still wonder why Aer Lingus doesn�t give her and her sister piles o� frequent flier miles fer those round-trips to Liverpool? Besides, Irish chemists sell rubbers by the carload, me brother Mean-Liam brags, so why are these biffo girls gettin� preggers so often, I�m askin� meself. 
    More than the rest of us scaredy-cats, bratty Pegeen had her hand up in Sister Monica�s religion class. When Sister tried to ignore her, me classmate would do a phony clearin� o� her throat or wave her hand to get the nun�s attention. Religion was our last class and we were all quite happy to have a little somethin� o�interest when considerin� that the dismissal bell always seemed to be takin� longer than the funeral Mass fer a bigshot in the IRA. 
    One day Sister was going on and on about Jesus bringin� The Word to Christians fer all time to come. Pegeen starts wavin� like an impy leprechaun. 
    �Sister! Sister!� 
    �Yes, Pegeen. What is it you have to add to our most Holy subject?� 
    �Sister, me da says that Jesus was really a Jew!� 
    �Well, me dear girl, there is much to explain that, of course.� 
    �Oh, no, Sister, Da says there is no disputin� it. Jesus Christ was definitely a Jew!� 
    Sister Monica maybe sensed that Pegeen was havin� a bit o� craic with her while we were all gigglin�. But she looked at Pegeen sternly as only a nun in habit can. 
    �And what is it that your da is saying for proof?� 
    Pegeen stands up, and bein� thrilled to have all eyes right on her, announces: 
    �Da says that Jesus lived with his mammy for thirty years. And Jesus went into his da�s business.� Gainin� top speed, hardly takin� a breath, Pegeen finishes up. 
    �And His Mammy thought he was God, and He thought his Mammy was a virgin!� 
    While Pegeen practically took a bow, we were all after gaspin�. And, just as Sister started to get herself together to answer Pegeen, the bell rescued her. Sister, gulpin� as if she had swallowed too much stale Holy water, managed to mumble, �Girls, we�ll take up the subject next class.� 
    Sure, and we weren�t after bein� at all surprised that we never did. 
    Some times after religion class at the end of the day, Sister Monica asked me to stay. She was like one o� them head doctors addressin� me blubbery self with comments about me pretty face like Gran does, but not as gentle with no judgin� or blamin�. Sister said me face didn�t match me immense frame like I was wearin� stripes and polka dots and plaids all at once. She�d read from 
    Scripture about me body bein� the temple o�me soul and I was after bein� confused like I was makin� me stomach the temple and crowdin� out me soul. 
    She�d pat me hand with her fingers, bony-like mackerel spines, �Oh, Siobh�n, child, you know, we are what we eat. To be your size, dear, you must be eating for at least four others.� 
    Now, I thought to meself, if she was what she ate, I saw her as stale bread heels, stringed beans, old porridge and curdled trifle, washed down with dishwasher tea no respectable Irish person would drink. But, even that vision while she droned on, lecturin� me silly, made me hungry. It was always at least an hour�s half about healthy food choices, self-control, prayer, prayer and more prayer. She always made the sign o� the cross on me forehead before I headed fer the toilet to retrieve a last nosh o� me schoolday stashed in me brassiere. Enough to hold me until I plodded home to Gran�s well-spread table. 
Three 
    I had munched and scarfed me way to me fat, and I hadn�t been payin� attention. Fat like me fat still doesn�t happen much to the Irish, except fer some das and their bellies full o� pints which I�ve heard me da say his mates jest rent because they�re after piddlin� it out soon enough. Sure, and didn�t I weigh more after those Sure-Slim diet samples? Gran asked Doc Buggle fer more but he shook his head and aimed his nicotined thumbs at her, �Siobhan just doesn�t understand my directions.� 
    Me friends and me family and even Ballyfin�s jokers were sure after thinkin� they had the fattest woman in Ireland on their hands. I had to take their word. The biggest scales are down at the granary by the main quay on the Avoca and they tip out at only twenty stone, them weighin� burlap sacks o� coarse feed and animal shite fer fertilizin� the fields just out o� town. A dill-faced nursey at the government health office had warned Gran that I had to be weighed fer the official records. Otherwise me health card would be scrapped. No card, no visits from Doc Buggle, no stuff from the chemist, no anythin� like that. 
    The walk all the way to the quay was after lookin� too big an undertakin� fer me, so me Uncle Finbar loaded me up and carted me in the back �o his fish lorry. He frowned at all the snickerin� blokes there when they took one look at me girth and smirked, the bollixes, that they would just have to make an estimate. Me uncle would have been even more pissed if he saw the winks and bets the men were after makin� behind his back. But he was too busy loadin� me into the lorry again. He treated me to a bag �o licorice allsorts on the way home. The stink of mackerel and licorice almost made me lose me appetite. 
    I was goin� up and over them weight and height charts steady, I�m after guessin�. I must have been hittin� twenty-six or twenty-seven stone last Holy Week. Me loyal pals Sheila and Maeve had heard o� a fat shop in Wexford. They had caught a small little notice in The Independent, a wee item almost hidden, they said, like it was an embarrassment that there were actually fat women in Ireland. Just the same we figured there must be some real fatties in County Wexford if they have their own shop. She didn�t admit it, but I knew me sweet granny was gettin� tired o� sewin� bigger and bigger pieces together to make every single thin� I wore. So, I let me pals talk me into the trip in Maeve�s da�s bakery lorry. 
    Jaysus, it was a really bleedin� squeeze on that front seat. I couldn�t last the hour�s drive to Wexford. I tried to fit between them two skinnies, but it was useless, so Maeve stopped on the carriage way south and they took me around to the back double doors. Findin� us stopped, a garda officer pulled up to see if there was an emergency. I near died as he took a grab on me arse and helped me friends with heavin� me up and in to the back floor so I could stretch out with me head propped on a pile o� burlap flour sacks stamped BIG GIRL FLOUR COMPANY, practically a tribute to meself! Even lyin� on the floor, I managed to eat a couple o� Maeve�s day-old cold meat pies on the way. Sheila passed back an orange squash fer me to wash down me snacks. 
    Wexford was mobbed with Easter shoppers, the roundabout full o� bloomin� lilies and balloons dancin� fer the kiddies. After me big feast in transit, yeh might call it, I was really after needin� a toilet terrible urgent- like. I was almost in a feckin� panic to pee and shit but I was doin� me best to hold everythin� together while Maeve drove �round and �round �til she found a carpark big enough fer the stupid lorry. Jaysus, I thought me stuffed innards were goin� to burst before I got relief. Me pals steered me to the pub by the carpark, but, burstin� or not, I couldn�t bear the stares o� the place, it burstin�, too, with shoppers havin� a pint or a cuppa or some crisps. 
    As we drove into the busy town I had spotted the shoppin� road cleared for walkers only, no cars or other wheels, like Dublin�s Grafton Street. Right smack in its middle, I was after noticin� one o� the big blue portable potties I had seen on the telly a pair o� days before. The thin�s were real popular in Paris, �twas said, and Wexford was givin� one a go, pardon me expression. With Maeve and Sheila helpin� me desperate body on either side, I walked to me rescue with shoppers everywhere around us. At first, yeh�d think there was a big window on the deal, but it was made o� that kind o� glass that is used on those trick sunglasses, the ones that mirror yer eyes right back at yeh. 
    Me pals left me to put in some coins in the slot outside, them goin� back to the pub fer their toilet needs. Me coins went in, the half circular door swung open on the potty that looked like a giant litter can. In I stepped, the whole thin� rockin� a bit from me weight. 
    The fawncy door closed behind me, and I made me way to the toilet seat, pullin� down me big knickers and takin� a welcome seat to begin me blessed chore. But, oh, what a feckin� fright when I looked up to see people walkin� right at me from outside that trick window. Me mind did register about that trick window, yeh know, I�m no eejit. And I was just about to discharge me considerable delivery when I read the sign on the inside of the door. Holy Mother Macree, It said, �You have three minutes before this door will swing open so that you may step outside to deposit more coins to secure more toilet time inside.� 
    Tightenin� me underwear up again from me knees, I leaned against the door in a frantic push and the whole feckin� thin� gave way breakin� off from its track while I stared at the shoppers walkin back� and forth in front o� me on the sidewalk. No shitey trick window panes now. Meself was the tragic performer on their show. I knew I was startin� to soil me knickers but I managed to haul meself over to a stone wall next to the potty. I just sat there, with me head down, sobbin� and shakin� like a wet dog after its bath. I was after movin� little because me waste was soakin� me clothes. Sheila and Maeve were still down the road at the pub as far as I knew. Jaysus, I wanted to die right there, sink down into a feckin� peat bog, no delay, please God! 
    The next thin� I knew an angel in white with a stiff nursey�s cap was reachin� round me shakin� shoulders with a huge blanket, hushin� me, almost cooin� in me ear, tellin� me not to cry, she was there. She managed to cover me big, fat stinkin� mess o� a frame. Can I walk just a wee ways, she whispers, standin� in front of me so that feckin� eejits passin� by couldn�t see much o� me. 
    Somehow we shuffled together across the street to a Garda� station with a big green cross on it just like them chemists� shops have. Nursey kept up her cooin�, noddin� at the men at the entry counter, her arms as far �round me as she could reach. The stench from me awful accident didn�t seem to affect her and, dear God, I just wanted to be out o�me miserable togs even if I had to hide in just me skin in a closet somewhere. Nursey Angel pushed me ever so gentle-like into a small room. 
    �Now, dearie, we�ll be after cleanin� you all up. Don�t worry, we�ll find somethin� fit for you to wear until you get home. Now, do you live in Wexford, love?� 
    While she talked she was standin� over a sink, fillin� a bowl with steamin� water, soap bubbles coatin� the top and smellin� clean and sweet, everythin� meself was not at that point. She set the bowl next to a pile of white cloths and towels beside the big table where I had perched me arse. It was somethin� like a big examination slab in one of Doc Buggle�s rooms at the clinic on Lower Main Street back in Ballyfin. 
    �No,� says I, still barely able to make me voice work right. �I live in Ballyfin.� 
    �Well, now, dear, how did you get to Wexford?� 
    I cried out, �Oh, Jaysus, me pals must be wonderin� what happened to me! Them girls were down at that roundabout pub while I was after tendin� to me business in that feckin� sidewalk potty!� 
    Nursey just kept workin� away, hummin� a little as she pulled off me clothes, startin� with the soiled stuff on me lower half. She stuffed all o� that in a big black plastic bag. Me jumper and blouse and me big brassiere was still clean so she didn�t go any further with takin� off me upper coverin�s. And then she handed me a soapy cloth, took one herself and began wipin� me legs, me private parts, noddin� at me to launder what I could reach meself as if we were a committee o� two sharin� a task that had to be done, even as reekin� as it was. 
    If I could handle me weight, I would have been after jumpin� sky-high when someone knocked at the door. A lady garda said loud and clear that me pals had tracked me down after bein� told by some sidewalk shoppers about the funny fat girl and her losin� battle with the new pedestrian potty. Nursey opened the door a crack and told me friends that she was gettin� me together. It shouldn�t take too long. They called in, �We love you, Siobh�n. Don�t worry, we found that fat shop. If you need something to wear, that�ll be the spot!� 
    Nursey was finished cleanin� me up. She draped three o� the big bath towels around me like substitute knickers fastened with some nappy pins. And over those she had draped some bed sheets into a long skirt, tucked in and pinned like the towels. 
    �Well, now, love, yeh look quite presentable until yeh get back into yer own things. Are yeh going to be all right for now?� 
    Then, just like the three of us had started out, me pals were on either side o� me out in the Garda� hall. Friends they were sure after bein�, them two makin� light o� me whole miserable experience, kiddin� me that I just loved the feckin� spotlight and what were they goin� to do with me? Oh, please God, I thought, what yeh can do with big, fat me is always be me pals, forever, Jaysus, forever. Them and Gran was all I had. 
    I�m thinkin� I did remember to thank Nursey, but I never thought to ask her name. I didn�t know that she wasn�t after bein� the only angel I�d ever meet in me journey through me fat fates. 
    In all the panic about findin� me, Maeve�s forgettin� the directions some shopper�s given her fer the fat shop. Headin� in the general direction she remembers first off she stops a small older lady fer some help. Shite, yeh�d be thinkin� we were lookin� fer somethin� bleedin� illegal like a speakeasy where we�d get poteen, that poisonous brew me da and me brothers drink down in the kitchen when Gran is snorin� and Ireland is after beatin� the Brits or Leekers on some playin� field. 
    Close to Maeve�s nose, the way Irish women often talk to each other, the wee woman whispers that we should head fer a small alley on the left, walk down half and look again on the left fer a wee sign over a flight o� steps that says �Plus Creations.� And away, she flies like an embarrassed little wren. 
    �Aye, we found the place. The steps were narrow, but takin� side steps up one at a time, I manage the climb, me gut and me arse both scrapin� either side. Well, now, Miss Starvation�s sellin� the duds. Nothin� like makin� fat girls feel at home. There was nothin� in the whole place to fit me or me wallet. The owners must have been real first- class spoofers. The climb down to the alley�s even harder than the trip up. It�s after bein� hard to hold in me breath when I was softly cryin�. 
    Down on the street and hopin� to make me feel better, Sheila�s sayin� that she�d read in The Independent�s style section that big women should wear big accessories to make them look slimmer. Maeve giggles and says, at that rate, �Our Siobh�n should get an Easter bonnet the size of a beach umbrella.� 
    As usual, I made meself laugh with them, but like usual not on me insides. 
    Sheila suddenly notices a big sale sign in a window, offerin� Irish jumpers half off. She didn�t want to make our shoppin� trip a total waste, so she went in to buy a couple fer her brothers. A-course, we�re knowin� the Aran labels on them big white knits are not exactly true-blue, if yeh�ll excuse me little wit here. These days most o the wool�s comin� from Polish sheep even if the knittin�s done in our islands off Galway. It takes an Irish nose to smell Irish wool. Blame the Celtic Tiger again. Tourists to the Arans don�t know the difference. But the sale price�s really good, so Sheila comes out o� the place with a full shoppin� bag and we�re headin� back to the carpark. 
    Mind yeh, these hours o� ordeal made me feckin� hungry. Plus, meself�s as emptied out as ever I could be. I�m wantin� me friends to stop fer some eats fer that long hour�s ride home in the lorry. So, loaded up in the back again was I, clean and hungry and feelin� glad to be leavin� Wexford. Passin� the sidewalk toilet, I�m spyin� a crew workin� on fixin� the broken door on the feckin� gadget and a lady garda emptyin� out the gobshite coin slot on the outside, waitin� fer another customer, maybe a lucky one with prize-winnin� intestines and bladder. Fat as meself or not, I�m bettin� all the sweet tarts I�m eatin� that not many folks could wrap up their business with jest three minutes inside that potty. Some bigshot at the lottery office in Dublin ought to be thinkin� about a national drawin� on this, I�m gigglin� to meself, as I�m munchin� on two sweet biscuits, one in each hand, and callin� to Maeve in front fer somethin� to wash down everythin� on the ride home. 
Four 
    Gran had shared her bed with me since I had left me crib, earlier than most tykes because o� me heftiness so young. �Twasn�t a full double, �tis certain, and fer months she�d been clingin� to her side, some times even bein� pushed to the floor �til she put a side table the length o� her edge so that she could roll on the thin� to save hurtin� what she called her �Arthur-itis.� One day she�s jest givin� in to the situation and says, �Siobh�n, me love, we�ll have to find another sleeping space for yeh. And, sweet girl, yeh can�t squeeze through this wee house�s front door any longer, and yeh can barely manage to fit through the toilet door. Praise God, the back door is hung wider so yer coming and going to me kitchen yeh can still manage.� 
    �Now, I am after thinking, dearie, that our garage out back could be fixed over nice and bright-like for yeh to have yer own wee cottage. We can get yeh some nice sturdy pieces at St. Vincent�s, a good mattress, and yer aunties and meself can get out our sewing fingers for pretty curtains and spreads. Yer da could put in a sink in the corner near the toilet he had there when he had a workshop, and there is already wirin� in the place. So, me sweet child, what do yeh think?� 
    Before I could say anythin�, she added, �Oh, it�s at the end of the alley, nobody coming from the other end, so yeh�d be safe. Yer Gran would never put yeh anywhere out of safety�s range, yeh know that, love. Yer schooling�s just about over for now, so yeh�d have a place for yer pals to visit and watch the telly with yeh. I�ll be getting a little one for yer very own. And, I was after seeing a small fridge in that new appliance shop�s window. I�ll get yer brothers to chip in. Maybe your da, too.� 
    She was selling me was Gran. �Siobh�n, yeh could pick out the colors yeh like and maybe help with painting inside and out. Yer pals would pitch in, too, wouldn�t they? Why, yeh�d have walls all yer own to put up all yer U2 and Chieftain posters, the ones yeh�ve had to keep rolled up under me bed.� 
    I was beginnin� to feel that fresh breeze o� Gran�s love blow over me face as I warmed to her idea. Me practical side said to meself, where was I goin� to go if I couldn�t fit in her bed, in her front door or in to her �loo? I closed me eyes and thought and thought and did some prayin�, too. Sweet Lord, Mother Mary, St. Joseph, I was callin� on them all, and me real Mammy in heaven...Siobh�n needs yeh. Oh, hear me! 
    How could meself not get excited about me big move out back? Somehow Gran had recruited me da to do what needed to be done to make the garage liveable fer me, and she got me brothers, even Mean-Liam, to ante up some of their punts fer a telly and a phono, and they even painted the outside a pretty Irish green, puttin� some freshly white shutters on either side o� the big double door and one window that faced the alley. Gran found them thin�s at a sale o� scrapped materials from a house up over the hurlin� field. Some real estate Flash Harry was rasin� old buildin�s to put up immense fawncy-pawncy houses, his answer to the Celtic Tiger�s roar which was fast inspirin� the purses o� rich Dublin jackeens eyin� properties to impress anyone who�s watchin�. Gran looked sad when she showed me the shutters, sayin� that I would be havin� a souvenir o� the best that used to be our Auld Sod, our island where money was after becomin� more important than Michael Collins, Eamon de Valera and Charles Parnell combined. Maybe even more important than God, forgive us, says she. 
    Gran said that, when she picked up the old shutters, almost fer the askin�, she pushed her wheelbarrow by S�amus O�Hanlon, him sittin� on a rottin� tree stump as dead as the old house behind him. He was tappin� with his wooden leg, playin� tunes on his tin whistle. She watched him walk unsteady-like to the new foundation bein� laid on the ancient soil. He was puttin� a row o� coins on the damp cement, goin� back to memories o� the days when Irish builders honored old traditions promisin� good luck fer all about to live in even simple cottages. Gran dug in her apron pocket and sprinkled a few coins o� her own on top of S�amus� offerin�, almost as if she was addin� some o� her cookin� ingredients to a sacred supper. 
    Well, me new domicile was all bright and shiny and ready fer me, but Gran�s insistin� first that Father Dolan bless the wee place, bringin� his holy water and concsecrated hands over to do the old ritual. Meself�s rememberin� those hands o� his very well, but I behaved and thanked him, givin� him an envelope with the usual offerin� inside. 
    Now, when the priest arrived to pronouce the blessin�, he was first blatherin� to Gran about hopin� to be invited to her famous table afterwards, how he was fair droolin� hose from the warm spigot in our �loo. We�ll wait until dark, we will, and while the boys are at Ginty�s for a pint, we�ll sit yeh on me piano stool in front of yer doors. Teddy will be standing doggie guard duty and we�ll cover yeh nice and quick with some big bath mats your gran will sew together.� 
    The nuns used to call me fat �Siobh�n O�Toole�s immensity.� Me brothers call me Her Hugeness like I�m feckin� phony royalty. Whatever meself�s called, gettin� me body bang-up clean is almost as big a treat as downin� a servin� of trifle in Gran�s deepest dish. Fat girls have to work so hard to stay nice to be near. It�s the divil�s own job. And, without me Gran, I�d have ended up, Jaysus knows where, when it comes to any decent personal launderin�. 
    On the two nights each week when she dragged out her home-made washin� gadget from inside the house, she was also after bringin� a big sponge like the ones chaps use down at the car-wash. In a large pail, she�d have a spray bottle o� soapy suds and the waterin� can from her small garden fer me to rinse meself off. 
    This washin� and waterin� took me some doin� me on the piano stool from Gran�s front room, me arse hangin� down both them sides. Meself turnin� this way and that, liftin� each layer down me front, strainin� to reach the creases hidden under me hangin� boobies, me saggin� middle, me huge droopin� gut, me thighs with overlappin� rows �o flab. Gran�s helpin� with wipin� me feet which I hadn�t seen for years down there over me juttin� stomach. I�d swivel on the stool and she�d rinse off me backside and then pat me dry where I couldn�t reach with me helpless hands. Then, she�d help me into a big chenille bathrobe me aunties had made from an old bed hose from the warm spigot in our �loo. We�ll wait until dark, we will, and while the boys are at Ginty�s for a pint, we�ll sit yeh on me piano stool in front of yer doors. Teddy will be standing doggie guard duty and we�ll cover yeh nice and quick with some big bath mats your gran will sew together.� 
    The nuns used to call me fat �Siobh�n O�Toole�s immensity.� Me brothers call me Her Hugeness like I�m feckin� phony royalty. Whatever meself�s called, gettin� me body bang-up clean is almost as big a treat as downin� a servin� of trifle in Gran�s deepest dish. Fat girls have to work so hard to stay nice to be near. It�s the divil�s own job. And, without me Gran, I�d have ended up, Jaysus knows where, when it comes to any decent personal launderin�. 
    On the two nights each week when she dragged out her home-made washin� gadget from inside the house, she was also after bringin� a big sponge like the ones chaps use down at the car-wash. In a large pail, she�d have a spray bottle o� soapy suds and the waterin� can from her small garden fer me to rinse meself off. 
    This washin� and waterin� took me some doin� me on the piano stool from Gran�s front room, me arse hangin� down both them sides. Meself turnin� this way and that, liftin� each layer down me front, strainin� to reach the creases hidden under me hangin� boobies, me saggin� middle, me huge droopin� gut, me thighs with overlappin� rows �o flab. Gran�s helpin� with wipin� me feet which I hadn�t seen for years down there over me juttin� stomach. I�d swivel on the stool and she�d rinse off me backside and then pat me dry where I couldn�t reach with me helpless hands. Then, she�d help me into a big chenille bathrobe me aunties had made from an old bed spread, faded in places but still useful in me regard. In its pocket Gran�s always tuckin� a giant Cadbury�s chocolate bar with a cream center. Teddy, havin� done his job as guard dog durin� every one o� me outdoor scrubs, wags his fluffy setter�s tail in hopes o� a bite o� the candy, but I wasn�t after bein� known fer any leftovers, especially chocolate... 
    So me bathin� needs were met by me sweet granny who came to me rescue time after time. We didn�t know, Gran and meself, that some spies were managin� peeks at me washin� routines from the roof next door over Ginty�s. Sure, we weren�t after guessin� that them gobshites was storin� up what they was seein�. 
    I was spendin� a lot o� me time stretched on me bed, almost a mattress in me own right, propped up on a stack o� feather-stuffed pillows, readin� a lot like always. I�m watchin� the small telly Gran found on sale, but nothin�s a substitute for real chattin� and laughin� and even cryin� with flesh-and-blood company. All sorts of lives was bein� lived out there at the end o� our alley and beyond, but mine was secondhand from a few visitors and what Gran, Da and me brothers had to say when I sat fer meals with them on me big bench at the end o� the table. A-course, Gran kept the wee fridge in a corner o� me room fair supplied with tasty stuff gettin� me through the odd hours. 
    Me walkin� was gettin harder. Me legs were just plain fed up with tryin� to carry the rest o� me bulk around. It�s what the advice columns and telly shows call a �vicious circle.� 
    The fatter I got, the more I et, the more I et, the fatter I got. 
Five 
    At summer�s end, Maeve and Sheila had gone off to Dublin. Maeve made it into Trinity College and Sheila was going to art school in TempleBar on the other side o� the River Liffey. They�re sharin� a shabby flat with two other girls and a gay chap who�s givin� them an odd sense of security, his bein� male and their neighborhood bein� seedy. Shite, meself knew I had no way o� goin� anywhere much past me alley, even if them and me all knew I was as smart as them university go�ers; I even had higher scores on me leavin� certs from St. Columcille than both o� me pals. There was no fittin� me on the buses or trains crowded with commutin� students, startin� way south in Wexford and stoppin� in Ballyfin, the trains up past the trestle on Heroes� Hill, the buses over at the corner by the chocolate shop on Lower Main Street. 
    Even if somebody�s managin� to shove me arse aboard the public rides, there�s no aisle wide enough and, sure, nothin� near squeezin� room fer the likes o� Siobh�n Mary Fiona O�Toole, meself now believin� I might truly be the Fattest Woman in all of Ireland! 
    So, me pals are only gettin� back to Ballyfin maybe once every third weekend, dependin� on their ever growin� social life. They�re bringin� me treats and stories about their new lives. They�re floppin� in what space they can find on me big mattress and soon we�re laughin� just like in all our years together, them growin� up and me growin� up AND out. 
    Sure, and we�re laughin� into screamin� and cryin� when Sheila tells about walkin� in to her first class at art school, somethin� called �Life Drawin�.� She�s thinkin� it would be about life, yeh know, kiddies� playin�, old ladies knittin�, Irish lasses step-dancin�-that kind o� � life.� 
    �Siobh�n, dear,� says Sheila. �There, on the wee stage in front of the class, with a rare Dublin sun shining through in on her like a fecking spotlight was a totally nude fat lady, not close to you, me pal, but fat enough. She was as nekkid as a poor lambie after shearing and she was sitting on a chair, very calm-like, even bored- looking while about fifty bug-eyed first term Picassos tried to look mature, looking this way and that, hoping they didn�t faint from shock.� 
    She stops while we�re all shakin� so hard with glee that yeh would�ve thought we were on one o� them water beds wavin� us up and down. 
    �Oh,� she adds, �Me mam and me da and, never mind the nuns at St. Columcille�s would�ve drug me butt out ofthere faster than the Garda� give drunk driving citations out on the carriageway on dole-paying day!� 
    �Jaysus,� wraps up Sheila. �That nude woman wasn�t after being embarrassed at all. Just earning her daily bread by being cloned in a room full of kids with their charcoals, water-colors, oils, and pens-and-ink. You would�ve been thinking she was just waiting for Doc Buggle to examine her itchy piles! Meself, I was hoping for a nekkid male hunk next class, but it�s been bare- assed girls every single day! It�s getting to be fecking annoying having no variety for the gobshite tuition punts like in all our years together, them growin� up and me growin� up AND out. 
    Sure, and we�re laughin� into screamin� and cryin� when Sheila tells about walkin� in to her first class at art school, somethin� called �Life Drawin�.� She�s thinkin� it would be about life, yeh know, kiddies� playin�, old ladies knittin�, Irish lasses step-dancin�-that kind o� �life.� 
    �Siobh�n, dear,� says Sheila. �There, on the wee stage in front of the class, with a rare Dublin sun shining through in on her like a fecking spotlight was a totally nude fat lady, not close to you, me pal, but fat enough. She was as nekkid as a poor lambie after shearing and she was sitting on a chair, very calm-like, even bored- looking while about fifty bug-eyed first term Picassos tried to look mature, looking this way and that, hoping they didn�t faint from shock.� 
    She stops while we�re all shakin� so hard with glee that yeh would�ve thought we were on one o� them water beds wavin� us up and down. 
    �Oh,� she adds, �Me mam and me da and, never mind the nuns at St. Columcille�s would�ve drug me butt out ofthere faster than the Garda� give drunk driving citations out on the carriageway on dole-paying day!� 
    �Jaysus,� wraps up Sheila. �That nude woman wasn�t after being embarrassed at all. Just earning her daily bread by being cloned in a room full of kids with their charcoals, water-colors, oils, and pens-and-ink. You would�ve been thinking she was just waiting for Doc Buggle to examine her itchy piles! Meself, I was hoping for a nekkid male hunk next class, but it�s been bare- assed girls every single day! It�s getting to be fecking annoying having no variety for the gobshite tuition punts 
    Meself was hungrier for this temptin� tidbit than anythin� me stomach was cravin�. 
    �So, Maeve, out with it, what was it yeh were after losin�? Tell me!� 
    Sheila couldn�t hold the news flash a second longer. 
    �Our Maeve lost her virginity in a pub in Templebar. Oh, she�s a full-fledged woman now, she is!� 
    Maeve seemed speechless. Says I, �Maeve, if yeh don�t tell all right this minute, I am going to climb on top o� yeh and me tonnage will squeeze it out o� yeh like yeh were an orange fer juicin�!� 
    Clearin� her throat and takin� her time, finally, to get the story out, Maeve started. 
    �Well, Gina from life drawing class said she knew of a brilliant pub, no tourists, with real trad musicians, them playing Irish to die for, piffler and dhrum, a botheration of bodhr�n, even uilleann, (oh, those Irish pipes were grand), tin whistles, squeeze boxes, fiddles, you name it. And pints were two-fer-one and the food was stuff that puts chipper shops to greasy shame. I had carrageen moss blanc mange, praties like meself never tasted ever, drisheen which I passed on after me first spoonful- sheep�s blood�s not me thing you know, but I liked the black pudding, washed down with pints that I lost count of, some whiskey, too. �Aye, Siobh�n, you would�ve loved all those servings, indeed, indeed!� 
    I was gettin� really impatient with Maeve, draggin� on about food and drink when I wanted a detailed account of her ravishin�, her first big feckin� intro to sex! 
    �Jaysus, Maeve, I am goin� to punch out yer peepers if yeh don�t get to the big news!� 
    �I�m getting to it, Siobhan. Hold your knickers, please God!� 
    �I�m holdin� em, yeh big tease, but yeh leave out any detail and yeh�ll still be in real danger from me rage!� 
    �Well,� she starts, �after a few hours of my stew of drink, food and trad numbers, the drink just got past me. I was dizzy and made me way to the ladies� loo. After I came out I bumped into a nice looking boyo I had stood next to at the bar. We had smiled a lot at each other. He was a Yank exchange student, he said. Over all the racket, I had missed his name, one of those silly ones from the other side of the pond. I don�t know, maybe Daryl or Dudley or Deano, could have been Doofus for all I remember. Something with a D is all I recall. He was snockered, too, and we stood there, leaning against each other, swaying back and forth, looking at each other, parts rubbing parts. I was wearing my new short suede skirt, my black net stockings, my deep-cut jumper. I forget what he had on, except I remember some ugly orange jumper that had �Tiger� lettered on it. Something on him was poking hard at me middle and he started pulling me with him to a small door at the end of the toilet hall. 
    �On, God, Maeve, get to the seduction or I swear yeh�ll not live to have another one,� I screamed. 
    �All right, Siobh�n. Sit tight, which, Jaysus, is what meself should have done.� 
    �Him and me were suddenly inside a little store closet, just big enough for our two sweating bodies standing up. Out from his pocket comes a rubber and he�s having a terrible time, unzipping himself and trying to put the thing on with hardly room for us to breathe. I was in a haze, the drink and all, and I think I mumbled that I was on the pill, having been using the going away present my Auntie Mary had tucked in my purse at the train station. I�d been taking them like mints with my morning tea, just in case. But this boyo wasn�t listening to anything but his raging testosterone He was like a chappie with the shakes who can�t get a sock on his fecking foot. The balloon just wouldn�t stretch the inches he needed.� 
    �So?� I yelped. 
    �Well, he finally got it on, pulled me on top of himself. He kind of shivered and moaned in my ear. We were wrapped up in that wee room like two halves of an over- ripe pear, sweating out its fruitiness. Meself didn�t feel a thing. My head was remembering something about the first time should be perfect. This wasn�t, so I wasn�t counting it. But when we stepped away as far as we could, I could see the tears streaming down the boyo�s face.� 
    �What�s your problem?� I asked him, not really all that interested, Jaysus knows. 
    He was quietly sobbing. �I was a virgin.� 
    �Oh, get over it,� says I, not sympathetic like you�d think. 
    �So was I,� meself answered-doe moe alk-like the old Irish say. Just between himself and myself. I pulled up my scanties, took a breath, and left Mr D, sniffling on the hard concrete floor as I went out the door, past the bar and out into an early Sunday morning in Dublin, wishing the murky Liffey was brimming with clean water so I could just jump in and wash meself off.� 
    Sheila piped up. �Maeve, I forgot to ask you. Have you seen him anywhere �round since the toilet closet fiasco?� 
    �Oh, yeah, I think so,� says Maeve. �It was probably himself there while we were both waiting for a bus outside Trinity gates. We looked at each other from different queues and we looked away quick, what�s-his-name and myself, us both probably feeling something vaguely familiar but not after being worth the remembering. 
    Me eyes had been lookin� nowhere in particular, lyin� on me bed and tryin� to focus on Maeve�s tale of sex in a Templebar pub. For a minute, I found meself starin� at a little crucifix that Gran had hung above a small table near the big doors. I felt somethin� o� a jolt as me friend finished up, so calm-like, soundin� like a reporter who had interviewed someone fer the �who and what� o�an everyday happenin� in Dublin. Only Maeve was the �who� and this wasn�t everyday, at all! 
    �Please God, Maeve,� I�m shoutin�. �Yeh are still Catholic, aren�t yeh? How can yeh talk so casual about pills and rubbers and fornication? Have yeh been after tossin� all we learned from the sisters about sin and stayin� pure until the marriage bed? Oh, meself is so confused. Yeh look the same like when yeh left fer school last month, but who is this person sittin� on me bed and talkin� like this?� I was weepin� a bit and blowin� me nose loud and juicy. Maeve was pattin� me arm like a soothin� granny. 
    �Oh, dear, innocent Siobh�n, just about everybody in Dublin is Catholic. Just ask �em in the pubs, at Trinity or the art school, or out on the street. But they don�t let that interfere with their lives. Sure and later on I�ll be sorting out all the religion stuff. There�ll be time, dear, trust me. I am still your pal, dearie, but Ireland is changing and Ballyfin is slow to catch up. I�m your forever pal, but me life is changing, our Mother Church is changing, slower than it should, God knows. In the meantime, I am sorting out me life in small stages, deciding what�s right for Maeve. Sex is part of it. I don�t plan on that gobshite guilt that the priests dumped on us, them hardly role models these days. Oh, I know there are good priests and nuns out there, but the church line is still to abstain, some times even in marriage, for bleeding sake. Once, when I asked Mam why she and Da stopped having kids after there were nine of us, she looked away and then, crying, told me that the priest had said that they would be refused the sacraments if they used any birth control. So,me mam and me da didn�t do it for twenty years! Not for me, ladies. I want to find life on all levels and the clergy in our scandalous church can live their own morality. Oh, Siobh�n, I wish you could be with us in Dublin.� 
    I was weepin� by now, jest about to consider Maeve�s wishes for me. She was givin� me more to digest than me marathon eatin�. Saved by a light knock on me doors, almost like the savin� dismissal bell we used to cheer at St. Columcille�s. Me pals slipped off me bed. 
    Granny and a small parade o� me aunties Bridget and Betty, Maeve�s Auntie Mary, a nun, and Granny�s friend Maggie kind o� waltzed in. Maeve�s aunt was a free spirit, givin� out samples o� lots o� forbidden medical fruits at her chemist�s shop and now tootlin� away a trad tune on her tin whistle. Me aunties were carryin� a window box full o� posies for one o� me brothers to nail under me window, dressin� up the side facin� the alley. Sister Frances Clare in a bright red jumper, black skirt and sandals, as liberated as ever a bride of Christ could be, was helpin� Gran carry a tray o� piled-high trifle flutes, pots o� tea, candies, chunks o� pale yellow Irish cheese and scones sendin� out aromas direct to me tastin� buds. And a bottle o� me granny�s famous currant wine. Gran�s oldest friend Maggie was carryin� a big wrapped box, limpin� on her wooden leg, makin� the clackin� sound when its straps are gettin� loose. Both Maeve and Sheila joined the wee fanfare, them hittin� small bodhr�ns in perfect Celtic thumps. 
    �Don�t worry, love,� Gran says when the marchin� stopped around me bed. �Yer da and the lads are off to the hurling fields. We can have yer house warming in peace. Ah, dearie, we all love yeh,� and she bent over me girth, and kissed me. �We are going to have a grand feast to celebrate me Siobh�n�s homey new residence. And we�ve brought yeh something to wear fitting for the Queen of the Cottage that yeh are! Have you heard of something called a caftan, dearie? Well, open the box,� says she, handin� me a big flat package. 
    Oh, sweet Jaysus, it was the most beautiful thin� I�d ever seen. It was at least a dozen different greens, sure to have been borrowed from everythin� in Ireland. The glens, the fields, the trees and mosses, all silken and blended. I took less time than usual to roll off me bed and take off me clothes; I was that excited to put on me gift. 
    �All yer friends here chipped in to buy the silk and yer Gran sewed every stitch with love for me sweet girl. Every time I worked on it, I could see those pretty green eyes of yers.� As I slipped the caftan over me head, she hugged me again. 
    �Oh, me love, the colors bring out those emerald eyes. Isn�t she lovely?� she asked the others. Everyone was after clappin� and yellin� �Give us a wee speech! Give us a wee speech!� Standin� had become such a task fer me that I had to plop on me bed again and settle in to the pillows before me royal self could speak to me subjects, as requested. 
    �Oh, dear pals, yeh are all so grand to me. I may never take this brilliant garment off! Thank ye, thank ye, thank ye!� 
    And then, meself took a deep breath and hollered, �I am starvin�, please God, and meself is goin� to faint from hunger!� 
    �Aye,� smiled Sister Frances Clare, �that�s the speech we were expectin! May this rebel nun say a small prayer before we party?� 
    I could hear me guts rumblin� but I bowed me head and crossed meself along with me guests. Sister spoke. 
    �Lord, Our Mother and Our Father, we thank you for friends, for the free will you have given us, for enough to eat and enough to wear. We pray for women in the priesthood, for vocations for married priests and for enlightened application of the faith, love, hope and charity that You have taught us to practice. We pray for infinite fairness and wisdom in our Church so that eventually even the Pope in Rome may be a woman, a gay man or woman, a married man or woman, above all, someone Irish. Bless dear Siobh�n as she struggles with her young life. In the Name of All that Should be Holy and Peaceful. Amen.� 
    �Amen,� says we all. Gran brought me a plate piled high with all me favorites. Auntie Bridget set a big mug �o tea on a wee table next to me bed. Any food could�ve been made from cut-out cardboard, I was that bleedin� hungry. Maeve�s skinny Aunt Mary, never much for eatin�, was back to her tin whistle, playin� tunes while we et and drank. 
    Meself was dyin� to hear more about all the sin goin� on in Dublin, but, knowin� we couldn�t get back to that dishy stuff with dear, proper Gran present, I just smiled me contentment at finally gettin� the nourishment me appetite required. Then Gran looked at her old antique label watch. �The lads will be back for their big tea. We need to clear up our things and get back to me kitchen!� Like a sergeant-major is Gran, and her troops were gone in a matter o� fast minutes, leaving Maeve, Sheila and me. 
    �So, Sheila, meself is almost spooked to ask, but what�s happenin� with yeh and the boyos at art school? Are yeh thumbin� yer nose, too, at the stuff we learned at St. Columcille�s?� 
    �Oh, Siobh�n,� says she. �It�s not that simple. But we have to skip along, too, palsy. We�ll duck in tomorrow before the train takes us back, and I�ll fill you in then, love.� 
    Out to a Saturday night in Ballyfin me friends went. I was feelin� full of treats and yet feelin� empty, thinkin� o� their new lives and me continuin� me old one. I could hear me brothers whoopin� and hollerin� over in Gran�s kitchen, scarfin� down their big tea after the match which, from the racket them boyos was makin�,told a score they were celebratin�. Before I was dozin� off for a bit, I heard them roughies headin� out down the alley, no mistakin� their mission at Ginty�s. 
    It must have been about half eleven when I roused meself to use the toilet and head back fer me bed. Me bedside lamp was off-there was jest a wee glow from the telly. I was drfitin� off nice and thinkin� a sudden bright light in me face must be comin� from a change in a program. But there was snickerin� comin� from inside me doors and a faint smell o� drink gettin� closer to me. Someone was lowerin� a feckin� light torch to me bare feet, movin� slowly up to me middle. 
    I was pullin� at me new caftan, tryin� to get it together over me knickers. I was makin� out a pair o� heads with black masks like Sinn F�in raiders are known fer, and some big hands were after creepin� up to where me legs part. 
    �Aye, Siob�hn, let�s have a bit o� craic, Miss Fatty. How about givin� us a feel of that fat pussy of yers?� Two of �em bollixes was holdin� down me ankles and startin� to pull down me knickers, already damp with me fright. Meself was screamin� like a banshee, and me attackers was both pullin� hard and me knickers was off and bein� swung in the air like a victory flag after some tiltin� tournament in ancient Ireland. 
    Them miserable boyos was staggerin� out me doors with me panties when there comes me Gran and Maggie answerin� me shrieks o� terror. After me da and brothers had left Gran�s table fer their usual Saturday drinkin�, Maggie had stayed to help with the clean-up. She usually unstrapped her poor fake leg to be more comfortable, hoppin� �round, takin� hold o� chairbacks and counters to keep her balance. So, here she comes to me rescue, holdin� on to the old leg, straps flyin�, runnin� smackeroo into one of me horrible masked men, and she hits him like she�s swingin� a hurlin� stick full force. His partner, no doubtin�, had staggered off to Ginty�s with me knickers slung on his shoulder to bullshit o� their big, brave conquest o� Ballyfin�s poster girl fer fat. Jaysus, help me! 
    Gran was sittin� right on top o� the gobshite�s head and Maggie was bouncin� up and down on his guts. They were both after pullin� off the black mask. I�d managed to get from me bed to me small window lookin� over the alley. There on the ground was Jimmy Murphy, me brother Mean-Liam�s pal, and he was fingerin� Liam like a world class stoolie. He was beggin� to be let up and sobbin� and promisin� to make it up to �poor Siobh�n.� 
    And Teddy, bless him on behalf o� all Irish Setters, had his teeth clamped on Jimmy�s pant leg, growlin� his outrage, his tail stiff behind him almost like a back-up weapon. 
    �I swear to you, Missus O�Toole, we wasn�t goin� to do any real harm, just scare the fat one a bit, jest for craic, yeh know. Jaysus, that�s all Liam paid us for. God knows we�ll give the girl all the punts we got for the prank, Kev Bryne and me will.� 
    Me two rescuers finally let him stand up. Fer good measure, Maggie gave another swing o� her fake leg at his scared ass, then, he was staggerin� down the alley, figurin�, �twas a bad guess for him, that the worst fer him was over. It wasn�t. Gran was hollerin� after him that he�d better get straight home as she was callin� his da in a flash. 
    Now I had shuffled back to me bed, waitin� fer more consolin� from Gran and Maggie. Them two sweethearts sat at me bedside, strokin� me face, soothin� me and assurin� me that tomorrow would be a new day, that I would be in Gran�s kitchen fer a lovely Sunday breakfast featurin� all my favorites from her warm, grand-smellin� ovens. Meself was safe and asleep in minutes. 
Six 
    Me guess is that Gran was lettin� me sleep Sunday mornin� as long as me body was choosin� that. So �twas Maeve and Sheila who first came callin� at about half ten. Them characters was so noisy with excitement they could�ve raised all the spirits roomin� at Holy Trinity graveyard. And, jest when I figured I�d finally be gettin� the rest o� their sexy bulletins, in follows Gran. 
    �There�s more room than usual at my table, dearie, so invite yer friends to have some breakfast with us. Now, come along, or my meal will turn cold on yeh.� 
    She smiled happily. 
    �Aye, and did yeh good girls get to nine o�clock Mass?� I nearly chocked at their answer. 
    �Oh, sure, Missus O�Toole. We went with our mammys, of course!� 
    I made a quick sign o� the cross fer them jest in case God was in the room at the moment. Paddy was me only brother at breakfast. No Da to be seen, either. 
    �So, where�s everybody, Gran?� 
    Before she could tell me, both Maeve and Sheila ran over to her, huggin� her and reportin� with glee, �Siobh�n, you should have seen your granny at Ginty�s last night! Can we telll her, please, please?� they begged, an in Ireland wheedlin� like kids dyin� to spill someone else�s beans. Me gran sat herself down, noddin� her permission and wipin� her forehead with the hem of her apron. 
    Maeve starts. �Well, after we left you, palsy, we hit a couple of pubs on the other side of the river and then we came back to Main Street for a last glass at Ginty�s before he closed up. It was really packed, mostly rowdy hurlers. Yelling his bleeding lungs off, in comes Kevin Byrne, holding up a pair of knickers which he hangs up high over the bar, him announcing that they are fresh off the arse of Siobh�n O�Toole! He�s bragging how himself and Jimmy Murphy pulled off the trick, collecting a fee of fifty punts from the fat girl�s relative who shall be nameless, shouts he.� 
    �Mean-Liam is well-snockered and can�t contain himself. Up goes his arm. Can�t keep himself from the spotlight, the fecker. But your da had gone down the road to a chipper�s, please God.� Maeve, really worked up at this point, stopped to catch her breath. Gran is jest sittin� with her head in her hands. 
    Sheila jumps in. �Then, who should march in, your Gran walking straight to Kevin and Liam, smacking both as hard as she could, each right across their noses, poking them in the stomach with Maggie�s fake leg, pushing them unsteady as they were, against the bar, them like hostages not daring to move. When your granny started yelling her riot act at them, Ginty�s got as quiet as when it�s closed at four in the morning. And she finished up with an extra measure of slaps across their cheeks, a whack on the sides of their stupid heads, and then she marched the bollixes down to the Garda� station, this wee, brave, wonderful granny, in between the two big conspirators, them not daring to say or do anything.� 
    �And when your Gran here came out of the station,� Maeve gets back in, �the parade that had followed her and the stupid boyos, hollered, �Three cheers for Missus O�Toole!� And that�s what we gave her, only �twas more like a dozen. And, then, the cheering section trailed her up the hill to your alley where she turned to tell everyone to shush or they�d wake Siobh�n, that we should all head for home so we could make Mass on time this morning.� 
    Sheila says to Gran, �Missus O�Toole, did we get it right all the way it went last night?� 
    Gran looks up and takes a deep breath. �Aye, excepting for me exiling Liam from this house for good. I don�t give a tinker�s roadside tent what that boyo does. He can go shack up with that hussy in Cahore for all meself cares!� Then she gasps, shocked by her own language. 
    �Siobh�n, lambie, even yer da was upset over this. He�s gone to talk to the Garda�, Love, I think he may be softening toward yeh. Maybe this cruelty to his only girl child may have finally touched him, please God. Oh, dearie, I promised yeh�d be safe when we made yer wee house. Yer Gran is so sorry. Do yeh forgive me?� 
    �Oh, dear, lovin� Gran, nothin� to forgive. You and Maggie and Teddy-boy saved me last night, don�tcha know that?� Gran was huggin� me and kissin� me over and over. �Thank ye, Mother Mary,� says she. �Aye,� says I. 
    Me pals were after havin� to leave to make the last Sunday train from Ballyfin, so there were hugs and kisses and whispers to me that they�d be writin� me with the rest o� their goin�s-on. Gran told them that she was workin� on gettin� a telephone fer me wee home out back, but, knowin� Telephone Eireann, she�d be usin� all the connections she could muster to move along her order. Her friend Maggie had a cousin with a daughter who�s datin� a chap whose mother�s brother-in-law knows a neighbor who is courtin� a girl in the collection office at the phone company. 
    �I�m workin� on it,� says Gran. 
    So, off went me friends back to college again and God-knows-what-else between them classes of theirs. Teddy and me decided on an afternoon nap in me digs. We were both feckin� tuckered from all the stress and strain. For a change I shared some o� me noshes with the dog, and he soon sank in to the rug by me bed, lookin� up at me like a sentinel until we were both snoozin� away the rest of the Sunday. 
    Most of the next week I stayed inside, watchin� the telly, readin� a lot, especially Dublin�s Independent and our weekly news rag The Ballyfin Blare. At Granny�s meals there was Mick, S�an, Colin and Paddy, me four non- banished brothers, and there was Da, too. Yeh might call it polite conversation, but even Da looked me way now and then, passin� me a plate o� somethin� once or twice, lookin right in me eyes. When I dared, �Thanks, Da,� he nodded. 
    The boyos seemed what yeh might say subdued, and Gran was jest herself, pattin� me whenever she got up from table to bring somethin� more from her oven. I felt so good that I ate her cookin� as proud as I ever had. But, in the back of me head, those fey feelin�s o� mine were itchin�. I couldn�t put me brain right on it, but somethin� seemed to be brewin� like a vat full o�Guinness, and I was feelin� in me guts whatever �twas had to do with meself. I was hopin� Gran might tell me, but I was spooked to ask her, maybe afraid, so I just tried to enjoy the almost friendly change in me relatives, hopin� it would last. Please, God. 
    Midweek breakfast, after everyone else left for work, Gran tells me that she and Da are not happy with the Garda� decision about the charges against me attackers. 
    �Can yeh believe them so-called law enforcers? They told yer da and me that �boys will be boys!� I could�ve walloped the lot of �em with Maggie�s leg.� She paused. 
    �Anyways, they have to pay a hundred punts fine each, Kevin, Jimmy and Liam. And, they have to spend a month cleaning up all the dog shite and litter on Main Street, wearing signs that say �BULLIES�. Yer Da says that council money is running out for keeping our streets clean, and the rain that does the cleaning some times, just isn�t enough. So those boyos will be busy, but your da and me agree that they should be doing a few days in the gaol, besides!� 
    On Monday next The Blare was out and I was readin� the local tripe when, there in full face was a photo of me da. JOHN FRANCIS O�TOOLE it said under the picture. �O�Toole, local plumber and longtime member of Ballyfin�s City Council, has been appointed head of a committee to find solutions to the budgetary deficit currently facing our town. Citizens are complaining about trash collections and street cleaning, especially of dog poop. O�Toole has named Padraig Hennessey, veterinarian; Ian Malone, butcher; and Bertrand Ginty, publican, to his committee. These citizens are charged with returning to the next monthly Council meeting with a slate of possible solutions to this crisis.� 
    By the time I hauled meself to our tea that night the boyos and Da were talkin� among theirselves and, fer a change, it wasn�t about hurlin� or what the gobshites were doin� in the goverment halls o� Dublin. Gran was servin� up dishes and jest listenin� to the men in her house. As I sat meself down, Da was lookin� straight at me. 
    It gave me courage to say, �Da, that was a grand picture of yeh in the rag.� I looked at me brothers. �We�re after havin� a famous da at this table!� 
    �Aye,� the four of �em muttered, jest about in unison. Da gave a big sigh. 
    �Aye, meself is famous, but I�ll be chopped mackerel if my committee can�t come up with something for the council to chew on. Ballyfin is in big trouble. Ever since the new carriageway bypassed us last year, our wee town is becoming an after-thought for tourists and tradesmen. We�re getting close to mortgaging the place. Me and me committee members are out asking shopkeepers and publicans and other residents for ideas. Maybe some of our brainy folks like Doc Buggle and the schoomasters and Fr. Dolan and the nuns will be dreamingup a solution. Father plans a special Mass just for the problem. So, he�s giving us a good hand.� 
    I was thinkin� about me history with Father Dolan�s creepy hands. That memory always colors any mention o� the man, priest or not. Da was goin� all-out like a hurlin� offensive. 
    �Now, me committee is after taking any and all suggestions and we�re putting everything in front of the council at month�s end.� 
    �Mebbe one of me own in this room will come up a really grand plan to bail Ballyfin out. I�ll be checking with yeh at tea, and I�m including me good Mammy. Now, meself will be gone most of the day. I have my business to run and the fecking meetings to get to, not forgetting me sleep.� He looked over at me like a teacher expectin� me to know the answer to a difficult question. 
    �Siobhan, you have a lot of thinking time over in yer wee house. I�ve always known yeh had good brains. Look how well yeh always did in school. The sisters thought yeh were one of their brightest lamps. A-course they knew yeh weren�t making it to university for physical reasons. But your da needs your brains now to desperation!� 
    Gran couldn�t stifle her emotions one bloomin� second more. She walked to Da, put her arms around his neck, her affection bein� somethin� they wasn�t after bein� used to. 
    �Oh, John Francis O�Toole, my son. Meself is prouder than yeh know about yer attending to showing yer daughter that you need her in yer life and that she is deserving of yer respect and attention. Yeh may not like me sugary stuff, my pet, but I am meaning every word I am saying to yeh.� 
    All around the table, four boyos, a young woman, an old one, and a reclaimed father, all O�Tooles in the final count, wiped our eyes and left to go out to do what each could think up fer Ballyfin�s survival. 
    I was tryin� me best to dream up possibilities fer savin� Ballyfin from crashin� around us. Gran still wasn�t able to get a �phone fer me, but she was workin� her own connections. A-course, me only uses fer one would�ve been talkin� with me two pals in Dublin, and mebbe me aunties or Gran who was in shoutin� distance, anyways. I read me magazines and the papers and watched the telly. I couldn�t fit through shop doors and me legs couldn�t walk up the steps fer Mass at St. Columcille�s, so Gran brought me blessed communion wafers in a wee brass pick. That was pretty much it. Except Thursdays when Uncle Finbar backed in to me alley and loaded me up fer an outin� into the country fer him to deliver his fish. Every wee trip to the pretty village of Laragh, �way out past Rathdrum, was what yeh might call a mixed blessin�. I had to hold me nose from them stinks o� sea bass and mackerel, but me mouth opened wide fer the sweet cakes and chocolate sodas he handed me. Lyin� on me back, meself could see only a little o� the scenery outside the side window panels. 
    Devout man that he is, Finbar�s always takin� a downhill lane halfway back to Ballyfin. We go over a wee stoney bridge stoppin� in front of me favorite chapel, Clara Vale. He�s helpin� me slide out o� the lorry, walkin� me through the blessedly wide doors o� the little church. I find meself takin� pictures o� the peaceful sanctuary in me soul, prayin� like I always did fer answers to me loneliness, me fatness, me life. Please God, I�d pray so hard meself wasn�t even hungry. Help me, dear Lord, it�s Siobh�n and meself is beggin! 
    When we got back to Ballyfin that particular Thursday, there was a letter waitin� in me mail. I sat propped up on me bed, polishin� off three scones and a big slice o� Dubliner cheese with me tay. It would hold me until Gran�s supper, so I got to openin� the letter. 
    It was from Sheila. 
    Hi, palsy, 
    Sheila here. Maeve will be writing soon, so she�s telling me. I�m sorry we had to dash away so soon without �telling all� last Sunday. We�ll be happy as moorhens mating when you get that telephone so we can gab, gab, gab! 
    I hope you are recovered from that awful scare those rotten boyos gave you. Mam phoned yesterday and told me that those three bums got what they had coming, although some people in town think they all should have been put behind bars much longer. That Liam, being your big brother and all, should be so ashamed of his fecking hide. He�s a sicko, Siobh�n, a real bag of shite. 
    Well, friend forever, Maeve has nothing on me in becoming a woman of the world. Gina, my chum from life drawing, has a twin brother, Gino, who�s over for a few weeks from Italy. Jesus, he is gorgeous, better looking than the hunkiest Irishman you can imagine! He�s tall and very tanned with thick black hair and dark eyes that just pierce my whole being. We hit it off instantly 
    Okay, I�ll get right to it. I don�t know if I am in love and this boyo doesn�t know if he is, either, but we aren�t letting that get in the way of screwing our eyes out! Oh, palsy, I got my hands on a copy of a Yank book, The Joy of Sex, and it is a terrific manual for fucking! 
    Oh, Gino is Catholic, too, but not he says, �a card-carrying one.� He always takes off his crucifix when we do it. 
    By the way, our exams are coming up and I�ve been screwing more than studying, so I have to get my portfolio presentable. So it will be at least two more weekends before we get home to see you, dearie. 
    Mammy is coming up this week to do some shopping, so I have to behave myself while she is here. I can�t decide if I should hide Gino while she�s here or introduce him. 
    She doesn�t like �Eye-talians,� especially the tourists who bring their vouchers to her B&B, but she takes their cash with big, phony smiles She says that the only �Eye-talian� in Ireland she trusts is the Pope and he�s Polish! Quick now, write back and tell me if I should have Mam and my lover meet? 
    I really like doing it with him, but he doesn�t have much imagination in bed and I don�t think I�ve had what Maeve says I should have had by now. Funny, my Auntie Lil calls it an �organism!� Isn�t that hilarious? 
    Oh, one time she said that Uncle Paddy was having problems with his prostrate. I told her that it�s prostate because prostrate means stretched out on the floor face down. That confused her because she says Paddy does just that sometimes to relieve his pain! 
    I am tired and it�s late, so I am rambling. Sorry, love. 
    Gino has to leave just before our exams. So, I don�t know how things will stand after that. I really like him, but I don�t love him-you know what I mean? Besides, Gina has hinted that her brother has another girl back in Firenze. Anyway, I�ve been noticing a ceramicist dreamboat in pottery class. Someone told me that he�s from a family of travellers that he�s kind of broken away from. Those tinkers never bothered me - 
    I kind of like the idea of gypsies and their free-wheeling history. That would bother Mam even more than me taking up with an �Eye-Talian!� 
    I think Maeve will write you soon. I hope she tells you how she ran into her Mr. D. from the pub almost-seduction. 
    Stay tuned for that bit of soap opera! 
    Well, closing now, dear palsy. I love your little house and knowing you are really safe there now. See you in a few weeks. 
    oooo and xxxx-Sheila 
    Readin� her letter was like readin� them scandal sheets from London we snuck as kids from Kelly�s sidewalk news rack. But these shockers was happenin� to me friends, and Sheila sounded like her new horny life was everyday normal in our fair capital city. Sure her news and Maeve�s letter comin� a pair o� days later gave me a lot to think on. 
    Maeve�s was short and sweet but speakin� again o� that American Mr. D. she had fooled with in Templebar, them hookin� up again after findin� themselves in the same Celtic studies class. His name�s David, and they�re goin� slow this time, jest doin� a lot o� wrestlin� and feelin� up in his flat over a bakery on O�Connell Street. Says she, �Oh, the smell of biscuits would drive you mad, Siobh�n!� Since meself was expectin� to die a virgin, I tried to think more o� the bakery aroma than o� Maeve and her boyo doin� their feckin� calisthenics on his mattress! 
Seven 
    I had promised meself not to be fantasizin� about all the stuff comin� from Dublin on account o� Da expectin� us kids and Gran to come up with brainchilds to save Ballyfin from goin� under. Da was workin� overtime, some times not with us at meals at all, other days rushin� through his tea and dashin� off to check with his committee, and always naggin� us to come through fer him. He�s makin� up a kind o� master list which is jammin� up his clipboard. 
    First time we all have a chance to tell him how we was gettin� on wih ideas fer his committee, he isn�t impressed. Me brother Colin ain�t very original, talkin� about a gate tariff at our hurlin� matches and an extra fee, a �sir-charge� he calls it, at the games� snack bars. Mick�s suggestin� raffles, gettin� shopkeepers to donate winnin� prizes, and S�an�s after proposin� more fish frys like the ones the Knights put on every year. Says he, he�d hit up his bosses down at the quays when the catches come in, so free fish could kick off the fund-raisin�. Shy Paddy chimes in fer increases in the dog license fees (�Da, them animals are the biggest shitters on our streets, not our Teddy, a-course�), and he winds up sayin� maybe Ballyfin could have a head tax at the pubs. 
    Da�s frownin�, back to his old cranky self. 
    �And, Siobh�n, what�s in your noggin?� 
    �Meself is still workin� on it, Da. Gan and me are gettin� together tonight right after our tay, doin� some prayin� and some thinkin� and some more prayin�, right Gran?�
    Gran nodded. �That�s for sure, love. We girls are after being used to solving lads� problems because them are usually the problem, please God.�
    �Don�t you big thinkers get it?� Da�s poundin� the table, shakin� all the dishes. �Ballyin needs brand new money from the outside. We don�t feckin need more tax burdens on us! We need folks coming to town, spending their punts or pounds or vouchers on something they can�t find anywhere else, something that�s so much gut-grabbing fecking fun they just about piss from the excitement!�
    With all the men gone again, Gran clears our table, settin� out rosary beads, votive candles and a small stitchery o� her own makin� to honor Our Lady o� Knock. We set about sayin� the decades o� beads for the Glorious Mysteries, askin� fer a small miracle for Ballyfin. 
    In the soft candlelight, Gran�s wrinkled old face was so full o� devotion to the Virgin, I�m feelin� like a fake Catholic, full o� meself instead o� me faith. I used to love the monotony of the old recitations, but now me mind�s havin� real trouble keepin� up. 
    After the last Our Father, Gran says, �Yeh know, dearie, not only does Ballyfin need a miracle soon, but all of Ireland is after needing another one. We�ve only had that one in Knock in 1879 and that�s it, not another since. We�re way overdue, God knows. Now wouldn�t it be grand if Ballyfin has the next one? A hundred years and more is long enough. Oh, Jaysus, my soul is crowding with hope. Siobh�n, I tell yeh what. Yeh and me willmake a novena. Nine days of our piety might just do the trick for Jesus, Mary and Joseph to pay attention. I can see yer da falling on his knees, �Arthur-itis� and all!� 
    Three days into our novena, miracle on order, yeh could say, but no overnight delivery. Da gettin� more desperate. The local news rag�s reportin� no progress by the special committee, and Da�s hittin� the pints more than usual, resultin� in his special brand o� irritability. 
    Then two familiar faces showed up at midday tea, Padraig Hennessey and Ian Malone joinin� us and Da. It was after bein� obvious that the committee had come up with somethin� and I�m gettin� a creepy feelin�, fey-like, that they have meself in mind some how. 
    �How ye doin�, Siobh�n?� and �Nice to see yeh, girl� the two men are askin�, all smilin� warm-like. And Da�s clearin� his throat like a peddler does before he makes a pitch to get in a housewife�s front door. Our tea seemed to be movin� quicker than most days. All me brothers et a bit earlier, and was off to their jobs. 
    Gran pipes up. �My guess is that yeh lads want to be talking among yerselves, so I�ll clear up these dishes, and me and Siobh�n will go over to her wee place, so�s we�re out of yer way!� Da, sweet as a bee�s honey, says, �No, Mammy, we want you girls here so�s we can share what we�re thinkin� might save the town. �Tis like a miracle that we�ve come up with this. Ginty knows about it but he couldn�t leave the pub at midday.� 
    And here�s me gran makin� that breathy sound Irish women make some times, kind o� crossin� a gasp with a pause, almost punctuatin� without any real words, soundin� as if they was swallowin� a sprig o� fresh mint. Meself always feels a bit o� caution whenever that sound appears. 
    �So, John,� she asks, �Jest what is yer committee proposing�?� 
    �Well, Mammy, we kept asking ourselves and other folks. Every person in town wants to help, but nothing has grabbed us, no ideas worth our pursuing. That is, until Padraig here, devout fella that he is, found our answer at Mass. He goes every day, putting the shame on a lot of us. Pikers, we are. He gets to Knock twice a year, making his pilgrimage on the train, then the bus, then a taxi to and from, himself not owning a car. We are working on the details of his inspiration, but let Padraig tell yeh himself, girls.� Of course, Da is bustin� up to tell everythin�, but I figure he thinks he�ll win Gran and me, especially Gran, by coatin� the whole package with Padraig�s piety. �There yeh go, Paddy, yeh have the floor.� 
    Even before startin�, the man crosses himself. 
    �It was absolutely amazing, ladies. Me mind was wandering after a mission speaker followed Fr. Dolan at the pulpit. The chap was talking about a fiesta he went to in a poor wee Mexican village and how everyone came from other villages. Even in their poor place, the village made money, selling food and trinkets and prayer and Mass cards. I was still sitting in my seat when everyone left. 
    �That fiesta kept rummaging in my brain. Fr. Dolan came down the aisle, asking me if I was ill or something. �No, Father�, says I. �Meself is just fine. In fact, I�m grand, I am!� And off I was to find John and Ian here as quick as me arse could move. Oh, sorry, Mrs. O�Toole and Siobh�n! I�m still full of shite about my ideas! Oh, sorry, again!� 
    Da can�t stand not bein� the center o� our attention. He rushes Paddy off-stage so to speak. 
    �So Paddy gets Ian and meself to confer at Ginty�s. He spills out the idea of a fiesta, well, a festival here in Ballyfin. We start gassing, with the help of a few pints. We�re each throwing in all the festivals spread out already in Ireland, all of �em big enough to fill a lot of town and city cash boxes! 
    Ian chimes in. �Yeh know about the music festivals in Galway and Dublin and Cork. Me cousin in Cork says they get help from the Guinness bunch, them sponsoring a lot of the weekend in different ways and Cork cleans up. He says the Jazz Festival there pulls in millions of punts! �Tis a fact that smaller towns are smartening up as to their chances, too. Rathdrum has that cartoon festival and even tiny Ballinasloe has a great horse festival-they get fancy-pantsy, calling it a bleedin� �faire�!� 
    Paddy is almost shoutin� now. �We heard some potters in Kerry have one they call a �Clayfest,� and over in the Arans there is a Matchmaking Festival. Some Yanks even made a fil-um about that one!� 
    Ian again. �Jaysus only knows what Dublin�s Fringe Festival is about. Oh, yeah, Dublin has a huge Theatre Festival, too.� 
    �Aye, take a wee peep at festivals away from Ireland. The Yanks have one called Sundance and yeh know about the famous one in Cannes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, a Yank tourist having a pint at Ginty�s told me there is even a Garlic Festival somewhere in California!� 
    �Anyway, ladies,� Da interrupts. �Yeh get the drift of what we�re saying. All of these festivals make buckets of punts, and the hosting towns clean up! So, we are after being sure we could do the same, please God.� 
    Gran has been listenin� close-like. �We hear ye. But what reason would our poor town have to come up with a festival? Yeh have to have a theme of some kind. Ballyfin is a plain, working man�s place with some fishing quays, pubs, chippers, and nothing out of the way. We�re not even on the main carriageway any more. We get passed by more than we�re after being passed through. What have we got here that no other Irish town has?� 
    �Aye, Mammy. It�s brilliant. We�re realizing that we�ve got something that no other place in all of E�re has. At least, we�re pretty sure. And it could be the center of a grand festival.� 
    Now, Da and the other two blokes turn to look straight at meself. And Gran�s eyes follow theirs with a big questionin� look on her face. 
    �Now, meself finally has come to his senses,� Da says. �I should be proud of my daughter who is smart and pretty and we�re fair sure (here he takes a giant breath in) she must be the fattest woman in all of Ireland!� 
    Gran�s mouth and mine fall wide open at the same minute. �What?� Gran fair exploded. �John Francis O�Toole, what are yeh thinking, man? Are yeh crazy?� 
    I put me head down on the table. Meself was so stunned I couldn�t feel a thin�. I thought Gran was goin� to attack all o� �em, but, there she was puttin� her arms around me jest holdin� on as tight as her old hands could manage, starin� at each o� them as if she couldn�t have heard what she knew she had. Except fer me quiet little sobs Gran�s kitchen was quiet as a cloister o� mute nuns. 
    When she spoke over the top o� me head, I sat up meself, watchin� the three red faces lookin� at her. 
    �Meself is God-fearing, yeh all know that, and Siobh�n and me have been praying for a miracle to help this old town where me children, me dear dead husband and years and years of our families have been born and where, God bless �em, so many are under the sod up Coolgreaney Road in their graves. So, yeh know, caring about Ballyfin, I am. Me and mine even going back to when the Norse invaders gave us the �fin� for alll the blond heads, not much sense now as them Viking bloods ran out, leaving most of us with our dark heads of hair from other outsiders� mating into our people.� 
    She cleared her throat and sat again at her place at the table. �So, meself wants to help, and �tis no secret, John, that yer committee is desperate. But, in the wildest of desperations, how could yeh ever be so miserable and hurtful to yer wonderful daughter here who has suffered yer coldness and meanness all her life, and, now yeh�re adding misery, offering ridicule and embarrassment on top of yer years of cold ways toward my sweet girl, not befitting even the very worst of das. How could yeh? Mother Mary, how could yeh do this awful thing?� 
    I was thinkin� I would never be after seein� Da cryin�, but there he was like a wee boyo, with his baldin� head hung and him shakin� it back and forth as if he was tellin� Gran that she didn�t understand what the committee was plannin�. I was jest surprised that me gran spoke so even, not shoutin�, fer certain not cursin�, jest bein� me gran standin� in defense o� me, figurin� like always she was the only parent meself has since I left me mammy on the midwife�s table. 
    But somethin� was movin� around me brain, a bunch o� mixed thoughts, one o� �em separatin� out from the others like when yeh carefully shake out the yolks from the whites. I found meself wantin� to hear more about what Da and his committee had in mind, how I�d be the reason fer a festival. 
    �Gran,� I says, �Me fat is me own, me huge body is me own, and Ballyfin is me town. Maybe there is a reason, please God, fer me girth. Before we turn against where I fit in, if I can fit at all, I want to hear what gives. Don�t worry about me feelin�s. Let me hear everythin�. There�s no harm in listenin�, right?� 
    Gran wasn�t sure. �Are yeh sure, love? Yeh don�t need to be humiliated and made to feel like yeh are some, forgive me, dearie, kind of freak for people to gawk at. Me and yeh ought to be praying before yeh get all roped in on some whacko scheme.� 
    �Me sweet Gran,� says I. �First, let�s hear what their plan is. Then we pray fer an answer. All right?� 
    Gran sighs and again moves to me bench at the end of the table, puttin� her arms on me shoulder and waitin� fer Da to spill out the great feckin� plan to save Ballyfin from what them men are makin� sounds like eternal ruin. 
    Da puts his hands on the table, them big paws waitin� to punctuate and emphasize what he is about to tell us. �Aye, ladies, we�ll tell yeh as much as we can about what we�re thinking, but, please God, be patient with us. Our drawing board ain�t finished-we have ideas all spread out, something like a tea with dishes needing to be put in the right order for serving. And we haven�t sat down with the Council members yet. We�re wanting to have all our d ducks in a row, the big fish being reeled in. Those big shots are going to have questions, maybe even big objections, especially snobby ones like the chairman and his uppity- ups who don�t want to think they�re common folk.� 
    Ian is showin� his lack of patience with me da. �John, for bugger�s sake, get on with it, man!� 
    �Right,� says Da. �First, we�re looking for Siobh�n to be the Queen of a Fat Festival or Fat-Fest we�re thinking to call it. That name will grab attention when we run promotions in the papers, on the telly, on posters, that kind of thing. We are going to get the Irish Tourist Bureau to shill for us to get visitors. We have just about six months before the three-day weekend we�re favoring, getting past Lent and St. Paddy�s Day and Easter up to that bank holiday in the spring which we�re after targeting.� 
    �All right, Da, meself is fat and yer tellin� me so far that I can be the Queen o� that. Is there some plot to all o� this? Why would anyone come to Ballyfin to feast on me fatness?� 
    �Yeh�ve hit it, me girl. Yeh and yer royal Fat Court will reign over everything.� 
    I�m impatient. �Reign over WHAT?� 
    Padraig pulls over a big chart that he�s had leanin� against the wall behind him. It�s covered with snippets of paper each with a couple o� written lines. �Siobh�n, our Fat-Fest will have it all.� He starts pointin� at each wee item. �Yeh�ll be holding court on and off during the three days. Yeh and yer big attendants will be grand royalty, the fattest we can find in Ireland, none outshining yeh, dearie, of course. Yeh�ll all be in front of St. Columcille�s right on its front steps in town center on a reviewing stand for inspecting a huge parade for starters. We�ll have flatbed floats, already spoken for from Ian�s cousin in Dublin, lorries to pull �em from me brother�s dealership in Dun Laoghaire.� 
    �The parade will line up on the other side of the river beginning at the Bridge of Sixteen Arches, and moving across through Ballyfin and right up Main Street past crowds lining up on both kerbsides past yeh and yer beautiful, big court of fat ladies-in-waiting, then spilling into Coolgreaney, disbanding at the top of the hill. �Aye, dear girl, there�ll be fat fiddle players, fat dancers, fat clowns for the kiddies, a one-legged fat trad band, magicians sawin� fat ladies in half, makin� em disappear. Meself could go on and on. We think the procession could be more than a mile long!� 
    �Everything will fit our theme,� pipes up Ian. He stops for a minute. Me brothers are standin� in the room, ready for their tea. Gran waves them into their seats, them crowdin� in and sayin� quiet greetin�s to everyone, hushin� quickly because Da is not enjoyin� the interruption. He�s seein� that meself and Gran are not throwin� any brickbats so far. Ian is summin� up is he. �There are so many other great parts of this, Siobh�n, like the giant economy-sized servings at all the pubs and chippers and food booths and the contests we�ll hold, all of �em connecting to fat in some way.� 
    Me shy brother Paddy surprises me when he speaks. �Da, where are yeh going to find so many fat people? Fer sure, yeh see a few more overweight people these days what with the Celtic Tiger and people walking less and riding around in cars instead of bikes. But yer talking fat, really fat, and lorry loads full of �em!� 
    �Aye, Da answers, seemin� pleased at Paddy�s interest. �We�ll advertise in a raft of Irish newspapers and on the radio and telly, looking for fat folks, all kinds, musicians and from every field yeh can imagine. And, if we need �em, Ian�s wife has a connection for some of 
    what she is after calling �fat suits.� Her drama society uses them some times to pad up characters like Santa Claus and King Henry Number Eight. Paddy, we�ve already crossed that bridge!� 
    I�m findin� meself really gettin� into this crazy plan. Mother Mary, I�m really warmin� up to it and I can see that Gran is doin� the same. �All right, Da, let�s say meself is beginnin� to understand. But yer leavin� out a great big chunk o� information. Everythin� is goin� to cost thousands of punts upfront. Yeh might answer me this one. The Fat-Fest may be a winner but who are the fat cats with the financin�? Before we see the profits rollin� up Main Street, yeh have to see piles o� them rollin� out first, don�tcha?� 
    Like male singers who have practiced together fer jest such a gig, Da�s committee practically croons. ��Aye, Siobh�n, we hear ye!� Da takes it solo, �Tell me family, Padraig!� 
    Padraig is Mr. Money Bags fer the project. �Well, now, we�re all after knowing that Irish banks are stingy lenders even with really sound propositions, so no hope there. And Father Dolan didn�t have any better luck with the Archbishop�s office who wanted more collateral then a barrel of Fat-Fest ideas. The three of us were thinking of borrowing on our modest properties but that wasn�t resulting in much. We have a few months before lift-off, but, yer right, Siobh�n, nothing goes if we can�t get a pile of what investors call seed money. Me neighbor calls it �venture capital� but he and his airhead inventions never made a quid!� 
    Da clears his throat. �Get to the point, Paddy.� 
    �Well, we�ve been after meeting in secret in the back of the church with Doc Buggle and the other doctors and with S�amus Maguire who owns a dozen Rover dealerships in the county, to say nothing of his new chain of supers, and we also got that chieftain of solicitors, Declan Gallagher. Them rich guys are loaded and they know other rich folks who are loaded and always looking for returns on their punts. Padraig has projected what we will take in and the handwriting on the profit wall says Ballyfin and its investors will turn more than a tidy profit. And, once we�ve had our first Fat-Fest, we should be home free to do the whole thing better year after year.� 
    Da adds, slowly and carefully. �There is jest one condition holding up the seed funds. Siobh�n has to give her solemn okay in writing, her promise in the sight of God with Father Dolan as witness and me dear Mammy as co-signer, so to speak, please God.� 
    Me brother Mick hasn�t heard the role meself is bein� asked to play. �Why does Siobh�n have to sign something? She doesn�t have a tenner to her name!� 
    Meself is ready to announce me sudden importance to me hometown. �Mick, it�s me who will be Queen o� the Fatfest which looks to save Ballyfin from financial disaster, it not bein� able to pay its bills with the situation gettin� worse every day. Da thinks meself could be the fattest woman in Ireland and I am holdin� me head high about this kind o� fame because Ballyfin is me town and I�m after lovin� it with every single ounce I weigh!� 
    With that, out from Padraig�s jumper pocket comes official-looking papers. �God bless yeh, girl, here�s a pen your signature and one for your gran to co-sign on the next line. Ladies, keep the pens. I took �em from the bank this morning, those spoofers!� 
    Da adds, �Father Dolan was teaching new altar boys about serving at Mass this afternoon so he couldn�t be with us for a witness. But he knows all about the transaction and he�ll add his name when I see him later.� For a minute meself is wonderin� exactly what the priest is teachin� the poor lads out o� anyone�s sight. But me deal is done. Me gran and me have signed on the dotted line, and now it�s waitin� time fer a few months. And, it�s been two hours since Gran served up tea, so I�m needin� some nourishment bad soon as she can set table again. 
Eight 
    Now, for the time bein� meself has nothin� more to do about the Fat-Fest. I was jest plain wore out from hearin� about those huge doin�s. I was after bein� in a collapsed state back on me soft bed, nappin� and eatin� the food Gran brought me, I was that tired was I. And it was gettin� cooler outside, so we skipped me outdoor hosin�s, and she was helpin� with me sponge bathin�. She and me aunties and one-legged Maggie was already busy bees, sewin� outfits fer me and me royal court whoever those lucky fat ladies turned out to be. 
    Gran�s connections still hadn�t gotten me a telephone and me mail hadn�t brought any word from Maeve and Sheila fer weeks past the time I had figured on. It was gettin� into late November and meself was anxious with no letters from them girls, either. So, wouldn�t yeh be after knowin� that the next weekend brought that pair flyin� into me place, fallin� all over me bed, laughin� and huggin� and gigglin� like always. And, fer a big feckin� change, when all the whoopin� and hollerin� stops, it�s me, poor dull Siobh�n, formerly Miss No Life, who has news fer them, really, really big, unbelievably big news. 
    Sometimes these two took in gaspy kind o� breaths, a few times they raised their pretty eyebrows as high as their hairlines, and there was more than a few glances swapped between theirselves, all as I�m coverin� everythin� I could about the grand plan to save Ballyfin and how meself�s smack in the center o� all that�s happenin�. Da says that the town council would be no roadblock now that advance financin� s been arranged. After spillin� out all the details I remember, I�m managin� to assure me pals that there�s nothin� really sticky left in the plannin�. 
    Shiela recovers first. �Siobh�n, are yeh sure yer up to this whole deal?� Maeve nods the same question. I reach fer a big sweet biscuit on me night table toastin� me new place in the universe. 
    �Aye,� says I. �It took Gran and me some real thinkin�, but we jest slid into a positive feelin�, as if God was right there at Gran�s table. Besides, it�s goin� to be really brilliant craic!� Then me tears came and kept comin� when I tried to tell them girls what it felt like to have me da treatin� me as somethin� worth havin� fer his daughter, after all. There I was full o� biscuit crumbs on me chins and tears rollin� down me great big, chubby cheeks. 
    Sure, and me pals was now up to snuff on the news o� me changin� life, and they�re jumpin� right in to show their support. 
    �Siobh�n, sweetkins,� Sheila says, �Maeve and me will be doing our bit for our town�s big show. I�ll be recruiting art students to turn out posters, for one thing. Our instructors are conned easily on big class projects like maybe getting groups to paint murals on the outside walls of sites like the banks, Kitty�s restaurant and some of the pubs. We�ll put up lots of ladies with the kind of dimensions that the master Rubens loved. Jaysus, he�d have had you for a model quick as a greyhound runs! And, you know, my fellow students in Dublin aren�t exactly chopped chicken-we�ve plenty of grand talent to tap!� 
    Maeve is also offerin� the help of muscled boyos she knows through her friend David and she adds that she�ll explain why he�s turned out to be jest her friend and nothin� more. 
    It�s terrific to have these friends, I�m tellin� meself fer the thoursandth time. �That�s brilliant, Sheila!� 
    �So,� says I, �what happened to yeh munchkins? I�ve had no word from yeh since those letters way back in September. Mother Mary, I�ve been missin� yeh so much!� Jaysus, meself was figurin� that nothin� from them could top me own bombshell. But each o� them cuties was about to fly blimps o� shockin� news by me, balloons bigger than me tonnage on me fattest days. 
    Like always, Sheila is first to spill their beans. �Well, a fortnight ago Gino went back to Italy. Haven�t heard from him, but I�m thinking he left me with a giftie, something to remember him by if he doesn�t come back.� 
    I�m askin�, �Ah, palsy, so what did he give yeh?� 
    �One guess, Siobh�n, why do yeh think a wee froggie died at the clinic in Dublin?� 
    Both girls are laughin� at me, a kind o� sad little laugh that an old auntie might do when a wee kid doesn�t get the joke. �What do yeh mean?� 
    �Well, says Sheila, pattin� me arm gently. �Since I�ve missed me monthly twice now, it seems I am a lady-in- waiting, dear, I�m pregnant.� 
    �Oh, my,� says I with a flood of me questions. �What are yeh goin� to do? Does yer Mammy know? Is Gino goin� to marry yeh? What does it feel like to be preggers?� 
    �Siobh�n, love, hold it!� them both shushin� me. And 
    I�m reachin� fer a pair o� the huge currant tarts me friends had brought fer me enjoyment. The food was calmin� me enough to listen more to Sheila. 
    �Me options are still open. Gina tells me that her brother really likes me but he found himself pining for his Eye-talian girlfriend. The bitch is supposedly a virgin, something very important to him and his family, Gina says, so she�s figuring he won�t be back, except maybe on his honeymoon! Anyway, I was getting real nervous when Gino talked about their Mafia relatives.� 
    �I didn�t tell Gina that I am preggers, no point in it until I make up me mind. I could go to Liverpool but I have to go soon and my Catholic part isn�t sure I could live with getting rid of the baby. Then, there�s me Auntie Mary, the chemist. She�s a spinster and she says she�ll help me she�d even keep the baby while I finish art school. I�m coming down on that side of the solution, I am.� She grinned at me. �Now, Siobh�n, or should I say Your Highness, if I have my kid in the spring, I could be a nice big bulge marching in your Fat-Fest parade!� 
    Me and Maeve both hugged her. At this point, I was workin� on another pair o� bakery goodies. Of course, Da was stayin� after me at tea to eat me fill and more. Meself had to keep up the theme fer me royal future, he was after sayin� every time he saw me. When I had finished up me latest snack, I turned to Maeve and her news. 
    �So, tell me about that fellow David. Have yeh advanced past jest rasslin� with him in yer trysts over that bakery?� By the smirk on her face, I burst out, �Oh, don�t tell me yer preggers, too, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!� 
    �Not yours truly! Sure, David and me gave it our best shot, you could say, but we never got it on, not even close to that Templebar fiasco. We were both thinking that we�d get into some wild and woolly stuff after we romped around on his lumpy bed a few times, getting in practice, you know. Hey, we really are stuck on each other now as good buddies, so all the time together was a grand bonus. When we have a pint or two together, we talk our gums off. We can tell each other anything just like us old palsies here. And David and meself have something in common we never would�ve figured on!� 
    �Like what?� curious me asks. 
    �Well, we�ve both got new loves in our lives.� �What�s your new sweetie�s name, Maeve?� 
    �Her name is Molly Casey and she�s from County Sligo.� Maeve was lookin� real close for me reaction. 
    �Yeh said Molly, Maeve?� 
    �Aye.� 
    �Jaysus, girl, are yeh sayin�-yer a thespian?� 
    �No,� Maeve chuckled. �I am a lesbian, dear. A thespian is an actor.� 
    �And yer not after actin� about this, are yeh, Maeve?� 
    �Jaysus, no. I am a lesbian because I was born a lesbian.� 
    I recovered meself after a long minute. �Well, I�ll always love yeh, yeh know that. Not that way, a-course!� I took the last currant tart off the plate that she passed to me. 
    A couple of soothin� munches later, I was recovered enough. �And yeh said David has a new romance, too.� 
    �Right-oh, he does indeed. He�s head over tea kettle in love with a gorgeous Yank from home. He�s Johnny and planning to stay, getting a job with that American drug firm that makes that new pecker-stretcher, viagra. So, we�re both gay, that�s what I�m telling you. A bunch of us have a gay pride group meeting at a friendly pub over in Ballsbridge. 
    �Aye, we�re quiet for now, but, whomnows, we might even march in your parade, wearing those fat suits and waving to the tourists as gay as we can be!� 
    �Oh, for flip�s sake, girls, is there anythin� more I�m after hearin? And, do yeh have anythin� more for me to chew on in yer pockets? Meself is askin� fer yer mercy. Me emotions is goin� mad!� 
    When I was tryin� to swallow their bulletins along with a couple o� Cadbury bars Sheila happened to have in her bookbag, in comes Gran, greeted by me old friends with little cries and hugs to which her good self replies, �Just the folks myself is looking for to help me with all my assignments for the Fat-Fest. Siobh�n has been filling yeh in on all the big plans, hasn�t she?� 
    �Aye, she has,� says Maeve. �Now, Mrs. O�Toole, how can you use us?� 
    �Could yeh come back to me kitchen, girls? My list of tasks is in my apron pocket. We�ll have a cuppa and I�ll be happy to chat. Siobh�n, will yeh come along, dear?� 
    She handed me a plate of biscuits warm from her oven and set a pitcher o� juice on me side table. �No, Gran, meself needs yer comfort food and then a wee nap. You girls comin� back tomorrow? I really have missed yeh and love yeh as much as ever, even with yer shockin� news!� 
    �Huh, what shocking news is that after being?� Gran stops at the door. 
    �Oh, just girl news, Mrs. O�Toole, nothing to fret Armstrong over,� Sheila�s assurin� her. 
    I was left to digest more than me noshes. Me world, me pals, me future, everythin� was changin�, and I felt dizzy like a big kiddie�s toy top that can�t stop spinnin�. 
    After me deep afternoon snooze, I woke up hungry so I padded over fer tea at Gran�s. She and Da were a pair of heads together, nearly out o� breath talkin� about all the tasks they was parcelin� out for the Fat-Fest. Sheila and Maeve had left with Gran�s list fer them while I was countin� lambs on me bed. Gran said they�d have to to see me on their next trip home. They�d be cuttin� it too close to visit me again in the mornin�. They had to measure Ballyfin�s available walls fer Sheila�s murals and check out other ideas before catchin� the last Sunday train back up the coast to Dublin. Back to them lives up there that was beginnin� to sound like somethin� Jerry Springer and other Yank scandal-pushers would be findin� feckin� tame. 
    At this point in every other year Gran�s kitchen would�ve been a beehive buzzin� with Christmas bakin�, cleanin� and wrappin� presents fer all the O�Tooles and a lorry load o�family chums. Me body would�ve been gainin� jest from sniffin� in the bakin� aromas. Not that He was bein� an after-thought, yeh know, but the Baby Jesus was gettin� crowded by all the plannin� and anticipatin� fer Ballyfin�s huge party fer itself comin� in May. 
    I had me old routine back, gettin� me winter sponge baths from Gran twice a week, pattin� Teddy, me faithful visitor, him hopin� fer bits o� me continuin� snacks, me aunties and Gran showin� me their sewin� projects, measurin� fer me three-layered royal gown, each tier lookin� like the biggest tutu ever stitched. Its nettin� was stiff but me stitchers was makin� a heavy satin slip o� the same bright green to protect me skin from the net scratchin me huge boobs and me arse. 
    Meself was in bed a lot as usual watchin� the telly, readin� me papers and magazines, and still hopin� fer a telephone which Gran wasn�t workin� as hard now to get me with her energy turned to the big spring doin�s, plus the holidays fast approachin�. Anyway, there wasn�t much need fer the thin� except mebbe fer talkin� with me Dublin duo so dug into them plots o� theirs, I wasn�t expectin� many calls. 
    Gran still was bringin� me a communion wafer from Mass but, once in a while, she�d bring over Father Dolan fer a blessin�. Fer her sake, I�d grit me pearlies and bow me head shiverin� a wee bit when he touched it. Mary, Mother of Ireland, forgive me. He�d rattle on about his sacred duty to visit the sick and I�d jest answer in as faked a sincere voice as I could manage, �Oh, Father, I�m not sick, I�m jest fat!� While he chuckled to Gran about what a grand sense of humor I had, he couldn�t hear me addin� under me breath, �Arrah, yeh shame the Lord�s cloth, it�s not meself who�s the sicko in this room!� 
Nine 
    Everyone I know was gone to Dublin or up to their neckbones doin� somethin� to get all the Fat-Fest gears grindin�, and the Yuletide footnote was pressin� in on us. Meself was jest feckin� bored, askin� fer a way to be involved. Da said I should concentrate on bein� in trainin�. Says he, �Siobh�n, keep that weight up, girl, no slackin�, now, on your teas and noshes!� I was doin� me best, yeh know. 
    One wee task Gran gave me was to use a notebook to keep track o� everythin� I saw on the telly or read in me daily rags, anythin� at all to do with our big festival. At first, it was only adverts in the Dublin paper, ones that Da�s committee was puttin� in, askin� fer fat folks with talents of any kind, them to answer by �phone or mail to the Ballyfin City Council. But it wasn�t long before our big fat celebration was gettin� steady free publicity, Da bein� interviewed everywhere by everyone, it seemed. Me da�s callin� it a grand chain reaction as readers and watchers and gabbers passed the news on. And when that German guy, Reuters, put a big column in The Times, it seemed the whole world was learnin� about us. With so much advance work done by the middle o� December, Gran and me aunties told Da they wanted to take a break from their sewin� and plannin�. 
    �John,� Gran said, �We�re not neglecting Christmas around here, yeh hear me? Yeh have months yet to go for the Fat-Fest, so we�re having all the trimmings as always for our dear Lord�s birthday!� No argument from Da when Gran stood her ground. Mebbe he was still after bein� in the plannin� fer May, but he�d keep the details out o� Gran�s kitchen until the new year. 
    Meself always looked forward to me weekly outin�s with Uncle Finbar but his next run was canceled because his new van was still on order. It sounded grand with much wider window panels on each side so I could see the sights when he took me with him fer fish deliveries. In the meantime, he was usin� his small lorry. No chance o� me comin� close to fittin� in that. 
    Finbar asked Kelly, the greengrocer, if he�d take me along, givin� me a change o� the sights as Kelly�s route ran south to Gorey with quite a few stops in between. It was a one-time invitation from Kelly. Finbar told me after that Kelly had strained his back somethin� fierce from helpin� me into the back o� his lorry. He also griped somethin� about big dents in the lorry�s floor where meself had rested, eatin� the nice lunch Gran had supplied. I wrote himself a thanks note, but he never answered. 
    I had meself another visitor, a real feckin� nuisance lookin� down at me over those wee glasses that look as if they can�t decide to stay on a person�s nose or slide off. Doc Buggle, busy with patients who can fit in his clinic door, to say nothin� o� his time-consumin� wife-cheatin�, had sent his prissy, pruny-faced nursey, Sin�ad, herself as thin as a snooker cue. Doc was sure I was diabetic, probably with signs o� heart trouble, and nursey came armed with finger sticks fer me sugar count and a small machine fer checkin� me heart which she said nastily, �must be crushed there in the middle of your immense self, young lady!� I reminded meself that I was a queen and herself was obviously a commoner. She didn�t linger and said Doc would call me gran with a report next day. 
    When Gran hadn�t heard from him by week�s end, she called the clinic. Beanpole nursey snapped, �He�s very busy and there is nothing to report. All her tests were normal, God alone knows why. And, Mrs. O�Toole, it�s just a matter of time, you know. Her fat is life-threatening and ugly, besides.� 
    Gran was indignant. Says she, �We are after loving our girl just as she is. And, Sin�ad, I wouldn�t be tossing that word �ugly� around so freely. Yer about fifty now, ain�t yeh, and I can�t recall any suitors ever hangin� around yer door, now can I?� And me gran�s slammin� down the �phone hard enough to spook poor Teddy, him whinin� under the table. 
    Gran had made it clear as mountain water that she�s wantin� our holiday celebration on her front burner and Fat-Fest plannin� on the warmin� plate until January. Our family seemed to calm down fer the time bein�. A week before Christmas, we was havin� an unusually quiet family tay, jest chewin� and slurpin� noises from me brothers, them passin� me dishes still holdin� some lamb slices and praties and steamin� buttered cabbage, all fer me to finish up before Gran�s dessert biscuits and puddin�s made their rounds, always seconds fer me, a-course. Gran was pickin� at her dentures, waitin� fer more tea water steamin� clouds over her big black stove. 
    The rare quiet was broken by somone pushin� the front doorbell. Nobody we know ever does that. Maybe a peddler or lost tourist or a beggin� tinker. Folks we know always use the side door along the alley between us and Ginty�s. But the bell�s ringin�, jest once, almost as if the caller�s shaky about pushin� it again. Anyways, Gran pulls off her apron and walks through the parlor to the front hall to see what�s what and who. 
    We could hear her hollerin�, �Jaysus, Liam, what happened to yeh? Yeh�ve gone so short!� We�re all still as starch back at table, waitin� fer what Gran is goin� to do, seein� Liam. It�s been months since she tossed him out on his mean arse, him and his boyos doin� so much dirt to me. 
    �Oh, me dear Granny, it�s Liam on his knees before yeh,� we hear him sobbin�.�Me poor, wicked self is asking your forgiveness for what I done to Siobh�n. Meself has changed, I�m swearing before Mother Mary, I�m a changed man. I�ll do anything if yeh and me sister will forgive me!� His pleas and cryin� are enough to make Teddy shake, nudgin� his nose into me lap fer comfort. 
    Gran�s hesitatin�, yeh could tell, not that she�s enjoyin� Liam�s sufferin�. She�s a good Catholic woman, yeh remember. �Liam, yer looking foolish down there on yer knees. Stand up straight like the man yeh say yeh are. And look at me. It�s Siobh�n who has to forgive yeh for all yer gobshite sins. Yeh put her through enough hell to last eternity, yeh know that, don�tcha?� 
    We�re hearin� Liam still snifflin�. �Meself is willing, no wanting to do whatever it takes to make things right with my family. I want yeh all to know my wife, Teresa, who is carrying yer very first great grandbaby, Gran. Oh, please, I beg of yeh, give me a chance to start our family�s new year right.� He must have been tryin� to kiss Gran�s hand because she�s after tellin� him. �Enough of that sloppy stuff, Liam, yeh got a lot of mending to do, but yer brothers and yer sister and yer da are all finishing up their tea, so yeh can come in to tell them all why yer here. But, it�s Siobh�n, I tell yeh, who has to find forgiving yeh in her heart!� As we heard the front door close, Gran�s still lecturin� Liam, �Maybe yer married with a child coming, but don�t yeh think for a tricky minute, that pushing a baby buggy in front of yeh is going to sell us all on the saint yeh say yeh�ve turned into! A pile of nappies and some booties ain�t quite enough to wipe yer heartless slate clean!� 
    No welcomin� committee�s waitin� fer Liam in the kitchen. Me brothers nod at him but Da jest keeps on pickin� his teeth. Even Teddy�s not movin� his head from me lap and so Liam�s left standin� while Gran comes over to me bench, puttin� her arms across me shoulders, whisperin� in me ear, �Dearie, it�s up to you. Say a wee prayer and let God tell yeh what to do about this, sweet girl.� 
    The room was dead quiet exceptin� fer Teddy�s low growlin�, protestin� the times he�s been the target o� Liam�s foot. Not a movin� from anyone. Then Da�s clearin� his throat, lookin� down the table at me. �Siobh�n, me lass, it�s after being yer call. All of us here will be abiding whatever yeh decide about this miserable excuse for a brother.� Later, on me bed, reviewin� the whole matter, I�m realizin� that Da hadn�t called Liam his son, jest me brother. 
    Well, Jaysus, I was wantin� only one answer from Liam. �Why, Liam, why were yeh so terrible to me? Why? I never done anythin� to yeh, ever!� I wasn�t hollerin. Too busy cryin� was meself. 
    When Liam begins to walk in me direction, I sniffle. �Stop, Liam, jest answer me from where yer standin�. Yer brothers and Da and Gran need to hear this!� 
    Liam takes a breath as deep as the bottom of the Avoca. �What can I say? My thoughts have gone over me fecking behavior a million times. My wife, Teresa, bless her, is a God-fearing girl, and she made me see what I was doing �Aye, I was blaming the drink and my jealousy at how I saw Gran always favoring yeh. But, then, Da was rejecting yeh at the same time. I was a gobshite, a fecking bollix, but, I swear to God, meself has changed. Siobh�n, I just want to be a good brother to yeh. Meself is so ashamed. I�m not deserving of yer forgiveness but, please God, I�m still after asking for it. Please, please, forgive me. I�ll spend the rest of me life making it up to yeh!� 
    He was so pathetic. �Musha, Liam, all right, thanks to Holy Mary, Mother of Ireland, I�m forgivin� all the pain yeh�ve brought me, but forgettin� is harder, me heart bein� so bruised by yeh fer so long.� 
    Sweet Gran sees me fatigue, havin� the same herself. �Liam, we have a lot of work going on in Ballyfin which we are putting on the shelf while we have our holiday. So, I�m inviting yeh to leave for now. The family will decide where you�ll fit in all of this, including yer Teresa, a-course. Are yeh just up for a visit from Cahore or are yeh planning to move back to Ballyfin?� 
    Liam�s voice�s as gentle as ever it had sounded in our kitchen. �Gran, we�re staying with Teresa�s cousin across the bridge, and meself has a good line on a job down at the quay.� 
    �Aye, ring me in a day or two and we�ll be taking it from there. Yeh can leave by the family door now. No fussy ta�s, now, just be on yer way, boyo.� Noddin� at all o� us still at table, Mean-Liam, somethin� like a prodigal, leaves and Teddy stops growlin� his protests. 
    Me Auntie Bridget�s givin� me Christmas money since I was a tot. Her knowin� that meself can�t really do any shoppin�, she takes me gift list, brings me presents wrapped up grand so�s all I have to do is write out them wee tags and tie them on. I was thinkin� hard as stones this year about havin� somethin� fer Liam and his wife under our big tree. Gran says they�re comin� to our family feast, so forgivin� him was me big test before God, yeh might say. 
    Right up to Christmas Day, Gran was callin� me �Queenie Siobh�n, the Royal Taster�, askin� me at every tea to taste her parade o� delicious holiday cookin�, from rum cakes to fancy dips for crisps, to decorated biscuits and currant breads, even pasties and stews to be frozen and warmed up as needed. She made it sound like me serious career but we knew it was mainly to keep the calories rushin� to me expandin� self, encouraged by Da�s urgin� to keep me in trainin� fer the Fat-Fest. When I was restin� in me cottage, one-legged Maggie or one of me aunties is bringin� over more treats to keep me on the job, them ladies urgin� me dedication to the cause. 
    Sheila and Maeve�s home fer the holiday break, makin� a quick stop at the start o� Christmas week, promisin� to make me a proper visit. Sheila lifts her jumper to show off her growin� little bump. Her Mam�s over her original shock and she�s goin� to take up her Aunt Mary�s offer to help with the baby. She says that Gina�s in Italy fer Christmas and she�s goin� to tell her brother that Sheila has a little bambino bakin� in her pizza oven. Sheila�s not expectin� anythin� from Gino. Besides, she�s startin� to get to know the ceramics bloke, nothin� physical, mind yeh, but stay tuned, says she. I�m already workin� on a platter o� buttered date scones by the time they hug me ta. 
    We give dear Gran the holiday she�s prayin� fer. Christmas Eve we�re havin� a glorious tea, Gran announcin� that Queen Siobh�n has personally approved every dish served, so me aunties, four o� me brothers, Gran, Da, Maggie, and meself dig in at the big table, passin� plates o� this �n that to a card table where Gran�s put Liam and his wife. Teddy�s walkin� a happy path between the two tables, shamelessly forgivin� Liam in trade fer cadgin� morsels, any donor willin�. 
    Gran�s other big hope is that somehow I get me huge self to Midnight Mass at St. Columcille�s, somethin� quite impossible fer several years. Uncle Finbar�s big, new fish lorry comes to me rescue with the help o� me brothers. They load me in the back and Finbar drives to the church�s side entrance on Chapel Lane. He backs in up to the side door, opens the lorry�s back so I can hear the liturgy and choir�s offerin�s through the open stained- glass windows. It bein� Christmas, I even forgive Father Dolan, him bringin� me the Eucharist, leanin� one elbow on one o� me knees as he serves me the bread and wine, drive-in style, yeh might say. After Mass, Gran�s bringin� me a wee lighted votive candle, kissin� me as the flame lights up me teary face. 
    Then meself is cryin� on the short haul back to me cottage as folks, I guess them hearin� about me starrin� role to come in May, are shoutin� out �Happy Christmas, Queen Siobh�n, and God Bless Ye!� Me little home town�s honorin� me already, a taste of thin�s to come. The thought o� that tastin� prompts me to enjoy some fruitcake slices and a good pint o� egg nog before me sleep takes a holiday hold. 
    At Mass Gran runs into Sheila and Maeve, me good Catholic pals, ha, all pewed together with their mams and das. She invites them to leftovers at next mornin�s tea, Gran�s second shift, yeh might say, after she feeds the men off to fittin� in any Fat-Fest tasks Da�s assignin�. Sheila�s Aunt Mary and one-legged Maggie fill out the table for our hen party. 
    Meself and the girls exchange little gifts, mine all fer eatin�, with them catchin� us up on how feckin� fast news o� Ballyfin�s �extravaganza,� as Maeve calls it, has spread all over Dublin and beyond even before the art students was plasterin� their posters everywhere, says she. Once the telly got our news plus the RT� broadcasters and the call-ins, epecially Gay Bryne�s hot lines, to say nothin� o� that German guy Reuters, our committee�s payin� fer any adverts is a waste. Praise Jesus fer that three-day novena offered jest a month ago by me gran and meself! 
    Goin� back to girl talk, Gran is askin� Sheila. �Dearie, what are yeh eating up there in Dublin? I think yer putting on some, ain�t yeh?� 
    Bless Aunt Mary, Gran�s friend back to childhood. She�s reachin� over and pattin� Gran�s hand. �Take yourself a deep breath, Tessie O�Toole, and breathe it out. It�s something more than food explaining Sheila�s growing front. Meself is going to be a great auntie!� 
    Dear Gran was more gaspin� than breathin�. With her shakin� hand she made the sign o� the cross and put her head down. We was all quiet as an empty pub. Then she raises her head. �When?� 
    The rest of us, like we was at one of them gospel 
    readin�s the nuns used to have us chant, said together �In May!� 
    Auntie Mary was almost in shock at Gran�s reaction. �Tessie, you are a wonder, taking this news so well, please God.� 
    Me gran wasn�t smilin� but she was clearly acceptin� the inevitable. �Now, Mary, meself�s no bumpkin, yeh know. Ireland is changing and I can�t be wasting me time crying and harping on what is not to me liking. Yeh must be stepping in to help Sheila, her in school still and no ring to be seen. So if me prayers can�t stop this moral sliding, I�ll be offering me petitions for healthy babies, Sheila�s and Liam�s and for a brilliant outcome for the Fat-Fest and for dear Siobh�n�s reign-to-be. No sense investing in trying to change what can�t be changed. Now, come, here, Sheila, love, and let me pat that growing package of yers.� 
    Meself was thinkin� what Gran often tells me about the tradition o� us O�Toole women always bein� outnumbered by boyo members. Please God, I was after understandin� more and more how grand �tis bein� in the minority. 
Ten 
    Da was now reportin� the city council goin� near bonkers with calls and mail and faxes, askin� everythin� from how to sign on fer a float, to bein� a vendor or an entertainer or a member of me royal court. There was after bein� no end and �twas just the feckin� beginnin�. 
    There was a special sortin� and answerin� group meetin� every night at the library. When Da told me that Telephone E�reann was puttin� in a special line fer overloads at the city hall, meself was really pissed, me still havin� no phone. Wantin� to keep me satisfied, I�m guessin�, Da ran an extension, not legal-like, across to Gran�s line. No mentionin� o� it, he�s warnin�. I really didn�t have anyone to call, exceptin� them naughties in Dublin, and usually some eejit robot was talkiin� on them girls� answerin� gadgets, anyways. 
    The O�Toole Christmas book was closed fer another year. If yeh could�ve sewn the next four months or so together like a long hall rug or a giant�s muffler, yeh�d have me life in the weave, them designs complicated like the work o� the looms over in Avoca Town. But meself�s mainly a sideliner watchin� everyone I know puttin� together our town�s biggest fanfare ever, with me mostly seein� all the activity through a huge blur o� constant eatin.� 
    Me thinkin� about Avoca gets to more o� me thinkin.� Us Irish know that tourists, mainly Yanks, get theirselves all misty-eyed, expectin� our towns to be feckin� quaint like them Auld Sod tourist brochures or lookin� like that Ballykissangel soap on the telly, them fil-um guys usin� that stony bridge and Avoca store fronts and the old church fer backdrop. We laugh our arses off at them mostly Brit actors babblin� on in their fake Irish voices. 
    Sure and Avoca is a pretty town and its telly fame�s given locals work as extras, plus the priests is sellin� lorry loads o� souvenir votive candles. Himself in Heaven well knows that Ballyfin ain�t close to bein� pretty. But with preparations fer Fat-Fest, with flower boxes on every wall and posies hangin� in baskets from every pole and lamp post, and all the paintin� and fixin� up, me town will be more than a few punts� worth pretty. What�s more, Da says that, when all the bills are paid and the profits counted, Ballyfin�s facelift will be grand. He�s thinkin� a new town center, remodelin� o� the indoor swimmin� pool that�s been leakin� out more than it�s been keepin� in. Oh, there�s a new look planned fer the dockside, makin� some boutique-y shops along the quays. Our golf course�s needin� improvement o� its tufty hills, tamin� the marren grass more to the likin� o� wealthy duffers. And the council�s aimin� to have plenty o� funds fer pickin� up trash regular and keepin� the sidewalks and kerbsides spankin� clean o� shit �n spit Me da says we�re gettin� way past any dreamin�. He�s after usin� every toast he can think o� when he raises his pints at Ginty�s. Sl�inte! 
    Me walkin� without proppin�s gettin� harder. Me dresser and me bed are shaky hold-ons to get me around me wee digs, and me brothers were takin� turns to get me overto Gran�s for meals, two boyos at a time, Colin and S�an, then Mick and Paddy. Fer sure not Liam. Not yet, if ever. Meself�s a forgiver, not a forgetter. Him and 
    Teresa et with us only at Gran�s invitation, but I�m seein� that she�s warmin� up to them, especially Teresa. Her expectin� that great grandbaby�s a tiny foot in me Gran�s door, a growin� flower in her lovin� heart. 
    I was still feckin� bored, I was. I had telly on all o� the time, jest fer company. I read a lot, snoozin� on and off, but still digestin� The Times and The Blare. Gran�s heavy into her Good Book, ferever markin� passages fer meself to read in mine. Forgive me, Father in Heaven, them pages send me into quick nappin�. 
    So, yeh�d find me layin� on me bed, daydreamin� and thinkin�, wonderin� about stuff from how much more o� me skin was goin� to hold me fat in to how many queens in history was fat, especially them eatin� all that fawncy stuff in them castles. 
    When I was a wee kid-well, never really wee Gran�s bedtime stories was full o� them Irish legends, tellin� about a couple of queens, one bein� me pal Maeve�s namesake. 
    It was after bein� a good tale about her gettin� involved with Cuchulain, a hero-type famous fer that Cattle Raid o� Cooley, Jaysus knows when. Then there was that Grace O�Malley who Gran used the old Irish fer, callin� her Grainne Uile. She was actually a pirate off the Mayo coast durin� the time o� Queen Elizabeth I, Gran says, always squintin� her eyes when she mentions Brits. 
    Me favorite�s when Gran talks about Aoife who shacked up with that Norman bloke Strongbow somethin� like 800 years past, her braggin� about streets in Waterford runnin� red with local blood. Anyways, �twasn�t likely that any o� them Irish queenies was ever fat, them bein� so busy with rustlin� cattle, piratin� and enticin� those horny blond Norman invaders into our fair land. 
    Seein� me fascination fer findin� some fat queens somewhere, Gran brought me books from the library, them tellin� mostly about English and French ones. Me queenie research didn�t find a fat one except for Queen Victoria who had the excuse o� havin� a pile o� kids. Seein� paintin�s o� that first Elizabeth, I felt good knowin� that she was as bald as a snooker ball, wearin� them wild red curly wigs. I found meself brushin� me long, shiny curly red head o� hair when I read that. She was the Virgin Queen. I�m somehow hopin� me and her don�t end up with that in common. And, meself knows it ain�t kind to giggle at a person�s horrible end, but I couldn�t help wonderin� how much weight Herself, Marie Antoinette, lost when her pretty head plopped down in front o� those bloodthirsty Frenchies cheerin� like ghouls below on the public square. Oh, me favorite fat royal is Himself on the telly, a king of Tonga on the other side o� the world, who gets gold fer every kilo on him when he gets publicly weighed every year on his birthday. Grand! 
    So, the weeks passed with Gran tellin� me how Da and his committee was bein� praised to the clouds fer brilliant plannin� and problem-solvin�. It seemed that everyone in Ballyfin had a personal list o� thin�s to do fer the festival. Please God, it was grand how they were pullin� together, hopin� to save our homely, workin�- class town. Sure and more folks goin� to Mass to pray fer success and less bloodlettin� in fights at the pubs. 
    Now, meself�s not bein� left out from all this blueprintin� and executin�, not a�tall, a� tall. On me huge bed, I�m after goin� through mail bags Da�s pickin� up from ladies sortin� at the library. I�m tossin� the junky stuff from gobshite jokers sendin� me diets or insultin� fat jokes from feckin� cowards who don�t sign their names and, fer sure, must have been jealous o� me royalty. Some Dubliners are sendin� hate mail addressed to �The Culchies of Ballyfin,� culchies bein� their sneerin� at anybody not from Dublin. One letter asks why we ain�t changin� Ballyfin to Ballyfat, good fer a laugh. Some whacko letters are great craic. Like... 
    Dear Queen Siobh�n, 
    We have admired your royal hugeness on posters in the pub here in our small village of Claregap on our beautiful west coast. We are identical twin brothers of good character. 
    We are lonely on our big farm and want very much to marry. 
    We are proposing your marriage to both of us as you are more than enough woman for just one man. We are thinking we could work out taking turns, if you know what we mean. 
    Respectfully, 
    The Brothers O�Brien of Claregap 
    We are enclosing a reply card if you would consider our offer. 
    Meself was tempted to tell them jokers to sod off, but I�m not wastin� me time or postage. Me da laughed himself almost daft when I told him what some really stout German beef-cakers was offerin�, them doin� one o� those nude calendar money-makers, splittin� what they made with �Queen Siobh�n who might pose herself au naturel among us men.� 
    Other folks was processin� buckets o� mail from vendors, parade hopers, music and panto and dancin� groups, even political causes like Sinn F�in. Da gettin� their promise to behave, givin� them big shots the honor o� carryin� our huge Tricolor Irish flag jest behind a smart-steppin� squad o� Irish Air Force lads, their eyes to be lookin� up fer the only feckin� plane our government�s ever funded, a rickety observer with two seats and an open cockpit. The pilot was plannin� on havin� his student take pictures o� our parade. (Meself�s ahead o� me story here, but later this turned out to be a wee disaster when the guy lost the camera out o� the plane, the thin� fallin� on awnin� over me royal reviewin� stand, missin� one o� the fattest princesses by inches, causin� her to duck sideways into the surprised arms o� one o� our Garda� escorts him fracturin� both elbows, sprainin� both wrists and sufferin� a whiplash, tryin� to break her fall). 
    Fer me the serious sortin� was entries fer me royal court. Winners were up to me, the Council was sayin.� That German bloke Reuters writin� fer The Times was gettin� German women worked up, judgin� by their mail. Me selection was all up and front. 
    Them hopeful fatties, mebbe two hundred or so, sent letters with pictures, witnessin� their weight and age and measurements with �affey-davids� from priests, doctors or solicitors. Da�s agreein� with me that bein� Irish was a plus and, lookin� at some faces, ugly wasn�t. Me choosin� narrowed to a half-dozen. When Da �phoned them, all Irish, please God, they all accepted. I cried a bit at the picture and note from a wee fat girl, Aileen, whose sad face told a story meself recollected about bein� ridiculed by schoolkids and street toughs. I called to invite the child to be me Junior Princess. Her mammy must have blessed me fer a solid minute with the kid whoopin� and hollerin� in the background. Gran and her sewin� crew was gettin� busier. 
    �Aye, Ballyfin got Paddy�s Day safely behind it with nothin� like the usual trad processions, leavin� the big doin�s to Dublin. But glasses and pints lifted at our pubs still could�ve made the record books, them drafts tippled to toast our town�s grand giddiness about the Fat-Fest. Ourselves promised Gran a proper Easter after that, but Herself knew that it couldn�t be the same as the long week we�d been after givin� her at Christmas, jest them last four days o� Holy Week done to her likin�. 
    Some of the Council mucketedy-mucks, egged on by Doc Buggle, was still makin� noises about fat bein� unhealthy, over-eatin� a sin even, and Ballyfin should be pushin� good diet habits. Privately, Da and Uncle Finbar called the richer folks in town the tie-wearers and hoity-toits. But Doc and his allies was bein� quietly persuaded, Da says, that most folks have a bad habit or two, includin� Doc�s smokin� like a sooty chimney and messin� with a woman not wearin� his ring which was promisin� not to be healthy for Doc when Missus Doc caught Himself. 
    Doc�s tall and bony but he still likes to throw his weight around, his family bein� long-time big names in County Wicklow. His da, a doctor before him and his da�s da before that, had their important name on our biggest buildin� after St. Columcille�s-The Buggle Library of Ballyfin. And the road up Heroes� Hill was named after the Buggle tribe, too, although the sign was needin� correctin� when someone finally was noticin� that it was spelled Bugger Lane. 
    Anyways, from the start Doc had put big money in our town�s project and he�s after lookin� to makin� his own killin� o� more punts, so he�s settlin� fer drivin� a �Health Lorry� in the parade, tossin� out pamphlets toutin� good eatin� habits to the kerbside folks, mebbe with some low- lard sample noshes. Leavin� it at that, Himself is. 
    As fer there bein� any more concern about Ballyfin�s embarrassin� undertakin�, our politicians in Dublin came to our rescue, praise God. The D�il was after passin� a brilliant resolution, airin� it in the papers and on the telly. 
    OFFICIAL RESOLUTION 
    We, members of the Republic of Ireland�s representative government, do hereby unanimously honor and commend the good citizens of the Town of Ballyfin in the County of Wicklow, for their energy, talents, imagination, dedication, insight, and spirit in sponsoring its community�s upcoming Fat-Fest. 
    We acknowledge with pride this event which will offer abundant and unique entertainment to visitors from our country and abroad, in addition to its guarantee of enlightened solutions for the town�s fiduciary dilemmas. Erin Go Bragh! 
    Da was beamin� full glare at seein� the D�il�s endosement. �Aye, having three of me fellow members of the plumber�s union serving in that fine Government of ours, now. me girl, that�s Irish luck full steam!� 
    �Twas a warm early spring surprisin� us, joltin� Ballyfin with still so much left to do. Da was workin� off his big plannin� chart coverin� one wall in Gran�s parlor,replacin� the likenesses o� many dead O�Tooles fer the time bein�. Me brothers� assignments was definite, underlined by Da�s warnins� that Fat-Fest�s to be as Irish as possible in all respects, especially the quaint-sy Irish that Yanks, Brits, and Germans look fer, not what the Irish know is or ain�t. �Just live up to the fecking romance!� hollers me da. 
    Still stuck in his penance, Liam�s tapped fer Supervisor o� Sanitation or King o� Crappers, as me other brothers are callin� him. Checkin� and cleanin� portable �loos along the riverside, inspectin� the same in all our pubs and chippers, ditto all the litter barrels, rounded out by bein� himself in the parade as chief pooper scooper fer horses, with continued cleanin� o� dog shite on the walkways. 
    Paddy and S�an was sharin� the job o� calibratin� the scales every few hours. 
    These bein� the ones put in front o� every place offerin� discounts fer food, drinks, souvenirs and such. To get the discounts, folks�ll have to weigh in at a minimum fat amount fer their height. Mick and Colin was gettin� special badges from the Garda� sort o� like those deputies on the Yank shoot-�em-ups meself�s watchin� some times on me telly. Any pick-pocket bollixes better be after steerin� clear o� them two tough O�Tooles! 
    Da said we was in a countdown somethin� like astronauts before lift-off. So much was happenin�, and Ballyfin bein� scrubbed to a feckin� hair and smellin� better than anyone was rememberin�. All to please the visitin� Dutch and Germans, them bonkers fer everythin� bein� clean. Da laughed, �The Irish ain�t carin� all that much about that!� But, then he�s doggin� Liam every minute about his job as �supervisor o� shite, snot and stink!� 
Eleven 
    Yeh know, from the time yer a wee brat, how yeh jest about drool, lookin� ahead to them big days like holidays or yer birthday, �specially the ones promisin� yeh a gift or two. 
    Then the time is after comin� and then it�s gone, poof!, and it�s like lookin� at a big juicy tart on yer plate, then yeh�ve swallowed it...it�s gone but jest fer a wee while yeh have its taste on yer tongue, but only fer a while. Meself was so busy that last week before Fat-fest I didn�t do much anticipatin� o� how somethin� becomes me history so feckin� fast! 
    Last nervous weekend before Ballyfin�s world-shakin� shindig, me longtime Dublin lambkins was breezin� in to town. First, Sheila with her band o� artists attackin� all the dry walls with blindin� paints, coverin� spaces with over-sized murals o� fatties scarfin� down huge servin�s o� favorite Irish dishes. Herself with her painter�s smock on double duty, catchin� drippin� paint globs and coverin� her bulge grown to the likes o� a prize-winnin� punkin, the sweetie. She was still plannin� on joinin� other preggers ladies on a, �Just Fat for Nine Months� float, but twice before the parade, Doc Buggle had to check her out fer what he decided was false labor. We was hopin� fer the best, baby or float! 
    Sheila�s new love, Jocko, a potter from the Isle o�Mull, was hardly leavin� her side. He was plannin� on havin� 
    a booth sellin� his over-sized tay mugs. The guy must�ve been takin� in a pile o� punts already, judgin� by the huge �real� rock in the Claddagh ring Sheila was sportin� on her marryin� finger. We was all teasin� that he was �Jocko with the Rocko.� Weddin� plans fer the summer, she�s tellin� Maeve and me, addin�that Gino�s jest a wee blurb as she�s pattin� her big round half Eye-talian belly. 
    Maeve�s delegation�s arrivin� two days later, them after bein� the merriest bunch yeh could find. �Ah, Siobh�n, so why do you think everyone calls us �gay�?� Meself�s havin� to get used to all the girls with girls and boyos with boyos, them all friendly and full o� plans fer a bright pink and blue float with the council tryin� to find a way out o� that idea, havin� to swallow it with Ballyfin�s solicitors informin� them that Dublin and Galway already caved on the matter, to say nothin� o� the other side o� the pond where gay Yanks have tons of parades all to theirselves, jest about takin� over San Francisco, saint�s name and all, Holy Mother! 
    I�m givin� Maeve and her pals more than a few punts� credit fer takin� thin�s easy whilst they�re strollin� around town. Maeve and her love, Molly Casey from Sligo, a pretty pair, easy on the eyes, but, when they�re holdin� hands and snugglin� in Ginty�s, the message�s startin� to arrive and elbows bein� poked chain-like at the bar. Same goes fer Maeve�s former almost-lover David and his sweetie. Lesbians, thespians, gays, queers, whatever the label, they�re good folks and not tryin� to be in-yer-face, jest wantin� to be theirselves. God in heaven. a dhia in-a bfaitheas. 
    With jest a pair o� days left, me six princesses show up, mostly in the back o� their das� lorries, them havin� me problem of findin� ordinary spaces to fit their fat. The nuns at St. Columcille�s invites me attendants to bunk in at the convent, them cells bein� tight fits, but they manage, please God. And, when me and them ladies have our final fittin�s in Gran�s kitchen, I was thinkin� �twas more lard in the room than in forty years o� Gran�s deep fryin� tons of chips! Anyways, we royal ones was gettin� so feckin� excited that, if it hadn�t been fer our huge fat hides, we�d have all been on Cloud Nine! 
    I was still tryin� me best to keep up me eatin� but it wasn�t so satisfyin, Gran bein� so busy with sewin� and alterin�. She was actually openin� tins fer our teas, Herself always cookin� everythin� from scratch fer years. It was her personal cookin� rule, practically a Holy commandment. Everyone�s so busy, Jaysus. Ballyfin�s like a girl, even fatter than meself, one wearin� a belt about to burst fer tryin� to hold her in any more. �Aye, me own immensity was in a swirl, too. 
    Me Uncle Finbar�s one of them old bachelors yeh find in nearly every Irish family along with a couple o� old maid sisters, usually another married to Christ, sure and the eldest son in the priesthood nudged there by a devout Mammy, seemingly gifted by God in the science o� guilt. Finbar�s lovin� me fer the daughter he�s never had, him bein� me kind protector fer years, bringin� me treats, offerin� me outin�s and checkin� with Gran, seein� to any o� me needs. 
    Him and Da are brothers, barely speakin�, goin� back to the shitty way Da treated me all them years and now it�s Finbar�s disapproval o� what he�s callin� �the big feckin� fat circus� about to hit Ballyfin. Still his lovin� me is comin� first. He�s takin� me fer a preview tour a day before the ribbon cuttin� in front o� me reviewin� stand. He�s even handin� me a programme from The Blare with pages o� what�s goin� to be all over town, plus everythin� registered fer the parade linin� up in Friday�s wee hours, startin� drumbeats at half ten that mornin�. The dear man knows me fatness prevents me enterin� through any shop doors. 
    Finbar, bless him fer his fair mind, still wantin� me to view what meself could before traffic was cut off fer three days, exceptin�, a-course, fer the Garda� cars and wee hours� delivery lorries. There was I, loaded up in his fish van again, this time with the rear doors tied back securely with me propped on big pillows, able to see jest about all there was to see. �Aye, lovely flower boxes and baskets hangin� everywhere, Sheila�s murals everywhere, vendors� benches and booths linin� all of Main Street, and banners in our side streets offerin� every bit o� craic any carnival could deliver. Crazy stuff like fat ladies� mud rasslin�, aimin� those balls to dunk a fat fellow, guessin� weights contests, and all the offers fer �two-fer� Fat-Fest specials in the chippers, pubs, restaurants, sweet shops, on and on. I was snackin� on a stack o� biscuits meself but I felt meself gainin� even more jest thinkin� o� all them feasts to be goin� on in me town soon. 
    Finbar�s doin� one more run from the other side o� the bridge and up Main Street on to Coolgreaney, callin� to me about takin� a look at the hurley field further up the hill. He�s parkin� so�s we can look down on the field and he�s tellin� me what�s what. 
    It seems that Ginty�s cousin Brendan�s keepin� his promise to bring somethin� over from America that�s full o� craic-and helium, turns out-fer our celebration. He works fer a big store, Macy�s which puts on a famous New York City parade every year on a Yank holiday called Thanksgiving. Yeh may have heard o� it. The first one didn�t have a parade, just a bunch of Protestants from this side o� the pond smilin� at some Indians, standin� on their land and eatin� their turkey and corn. After that the Prots and others began a shovin� match against them Indians that�s still goin� on, from what meself catches on me telly. 
    Anyways, Brendan�s job is keepin� track o� huge balloons, some taller than city buildin�s them handled by big strong chappies hangin� on to thick ropes, dancin� along, keepin� Snoopy or Santa Claus or Superman from flyin� away or, worse, injurin� parade watchers, especially in case o� high winds. But, sure and the kiddies love them balloons. 
    So, Brendan�s bringin� home Tony the Tiger, patched like an old shoe and in retirement, �open for grabs,� says Brendan. Me and Finbar are lookin� down on this huge flat balloon spread out across the hurley field while paint dries on a new name, Celtic replacin� �Tony the...� When Finbar hollers down at the boyos, askin� about the earlier test run o� the inflated tiger, he�s gettin� thumbs-up from Brendan. �Great craic,� shouts Brendan. �Meself brought plenty of the feckin� helium, too, Finbar.� He adds, �And sure and me greetings to the Queen of Fat-Fest I see there with yeh!� Meself�s givin� him a royal wave. 
    We�re stayin� a bit, watchin� the balloon handlers start a friendly hurley match. Finbar says it must be fer old time�s sake as Brendan was once a star o� the sport years ago. In short order, two o� them boyos down there are limpin� on their feet and a couple o� others are danglin� a wrist or two. Finbar offers them injured chaps a lift to Doc Buggle�s and the hurley score turns out to be a pair o� sprained ankles and the same fer two wrists. 
    At the end o� me grand tour, Finbar unloads me at the end o� me alley, the same to be chained off, blocked durin� the festival by Jocko�s bench vendin� his chubby java mugs. Meself�s feckin� desperate fer a snooze. Me and Teddy�s havin� some fig biscuits and a pot o� tea, his in a slurpin� saucer, before we�re curlin� up. 
    A pair of hours later, S�an and Mick are helpin� me over to Gran�s fer her tay. She�s settin� out a big spread- hash, ham, soup, and fruit-by now she�s openin� more tin than yeh�d mine in Bolivia. �Aye, but her strong black tea�s original as ever. In our tribe Gran�s famous fer her �whether� instincts. �Whether� this or that�s goin� to happen. She�s fey, yeh see. Da�s pesterin� her now fer �whether� the �weather�s goin� to hold fer Ballyfin�s three big days in history. �Aye, she�s havin� good feelin�s, says she, her eyes shut tight and her palms fingerin� her Knock beads while the rest o� us pray to ourselves fer back-up. 
    After a couple of servin�s o� tinned plum puddin�, me brothers are tellin� me that six o� their mates are due to make a dry run as me litter bearers. They�re wantin� to check out me on the royal litter with them heftin� the poles, all before it grows dark. The ladies in me royal court all are still able to walk on their own pins, so they�ll be three on each side o� me litter, tossin�flower petals as we�re movin� to the reviewin� stand and our nice, comfy royal chairs. 
    The ten boyos are groanin� and swearin� with a couple o� them breakin� wind-bramadh-but up I go, a huge lady pooh-bah, delivered to the royal site on the steps o� St. Columcille�s, a few vendors still settin� up to see me delivery and me reboardin� after me bearers are catchin� their breath. Then meself�s home again in me safe little house, sayin� prayers that I�ll be after bringin� pride to me town. Gran�s come by to set me curls-she says them are me �crowning glory, befittng the queen that yeh are, love.� 
    We�re toastin� the next three days with her currant wine, and I�m chewin� down half a cold lambie pie with a couple o� Aunt Mary�s calmin� pills. �Yeh�ll do fine, me pet,� says Gran. �God love yeh!� She�s brushin� Teddy to his best coat ever, him waitin� fer a special collar o� posies he�ll wear, sittin� next to me as royal mascot, barkin� his approval as the parade goes by. 
    Finbar likes workin� his old tongue �round dentures clickin� fer him like punctuation, him commentin� on all the wee histories in the world, how everyone has a story to tell, how we�re only ever learnin� a few, some times not even our own. A-course, Finbar�s always addin� that God knows them all. Meself is thinkin� on all the wee stories that�ll spill out in to our streets durin� Ballyfin�s three days o� magic. 
    Reviewin� the grand parade from me throne�s the only live part that this queenie had, but Tony Knowles o� Dublin�s popular call-in show did a grand job o� announcin� every float, band and lorry load in the brilliant procession, them banners and flags dippin� in me honor as they passed by me royal station on the steps o� St. Columcille. But before I knew it, I was up again on me litter, carried back to me digs where I was after bein� left to watchin� the telly coverage and readin� the dailies from Dublin with that German Reuters writin� about Fat-Fest like �twas the only news on the planet. Me pals and me family was poppin� in with wee accounts o� everythin�, but when I was alone and watchin� those pictures o� meself on the telly, I was realizin� somethin�.The small mirrors in Gran�s �loo and over me toilet was never reflectin� the real Siobh�n: Jaysus, I had to be, fer sure, the fattest woman in Ireland, probably the fattest in the whole world! Finbar�s right, I says to meself. I have me own story and me story�s written in the drippin� ink o� FAT! I reached fer some candied cherries while I thought about that, but... 
    Movin� back to that amazin� parade, I was lyin� there, referrin� to the fantastic line-up The Blade had printed fer us viewers that week. Startin� from far on the other side o� our Bridge of Sixteen Arches, as promised, Sinn F�in big shots got to lead off, bearin� the big three colors o� our Irish Republic and followed by a smart set of marchers from our Irish Air Force whose one airplane was already a camera shy o� its original cargo. We was all after decidin� later that Ireland�s one aircraft�s jest feckin� accident-prone. Not the pilot�s fault, him already bein� jinxed by the camera drop. 
    There�s no mystery how the Celtic Tiger balloon got loose and airborne on its own. Blamin� is on them four gobshite handlers still unsteady, tryin� to grip their share o� the ropes on their sore ankles and wrists from that eejit hurlin� game the day before. No high winds or narrow street to look to, and the other six boyos not bein� able to hold on, jest plain lettin� go and there it went, trailin� its rope, losin� helium through all the repair patches comin� unglued. 
    Next thin� the Garda� on the ground near me throne is gettin� radio messages from the pilot. �We�re flying fecking blind up here! Some huge orange and black thing is spread flat against me window. One of its big black eyes is staring at me! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, meself has to land this crate and I can�t see shite!� 
    A garda�s tellin� the pilot to hold his water and try to fly north, headin� east first closer to the sea in case o� crashin�. �Jaysus,� the pilot answers. �Meself can�t swim, you eejit, I�m in the Irish Air Force, not the Limey Navy!� 
    The poor pilot�s radio�s fadin� out, but in another twenty minutes, the garda�s whisperin� to Tony Knowles that he�s had a message from up north. The pilot and his student landed safely. Says Tony on his loudspeaker, tryin� not to laugh too much, �Well, everyone can be relaxing. The Irish Air Force�s airplane and its pilot and student have landed safely, reportedly in the exercise yard of Maze Prison. The inmates, mostly IRA lads, as you know, were thinking at first it was one of those UFOs. But, ladies and gentlemen, when they peeled the very dead Celtic Tiger balloon off the plane�s windshield, they were surprised to see in big black letters on its bum �Made in Taiwan� with an emergency number stamped on the thing�s tail if there be any problems with the product. Of course, our boys up there were disappointed that the plane�s landing wasn�t some kind of daring rescue mission! Anyway, the Royal Ulster Constabulary officials have agreed to let our plane be towed to a nearby runway for its flight south and home again to real Irish soil.� �Aye, �twas grand to hear a patriotic roar from the crowd. 
    Now meself�s thinkin� if yeh put a half dozen St. Paddy�s parades on at the same time in the same place, yeh might come close to this one. And ours is pickin� up again after all the excitement. Me da and his committee is ridin� by in an open Rover behind a banner announcin� them as �The Founders of Fat-Fest�. I�m blowin� Da a kiss and, Mother of Heaven, he�s blowin� one back! 
    Sprinkled among all them floats and lorries and them fawncy wheels fer big shots is more music than our town�s ever heard. I was lovin� the variety: a squad o� Irish bagpipers, between takin� breaths, darin� the kerb standers to ask what�s under them kilts. Their drummers� big drums had large writin� sayin,� �We are NOT from Scotland,� and, �The bagpipe was invented by an Irishman!� Da�s tellin� me later that them bagpipes was invented by a Chinaman centuries back! I�m thinkin� who cares? Them is Irish now. 
    There was so many other musicians, me favorites bein� the Waxie Dargles doin� it all from trad to rock �n roll. And, �aye, Johnny-Three-Hands and his partner, Johnny Stafford singin� and playin� every sweet Irish air yeh�d ever pine fer. In County Wicklow Johnny-Three- Hands� talents is after earnin� him that name, him bein� a master at weavin�, drawin� and music. That boyo plays every instrument as if Himself invented it. A composer is the man, as well, �though �tis rumored he can�t read a note o� music. If yeh ask him about that, yeh�ll get a wee smile. Nothin� more, and then yeh�re listenin� to music yeh�ll hear in your heart forever. One of me favorites is one he was after writin� and playin� about our famous Bridge o� Sixteen Arches. A-course one o� the prices o� our parade was the cost to our old bridge. All the feckin� weight�s caused one arch to go right under water and another half way, please God. Da�s sayin� Johnny-Three- Hands� havin� to be revisin� his song to bein� about the Bridge o� Fourteen and Half Arches. Meself�s sure that brilliant boyo will think o� somethin�. I�d be after bettin� a tenner on him. 
    An oompah-pah band o� very fat tuba players from Hamburg was shakin� all o� the lamp posts-must have been thirty o� them big Germans, includin� mebbe six fraus, singin� and wavin� and tossin� bratwurst links to both sides o� Main Street. Stoppin� in front o� me reviewin� site, them was playin� and singin� that insultin� polka �I Don�t Want Her, You Can Have Her-She�s Too Fat fer Me!� Jaysus, meself jest put me embarrassed head down on me chest until I caught what they was actually singin� and them holdin� up a huge banner LONG LIVE QUEEN SIOBHAN. Sweet to me ears it was. �We All Want Her, You Can�t Have Her, She�s Just Right fer Us!� To me da all Germans was Nazis, but meself was really touched when the biggest Hamburger jumped off their flatbed, grabbed Tony Kearns� microphone announcin� to me and the crowd: �Ach, Queenie, ve iss havink da most fun mit all o� you! Danke, danke, danke!� 
    There was more, so much more that I was forgettin� to nosh on the treats Gran put in a picnic basket by me velvet throne. �Aye, meself will never be forgettin� the husky chaps wearin� all their rescue equipment and drivin� their special lorries, all the way from Cork and Galway and Bray and Kilkenny. I�m havin� to keep lookin� at The Blare�s programme to recollect. And yeh�d have loved one-legged S�amus O�Hanlon and Gran�s best friend, one-legged Maggie, teamin� up on a big lorry with a small army o� amputees playin� their tin whistles and wavin� their fake legs and arms, enjoyin� the gasps all around them. 
    Queen Mother of Ireland, sure and there was never so many varieties o� craic and laughter in Ballyfin or any place else, I�m guessin�. We was havin� the world�s biggest k�li-plots in between to be competin� with anythin� yeh�d ever see on the weirdest Yank telly goin�. 
    Still movin� smartly over the bridge and turnin� right up Main Street�s steepest hill was mebbe the last section o� the parade. There was the Not-So-Tiny Dance Troupe, kickin� their fat legs higher than possible, and The Fat and Sassy Jugglers throwin� all kinds o� china plates in the air and catchin� them, well, almost all o� them thin�s was caught, except fer a couple crashin� off the bumpers o� a float behind, one carryin� Sheila and a happy group o� other preggers gals-�Just Fat for Nine Months� their signs rea, as they was smilin� at everyone on the sidelines, rubbin� their big bellies and proudly stickin� out their fronts like they had been swallowin� ten kilo sacks o� praties. 
    Sheila must have rubbed too hard because herself started yelpin� that her water was breakin�--arrah, she wasn�t yelpin�, she was after screamin� like a banshee. Jocko, her new love, was runnin� from his vendor bench to grab Doc Buggle two floats back on his �Eat Healthy� lorry. Them chappies got her to the Green Cross Station, no time to get through the crowds to Doc�s clinic. Me grand pal Sheila was a mammy in about twenty minutes, and Tony Knowles was after bein� pleased to announce that Ballyfin�s own Sheila Ryan had been safely delivered o� a healthy daughter, no scales available, but mother restin� nicely and namin� the child �Siobh�n, after her childhood friend and now our very own Queen Siobh�n of Fat-Fest!� If ever a crowd went wild in me dear Ireland, it was that one. 
    After that wee birthin� break, them marchers and floaters was alive again. Father Dolan, behind our stand in front o� the church, was lookin� away as if himself was smellin� somethin� bad when Sister Frances Clare and her thirty likewise liberated nuns, a sturdy bunch walkin� arm in arm, in bright-colored designer veils and street dress, marched by in review. The oompah-pah band havin� passed by a good bit o� time before, we was easily hearin� �We Shall Overcome� comin� from them brides o� Jesus in them sweet rebellious sopranos. Fr. Dolan kept on blowin� his nose until the sisters were safely givin� way to a limousine representin� our leader, the Taoiseach, whose lackeys in the vehicle was explainin� that Mr. Big was drownin� in work back in Dublin, sendin� regrets. Da was sayin� that the bollix would be drownin� alright when votin� time hit E�re again in a few months! 
    Fer meself the crownin� part o� me reign wasn�t the wearin� o� me tiara, grand as �twas. Me greatest thrill was the Gay Pride float�s stoppin� smack in front o� me. Maeve and her Molly and David and his boyo and all them free spirits, mebbe twenty more, out from all them closets, ridin� on a gorgeous flatbed decorated in flowers only an Irish spring is providin�. And, Maeve, knowin� me so well, is leadin� a cheer, �Long Live Queen Siobh�n,� with all the hips and hoorays to match. Brilliant �twas and me da surprised himself, I think, shoutin� down some ignorant feckers jeerin� me gay friends. Da�s callin� them yellers, �dumb ass Kerrymen and biffos from Offaly,� and more until the Garda� marched them troublemakers over to a holdin� cell, keepin� company with two pickpockets and a chap sleepin� off too much two-fer Guinness. 
    And jest as them gays and lesbians is startin� to move up the hill fer a last stretch o� the parade, Father Connelly, our young priest who�s been thinkin� fer years that nobody knew-a-course we knew he was queer and we loved him anyway fer himself-well, he�s throwin� his priestly future to the unknown, and jumpin� on the Gay Pride float with jest about the whole world watchin.� We was all whistlin� and applaudin� and cheerin� fer him. 
    It was happenin� so quick, Jaysus, Father Dolan didn�t have time fer hidin� his nose again in a hankie, but he�s managin� signs of the cross with a very shaky hand. 
    Holy Mary, Mother o� us all, it took two more blocks and there�s Kevin Murphy, himself holdin� hands with Matt Magee, them jumpin� on board the gay float. More cheers and embracin� welcomes all around the group. Our town knew about Kevin since he was a wee kid, playin� with dolls and wearin� his sister�s clothes playin� dress-up, and meself always thought he wanted me knickers fer himself when them guys attacked me. Matt�s a shockin �surprise even to his mammy who�s swoonin,� the poor woman, when she sees himself on the float. Some smellin� salts and a calmin� two-fer Paddy glass is Doc Buggle�s treatment. Me gran�s pattin� Missus Magee�s arm, shushin� her sobbin� which is startin� up again when Gran�s sayin,� �Now, Katie Magee, yeh know Matt�s been a good son to yeh, bringing home his punts regular to help his mam, yeh being a widow and all. Hush yer crying now. Yeh jest remember that and love yer child whether it�s queer himself is or even if he�s Protestant, God forbid!� �Aye, me gran�s gift fer makin� yeh chuckle in yer worst moments is makin� even Katie Magee giggle through her tears. 
    God Himself well knows that everyone should have a gran like mine-�aye, mebbe He could clone her, leavin� me the original. Well, a few hours after Fat-Fest was closin� up at half eleven on Sunday, she was callin� on Father Donnelly at the rectory, askin� himself kindly if he could be bringin,� �Siobh�n the Eucharist along about tay time.� And would he stay for tay with the O�Tooles? 
    Me dear one was back in full command o� her kitchen with every dish startin� in her cook�s hands fresh. When our beloved outed priest accepted, Gran was after invitin� Maeve and her Molly, plus Kevin Murphy and Matt Magee and Kevin�s mammy, Missus Murphy. �Aye, �twas a gay buffet, indeed. �Tis true, now, that whenever Ballyfin�s seein� a lead from me gran, �twas IT, yeh might say, a final official line fer everyone else in town. 
    Father Dolan wasn�t after joinin� us for supper. The spoofer had already left fer Dublin to explain what he could to the archbishop, leavin� out his own personal confession, I�d be guessin�, overdue fer decades, Jaysus knows. 
    Meself is figurin� that, fer the rest o� me life, please God, me brain will be goin� over and over snippets and snapshots o� me favorite festival moments and sights, them even clearer with the rain holdin� off jest as Gran was predictin� with her �whetherin.� �Aye, �twasn�t jest me with a giddy hangover. Even when stories about our brilliant success was after dyin� down in the papers and on the telly, we was all still high as that dipsy balloon that got away. Folks in our pubs was sure to be sortin� it all out fer years, arguin� about this or that happenenin� or not, it not quite hittin� them how instant social changes paraded right by them there on Main Street, from sassy nuns and gays out o� their stuffy closets to unmarried mammys bein� saluted on a loudspeaker from the steps o� St. Columcille�s! 
    Before the week was endin�, Liam and his cleaners was havin� Ballyfin swept and hosed down cleaner than operatin� theatres at Mater Hospital. And me da, him losin� his way fer so many years, is thankin� Jesus, Mary and Joseph almost every time he�s speakin� to anyone, and him leadin� the blessin�s before Gran�s tays. 
    Anyways, Ballyfin�s on every map goin� and The Blare�s runnin� a �Tribute to John O�Toole and His Committee and Especially to Her Fat Majesty Siobh�n O�Toole,� in two special issues, causin� the council and other committee members to be grousin� that us O�Tooles was just showoffs-duine blamannach. Da is assurin� me that them eejits is jest jealous-besides, says he, the O�Tooles is havin� no control o� the newspaper-them writers is jest callin� it as they see it, so feck them who covet, as the Good Book�s teachin�, says he. 
    The council�s bein� giddy at the final treasury report, them ledgers from their auditor showin� a grand profit from all the vendor and entry fees and the �sir-chargin�� on all them business receipts to say nothin� o� the straight line o� punts from poster sales, them thin�s sold direct by town volunteers, no middlemen takin� a cut o� punts. When Da said there was rumors about Ireland joinin� the EU and mebbe havin� to agree to a Euro Fat-Fest, them copyin� our brainchild, Ballyfin�s town solicitor got hold o� some hotshots in Dublin and them grand lawyers got us signed and sealed to cement our ownership o� the whole idea fer at least five years with more review after that. So we�re havin� Fat-Fest in our bank, so to speak, fer a good while, please God, Da countin� on meself bein� its main teller forever. 
    Everythin� in town�s now back in place-meself, too, sort o.� Maeve and her Molly�s startin� them summer classes at Trinity. Sheila and Jocko�s back in Dublin, too, makin� weddin� plans soon�s Baby Siobh�n bein� baptized, Father Connelly doin� honors fer both sacraments unless he�s runnin� into shite with Rome fer outin� his honest self. Himself told us, �Please, dear friends, pray for me. Me collar may be in peril.� 
    Back to normal fer me means readin� and telly- watchin�, me regular teas at Gran�s and me snacks in me wee house. Then, there�s me weekly outin� in the back o� Finbar�s van. �Aye, there�s also work on me Fat-Fest scrapbook, me findin� me eyes avoidin� looks at photos o� the fattest woman in Ireland. 
    Da�s givin� me a wee break about keepin� up me weight fer me title, but he�s sure to be gettin� back to that urgin� before long, Jaysus. At supper one night, I was findin� meself blurtin� out at him, �Aye, Da, meself well knows that Siobh�n Fiona Mary O�Toole here is yer feckin� meal ticket now!� 
    Da and me�s havin� a wingding o� a scrap with Gran and me brothers feelin� shocks like shorts in their wirin�. Me and him hadn�t ever been close enough before to fight. But meself really has no stomach, fat as �tis, fer any screamin� back at Da. Paddy and Mick are helpin� me back to me house, but Da�s comin� right after, sayin� his sorries, tellin� me how much I done for me town. He�s callin� me an �institution, an asset.� It�s like meself is a thin� and not a person, a�tall, a�tall. 
Twelve 
    Each June Gran�s sayin� �Holy Mother of Ireland, summer�s on to threaten us again.� 
    She�s thinkin� o� tour buses and them armies o� students totin� packs on their backs and, Jaysus, all the gobshite Yanks often forgettin� to drive them rental cars on the Irish side o� our skinny roads. �Tis Ballyfin�s calm and privacy we�ll be after missing again, sure more of a problem now since Fat-Fast and all that fan-faring.� �Gran�s warnin� us. 
    �Oh, Gran,� says meself back, �I�m learnin� fast that life is full o� these trades, this fer that and that fer this.� We was havin� tea, jest the two o� us in me house, and I�m feelin� teary, not really able to chew on me second scone, layin� back on me pillows and shakin� up me own summer storm. 
    �Dear, sweet child.� She�s pattin� me toes at the end o� me bed. �Tell yer Gran all about it, love.� 
    �Gran, meself is so full o� doubts, seein� so much o� other lives, there must be somethin� else fer me besides spendin� day after day most by me lone self. Is this after bein� what God is decidin� fer me ferever?� 
    �Dearie, God loves yeh so much. Me faith and me Irish fey is telling yer gran that me and yeh need to pray hard right now, this very minute, asking for special help for yeh from Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all them saints and angels who�s serving them! Meself is going to talk with St. Brigid and St. Patrick and St. Columcille, I�m vowing to yeh, love.� And so we prayed, quiet to ourselves, crossin� ourselves after each private plea. Me sobbin� stilled, but me heart was as heavy as any part o� big fat me. 
    Almost like she�s wakin� from a trance or one o� them s�ances with spirits rappin� messages to the livin�, Gran�s announcin� much louder than usual, �Dear, me petitions is helping me to drop a new penny on yer problems, and me gift for knowing what�s going to happen before it does, well, it�s kicking in, �tis.� 
    Meself is noddin�, rememberin� her �whetherin� and her calm prediction� o� winners o� some o� the raffles at St. Columcille�s. But when she�s shoutin� out some prophecy right out o� the blue like now, �tis funnier than Joe Brady doin� his drunken impressions o� Barry Fitzgerald over at Ginty�s. 
    Standin� straight up she is, beside me bed, lookin� at me eatin� me snack, and shoutin� �Ah, �tis water, Siobh�n. Water is what yer all about!� 
    Next thin� she�s after havin� the town dowser over. As I sat at me bench at her table, Dermot�s movin� his birch sticks up and down and around me girth, not actually touchin� fer maybe ten minutes. �Oh, Jaysus,� says him to Gran. �Siobh�n�s more water-logged than fat-logged. Please God, can�t yeh hear the slosh in her when she breathes?� 
    �Oh, Dermot, I just thought it was me big girl farting,� says Gran. 
    Then he starts in talkin� fast about ballast, somethin� meself could do to earn me keep. Mebbe them hot air balloons that 
    fly over Wicklow down through Sally Gap on weekends, them guided by rich Dubliners, mostly Flash Harrys. He starts goin� on about his brother-in-law Sweeney who fishes the Avoca and is always lookin� fer ballast fer his river boat, keepin� the catch even with his rowin� end. 
    Sweeney would pay if I�d stick me arse in one end o� the boat. 
    Gran�s hollerin� at this point, �I told yeh it would be water!� 
    Then she�s sayin� it would be a nice outin� fer me, seein� everythin� on shore from the river view, enjoyin� the ducks and moorhens and the bloomin� plants on the banksides. She�d make a picnic basket to sweeten the outin�. 
    Uncle Finbar, Dermot and Sweeney get me boarded, two o� �em on either side and one givin� me a good hard push from behind. In trade fer me estimated forty stones� plus weight Sweeney�s givin� me twenty punts and some o� his catch. And off we go with me a kind o� livin� figurehead like on them long carved boats plyin� the ancient high seas checkin� out if there be any place but Ireland. 
    Sweeney�s in a fine mood, sippin� tea, a brew that turns his nose and cheeks fair scarlet fer such a mild day. I�m enjoyin� meself, driftin� along as the low boat�s headin� fer our new, sunken Bridge o� Fourteen and a Half Arches. As I�m turnin� me arse to see, everythin� in the boat is shiftin�, Sweeney hollerin� fer me to slide back to me post. Me bein� no feckin� eejit, I try. But, Mother Mary, I�m bumped right over the side, me big splash swampin� the boat, spittin� out the catch all over me, smackin� me head with slimey fish gone bonkers with freedom like chappies sprung from Maze Prison. I�m fightin� off them bleedin� fish and the boat�s driftin� out o� me reach. I�m goin� down and swallowin� enough dirty water fer a dowser�s heaven. Me head�s flashin� them dyin� messages folks tell about. Meself�s more sink than swim. 
    Sweeney�s after managin� to hook me jumper with his big gaff. I�m nearly out o� me wits when he�s shoutin� fer me to grab the boat rail. �Siobh�n, there�s no feckin� way I can haul yeh back in me boat. I�ll keep me gaff hooked on yer chest. Yeh hang on, big girl, and I�ll tow yeh to the quay, please God!� 
    Meself�s coughin� and gaggin� like there�s a feckin� rope tight around me tonsils. I�m tryin� to hear Sweeney, but me ears is like cups holdin� water, and meself is havin� flashes o� Gran�s water talk. As I�m fadin�, I�m believin� in her powers, Jaysus knows. 
    Sweeney�s gaff�s pullin� me slowly to shore, me bein� the biggest fish he�s ever caught, and through me blurry eyes, I�m seein� folks runnin� fast down to the river, them curious at all the sirens blarin� and all the shoutin� and screamin�. At the quay, a team of kind souls is gettin� me into Finbar�s lorry, and Doc Buggle, him called right off, I�m guessin�, is danglin� a smoke from his lower lip while he�s hookin� me up like a fat feckin� mermaid to an oxygen tank fer the ride to hospital, the Mater in Dublin. The last thin� I remember hearin� in the fog o� meself is Sweeney hollerin�, �Shite, Doc, put out that fag; yeh could set off that tank and blow �er up!� 
    In Finbar�s van me soaked frame�s a mummy wrapped in layers o� blankets. Another quilt�s invisible. Me inner one o� utter numbness. I ain�t seein� scenery backwards that was always happenin� on them tours Finbar was often takin� me. I ain�t hearin� anythin�, only a little comin�s and goin�s in me soggy brain. One question seems to be askin� itself. Is meself dead or alive? Is Siobh�n�s life over before it really got goin�? Holy Mother, could some committee in heaven be meetin� to decide? 
    I�m still a human blur the next mornin�. Through that scary night Gran and me da and all them nurseys kept checkin�. There�s rubber tubes all over meself and a wee army o� bottles hangin� on poles, and a pesterin� machine goin� beep, beep, flashin� lights, soundin� like it had hiccoughs. Lines are after comin� out o� me ankles. Nurseys told me later that me arm and neck veins was too buried in fat to poke. 
    Gran would never bide me bein� cremated. And sure a corner o� me feeble mind�s thinkin� that me ashes could raise the Avoca over its banks, sinkin� the Bridge o� Fourteen and a Half Arches, mebbe to an even ten. Then, once in me coma, I think I hear me da gripin� to Gran that, �it would be a feckin� loss to the next Fat-Fest if our Siobh�n doesn�t pull through.� I think I�m hearin� some hollerin� from Gran but it must�ve been out in the hall where she�s givin� Da what-fer! 
    �Twas all so confusin� because then, in the next minute, I think I�m hearin� Da worryin� to her where they�d find a casket big enough. He�d talk to Dooley about the grand piano with missin� insides that sits in the merchant�s front window. Da�s sobbin� quietly that any wake they held fer his dead girl wouldn�t be the same without, �our Siobh�n makin� a big hole in the sweets.� And when his gummin� ends, a nursey whispers somethin� to Da who hisses at her. �Shite, woman, yer not walkin� on me girl�s grave yet, didja hear me?� 
    I wake up in a room all to meself like a feckin� celebrity. I�m layin� on a big bed with a hard ridge under me big fat tail. Sure I�m still the queen, but yeh might say I�m like that princess with a pea irritatin� her royal arse. 
    Gran�s lookin� in. �Love, yer blood tests show a terror of infection and yer heart is acting up something terrible. Can yeh hear me, Siobh�n? 
    �Aye,� mumbles I. 
    �And, please God, yer bed is two beds they�ve wired together. Yer having to lie on it the wrong way to fit.� She�s fingerin� her best beads from Knock Shrine. 
    It�s all vague fer me, but I�m hearin� bits and pieces in her soft, lovin� chatterin�. She�s tellin� me that one-legged Maggie�s in the visitors� room, with Sheila and Maeve, me da, Finbar and all me brothers, and Father Dolan and Father Donnelly-still wearin� his collar-and all o� them friends prayin� round-the-clock fer me. When some need a break, Gran�s sayin� others from Ballyfin come in fer me vigil. Meself�s driftin� off as she�s sayin� somethin� about Doc Buggle turnin� over me care to a bigshot here at the hospital. 
    Them hospital picture-takers caught me veins, me bones, me organs, mebbe even me soul. A feckin� album o� me body, showin� parts I�ve never known about. Tubes feedin� me and hooverin� me out into rubber bags, and those buzzin�, beepin� machines beside and over me bed soundin� like noisy lorry runs on the Dublin carriageway. Again, I�m guessin� that it went on like that fer a few days. Meself lost count. Somewhere inside I�m knowin� I�m runnin� a giant fever. All the prayin� from priests and me pals and family comin� in and then out into their gatherin�s in the hall-it�s fair dronin� steady-like, not the kind o� prayers yeh make fer a cure o� winter crud or a feckin� fishwife�s temper. This is after bein� God-fearin� serious. Meself�s bleedin� close to the last Sacrament. 
    �Twas fair hard fer them nurseys to change me bed linens, me bein� so dozy and needin� to be tied to the rails fer me safety. One mornin� the pressure o� me big bum starts shovin� and pushin� me huge self part way into a wee gap between the two mattresses, and the whole thin�s startin� to give way, me like a monster oyster pushin� out o� me giant cheeky shells. Two o� them women�s screams could�ve roused patients leavin� feet-first in back o� the hospital after surgeries gone terminal.�Help! Code Green, the Big One is goin� down in Room 32! Repeat. Help, for God�s sake!� 
    They�re underneath me, pushin� me terrified cheeks back up while two strong guys in white and a pair o� husky boyos-grabbed from their walk down the hall to visit their mammy-are all pushin� against the slack, settin� the frame wired tight again, savin� me from a dangerous plop to the hard concrete floor. 
    Meself�s not much o� a hospital fashion plate, nothin� fittin� me in the whole patient wardrobe, so I�m wearin� wrappin�s o� sheets until Gran and me aunties is roundin� up everythin� in plus-plus sizes, them busy sewin� the biggest gowns together. Sheila�s drawin� lovely appliqu� designs to decorate them nighties. Me posh green caftan from me housewarmin� party comes from home with a supply o� me knickers from Gran�s stockpile. Me bein� strapped to the gobshite beds, she�s doin� her best to wash me down every day, no hosin� possible like in our alley. She bein� the only person I�m lettin� near me fer that intimate stuff and her kind o� croonin� whenever she helps that way. Me pee and me shit�s still goin� in them rubber bags. 
Thirteen 
    After like two weeks, praise Mother Mary, me fever�s droppin�, almost out o� the triples, �tis. Jaysus, me infection�s threatenin� to leave. Gran�s assurin� me that �me girl, me pet is going to live, thank Almighty God!� 
    God Himself well knows, I�m gettin� way past bein� hungry. Oh, fer some crisps and biscuits and chips, food that makes noises in me mouth. But, oh, no, them prissy nurses is tellin� me that I�m gettin� quite fed enough from the feckin� bottles drippin� in me veins. I�m chargin� up a bit and I�m after hollerin� that it�d make more sense to just swig the stuff right out o� them grey bottles, forget the farty tubes. �Have patience, Siobh�n,� says they. �You nearly died, dear, and you�re not out of the danger zone yet. Now, Dr. Euan and his team will decide your diet. Sure, and you�re being watched over as the special case you are, dear.� So, I�m beginnin� to get it: Doc Buggle�s history. Me life�s bein� turned over to someone by the name of Euan Malone. 
    Irish staff doctors are like tourists with clipboards, travelin� around their wards. Next mornin� a half dozen show up, a ribbon o� whitecoats by me gaol o� a bed. The head one�s smilin� at me. �How are you feeling, lass?� 
    Drawin� up on me pillows I�m pointin� at the tubes and bottles and the shitey brew drippin� out so slow a flea would starve. �I�m hungry, yeh torturers. I need some bleedin� food. What am I, yer experiment on fat females? I coulda told you, I am fat, F-A-T and I�m starvin�-S-T-A- R-V-I-N-G! Shite, keep this up and, sweet Mother of God, yeh�ll have me a shadow o� me former self.� 
    Dr. Euan�s a looker, he is. Quiet but clear, says he �Siobh�n, that is what we are hoping for!� The other five whitecoats are noddin� like backup singers at Ginty�s. �We will see what we can do. We are trying to help you with your problem, girl.� 
    �What problem is that? Me fever is down, and I�m gettin� fed up with this. �Aye, that�s the word-fed-F- E-D, which meself is not!� 
    Then I�m noticin� all the initials after his name on his lapel tag. Cryin� out at him, �Well, Mister Doctor Sir, Yer Highness, let me sugget another one yeh could put there-T.O.S.O.-Meself confers on yeh personally� T.O.S.O.-Torturer O� Siobh�n O�Toole!� 
    I brought me hankie up to me eyes. When I looked up again to continue me grousin�, them healers was already gone down the hall to abuse their next experiment, the bollixes. I had me a bucketful o� a cry. Me salt was after bein� tasty. 
    At half four Nursey Bridey breezes in. �Dr. Euan and his lads have ordered you a liquid diet!� 
    �Feck �em! Meself has been on a bleedin� liquid diet since checkin� in this eejit hotel! I want food with a real shape, a noisy crunch, a taste, a smell, somethin� that me tongue and me teeth know is there. Now, ain�t vegetables healthy? Bring me some chips! Jaysus, Nursey, are you deaf? Can�t you hear? Me guts is makin� more noise than the Chieftains on tour!� 
    She�s ignorin� me pleas. �Siobh�n, for tea we�ll try you on broth and juice, maybe some gelatin. Your system must adjust, love. We�ll keep one of the bottles going. If we rush you into solids, your metabolism will speed up like a rugger crashing through a scrum!� 
    They brought me nothin� to chew. I got a straw fer the pitiful grey broth and some juice lookin� like drainage from the River Liffey. They forgot the bleedin� gelatin. I nearly et the straw, and I dumped out the wee salt and sugar thin�s on me tray and licked �em up. Me cravin�s were drivin� me daft. 
    Beggin� Gran and me other visitors to sneak me some real grub-ANYTHING-wasn�t workin.� I�m learnin� why when Nursey�s tellin� me about the big sign hangin� right outside me door. DO NOT FEED THE PATIENT IN THIS ROOM, UNDER HOSPITAL PENALTY. None o� me family or pals is goin� to tangle with bigwigs here. That damned sign�s remindin� me o� one I saw as a kid at the zoo: DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS! �Aye, �tis comin� to that now, meself�s weepin�. 
    After each big runny feast�s stuck in front o� me on that tray table, meself�s left to chew on me thoughts. I hadn�t really felt much o� anythin� fer years. I guess mebbe fat numbs yeh. Swellin�s leavin� me frame, and me eyes and ears is more alert. Sister Monica had told me once at school that I was stuffin� down more than me food; me feelin�s was gettin� buried in the early grave o� me body, said she. So I�m watchin� the rain sideways through the window. I�m Irish. Rain�s a habit. Me fat�s drainin� out o� me like me own personal rain shower. I�m gettin� bleedin� nervous about me thoughts. I�m thinkin� that bein� hungry�s not always about crisps and chips and mountains o� creamy, sweet trifle. 
    Meself�s been givin� Nurse Bridey nothin� but guff since I come out o� me coma in this eejit room, and she�s been rollin� every one o� me outbursts off her back. It�s like she�s takin� shots so she�s immune to all me gripes. I�m decidin� it�s time fer me to be usin� more sugar than brine with her. 
    I�m smilin� when she pads in on them sensible white brogans o� hers. �So, now isn�t it gettin� to be time fer me to be out o� this place and headin� back to me life?� 
    She�s fluffin� me pillows and checkin� that feckin� line in me arm. �And, dear, what life is it that you have?� 
    �Well, I�m havin� a wee house all to meself in Ballyfin. Everythin� I love is there. Gran, me books and me telly and Teddy, me dog. Oh, Jaysus, his tail must be draggin� with me gone and so many o� me family next door in Gran�s house bein� away here to the hospital until me brain and body was out o� danger. Please God, I�m prayin� dear Teddy is all right!� 
    She�s listenin� and continuin� to fuss about me bed, checkin� me restraints buckled too low over me bedside fer me to reach. �And, sweet girl, what else is in your life at home?� 
    Meself�s bein� nagged. True, it�s gentle-like, but it�s still feckin� naggin�, and I�m still usin� as much sugar as I can spoon out in me responses. �Ah, Nursey Bridey, I have me Gran right next door, servin� me grand teas in her famous kitchen, me brothers always helpin� me to walk to her house across the alley, and she�s bringin� me delicious snacks whenever I want. And there�s me Uncle Finbar takin� me out every week fer a lovely tour of our Wicklow countryside. And, then a-course, I have me friends Sheila and Maeve.� 
    �Aye,� says Nursey, �But they are busy here in Dublin with their own lives, aren�t they?� 
    That question o� her annoyin� quiz just hung there without me answerin�. She didn�t quit, the meanie. �So, what else would you be doing in your life? What plans do you have, Siobh�n? Your da keeps asking when his daughter is going to be gaining back the stones you�ve lost during your illness here. He keeps talking about your needing to be �in training,�� he�s after calling it. Your being Queen of the next Fat-Fest is all he�s talking about. And he�s not happy at all with Doctor Euan�s plans for you!� 
    I�m tryin� to take in everythin� she�s sayin�. �Me da thinks he�s needin� me next year because I�m Queen Siobh�n, the fattest woman in Ireland!� 
    She�s puttin� a soft hand under me chin. �Dear, a queen you may be still, but the fattest woman in E�re you are no longer. Already, you aren�t the same young woman in all those pictures in the papers and on the telly when you were crowned.� 
    Meself is sobbin� on her shoulder by this time. �Then, Nursey, WHO AM I?� 
    She�s pattin� me until I�m recoverin� a wee bit, enough to remember somethin� else she�s sayin�. �And, what do yeh mean about Doctor Euan, that torturer in white, havin� plans fer me? Is he goin� to put me on his rack? Is meself goin� to be some feckin� doctor�s blood sport? Please God, be a good nursey and tell me!� 
    She�s havin� to get to her other patients, says she. �In good time, dear, Doctor Euan will be sitting right here by your bedside. It should be soon, maybe today or tomorrow. He�s so brilliant and so busy and so world- famous for his research, you know, far outside of Ireland. He�s back from London shortly, I believe. He has his team check your charts every day. Now, have a nap before your tea. Enjoy it but remember to take small bites and chew, chew, chew before you�re after swallowing a crumb!� 
Fourteen 
    When yer sick as me, yeh lose track o� yer life, and �tis true when yeh�re startin� to heal, yeh�re bein� aware again o� yer life and yeh have time fer thinkin�. Meself�s so happy to be havin� visitors now one atop the other. I�m gettin� stronger, bein� given real food in them midget dishes, nothin� like Gran�s, but meself�s really up fer laughin� and gossipin� with the likes of Maeve and Molly, makin� a quick stop to say ta before movin� to Sligo, joinin� Molly�s two gay brothers, runnin� their pub. Huggin� me, kissin� me them two as high as three-pint sots. Off they go, jest missin� Sheila, Jocko and the baby breezin� in the next hour. I�m holdin� the sweet babe �til her frettin� starts. Sheila�s poppin� out her swollen booby fer sucklin� and Jocko�s all smiles watchin� them. �Aye, no bottles and formulas for these girls. My job�s just cuddling my Sheila to keep her milk warm!� 
    Their weddin� is off �til I am up and about, them two�s tellin� me. Meself�s thinkin� that I�m feelin� better but fillin� that �up and about� condition�s seemin� dim. Not bein� able to walk before me near-drownin� and bein� on this bed fer so long, who�s kiddin� who? Nurse Bridey has an answer. There�s an order in fer me to have physical therapy with Ulla. �Wait until you meet her, dearie,� says Nursey. �She�s an Amazon from Sweden with hands like ham hocks, and she will be massaging all your leg muscles into believing they can walk! There�s something we call atrophy which is affecting much of your body because you have been so inactive. You need limbering up so you can stand and walk and move around.� 
    �Please God,� I�m arguin�, �it�s only me gran who�s doin� that intimate stuff fer me.� 
    Nursey smiles. �Ah, Siobh�n, not any more.� 
    She�s softly fussin� around me room, emptyin� baskets and straightenin� blinds. I�m closin� me eyes, findin� meself singin� a bit o� the bridge song. When I open me eyes, she�s standin� at me bed. Can�t really help meself smilin� at her. 
    �Well, Miss Songbird,� says she, �do you know what �tis claimed about the Irish all having perfect pitch and imperfect teeth?� 
    �No, can�t say that meself does.� 
    �Siobh�n, you�re indeed perfect in both departments. �Tis grand hearing you sing and seeing your smile. Now, could I brush that lovely red head of hair before you have any more visitors?� 
    I�m stuffed with her compliments when in trots Uncle Finbar with me gran, her carryin� a new caftan, him draggin� a huge canvas mailbag. �Aye, love,� says she, I�ve stitched yeh up another gown, all pink and green, and Finbar�s bag here is just one of them sitting at Ballyfin post waiting �til yeh�re well.� 
    Finbar pipes up, �Your gran�s been saving all the papers, too, with all them headlines about the disaster that almost got you, girl. And your nurse is telling me there�s more bags filling up at Mater�s mail room in the cellar. �Aye, lass, it�s your second round of fame!� 
    Gran�s huggin� me and meself is snickerin� �Granny, yer smellin� o� Finbar�s fish lorry. �Tis almost makin� me homesick!� 
    �Aye,� laughs Finbar. �She�s wearing Eau de Mackerel, she is!� 
    Curious me. �So, where�s Da?� 
    I wasn�t missin� the look Gran and Finbar was givin� each other. 
    �Yer da�s dealing with a lot, dearie. He�s after catching up with his plumbing calls-he put most on hold while he was doing all that backbreaking work for our festival. And he�s trying to decide about suing Sweeney for yer accident in his boat. I�m discouraging that, a-course. I told him that us O�Tooles don�t sue friends. Yer disaster was truly an act of God, meself�s been telling him.�Aye, and he�s been grumbling about all the weight yer losing, how our queen�s changing and what will we do next year? God love him, he needs time to accept yer situation.� 
    �Gran, I�m not havin� a situation-meself is recoverin� and I�ll be me old self before long!� 
    She�s pattin� me hand and it�s feelin� cold and frail- like. �We�ll talk about that soon, me pet, but we have to be going now or I�ll be late for me appointment here.� 
    Before I can ask what appointment she�s headin� fer, Finbar�s takin� her shoulder. 
    �Mammy, are you going to tell Siobh�n the rest?� Finbar�s insistin�. 
    �I�m not bothering our girl with that right now.� Finbar again. �You owe her your honesty.� 
    Gran�s lips are tremblin�. Finbar goes ahead on his own. �Siobh�n, your gran�s heart is misbehaving. She�s been hiding it for quite a while, but just resting and doing less in her house doesn�t do the trick. We�re due now for a check-up with a special heart man here at Mater.� 
    Meself is weepin� when me dear, dear gran leans over me, kissin� me. �Me darling child, just ask Mother Mary for the help she�s always given us. Meself is trusting as always. And I�ll be back later today before we go back to Ballyfin. I promise yeh, love.� 
    I�m dozin� after me puny noon tea when a familiar voice says me name and tugs a bit on me sleeve. 
    �Siobh�n, it�s Father Connelly coming to see how you�re getting along.� 
    His kind, boyish face is good to be seein� and I�m puttin� out me hand to touch his. 
    �Yeh�re still wearin� yer collar, Father.� 
    ��Aye, I�m surviving my calling so far. I�m not clear of the sacrificial altar of truth yet, but two things are working in my favor. I�ve sworn before God and my superiors that I�ve never broken my vow of celibacy, and that is being accepted so far. And, �tis a bit strange and very sad that I am really needed at St. Columcille�s with Father Dolan gone. 
    Meself is tryin� to keep me joy out o� me reply. �He�s gone? To another parish?� 
    �No, Siobh�n, he�s on a kind of suspension, being put to work at the diocese here in Dublin, while charges. against him are investigated. Pray for him, dear.� 
    Father Connelly knows that I know. Everyone in 
    Ballyfin�s after knowin� about Father Dolan. Ireland�s changin� and fear o� the clergy and rattin� on the bad ones are no longer relics o� our past like the saint�s bones we honor at Mass. Good folks is speakin� up. 
    �Can I do anything for you, dear girl?� 
    �No, Father, but I�m feelin� glad to see yeh.� 
    �God bless you, then,� and he�s makin� the Sign o� the Cross on me forehead. And then the gentlest, kindest, gayest priest I�ve ever been knowin� waved me ta. 
    By late afternoon, I�m beginnin� to fret over Gran�s not returnin� when Finbar walks in, him not much fer pretendin� a smile. 
    �So, where�s Gran, Finbar?� 
    He�s clearin� his throat. �Siobh�n, she�s having to stay over here and rest for some scans and other tests. She�s not wanting you worrying, girl.� 
    �Is it serious? Is it somethin� them whitecoats can fix?� 
    He�s wipin� his eyes with the back o� his hand. �Siobh�n, your doctors say you are strong enough to have me tell you the truth about me Mam. She�s worn out her heart taking care of us O�Tooles and other folks in Ballyfin. �Tis a saint she is, we all know that but we�ve taken her doing so much for granted. Whatever happens, she�s going to have to rest, herself being waited on now. The lads and your da will have to manage somehow. They won�t starve and they can pitch in running the house. But she�s stressing herself, wondering what to do when you�re after coming back to Ballyfin. She keeps telling me that she has to take care of her sweet Siobh�n. She was getting so fecking edgy about you, the doctor made her take a calming pill. She�s napping in the cardiology wing now.� 
    �Oh, Finbar, meself can�t lose me gran. She�s all I have.� 
    Me uncle�s holdin� his bushy grey head in his hands and he�s almost moanin�. 
    �Please God and all the other saints, Mammy�s all I have, too.� 
    He�s havin� to leave to finish some fish deliveries on the way back to Ballyfin. �Oh, yes, your gran wants you to have these and she�s asking you to pray like you two always do together.� 
    And he�s handin� me Tessie O�Toole�s best shiny silver beads from Knock Shrine. 
    At half four, here comes me baby brother Paddy, sayin� he�s seein� Gran in twenty minutes on another floor. �Our Gran is sending her yer love, Siobh�n, and reminding yeh to be using her beads to pray hard to Mary, Queen of Ireland. Them�s her words, girl. She�s going to be resting at home with Doc Buggle keeping an eye on her, him checking with the bigshot heart guys here.� Mick, S�an, Collin and me is working things out with the aunties and one-legged Maggie for the housecleaning and cooking our teas. Liam and Teresa are pitching in, too, but she�s overdue with that baby of theirs. She�s resting a lot, too, on Buggle�s orders.� 
    �Da can�t do much-he�s so fecking busy with the plumbing backlog since the festival. Please God, I�m seeing that you�re looking better, Siobh�n, and �tis grand that you�re doing that here where them nurseys and docs are taking care of you. We don�t know how you could be home with us as things are.� 
    �But, Paddy, once I�m walkin� a little, meself is goin� home!� 
    Himself doesn�t answer, busy checkin� his watch. �Have to run, big sis.� 
    Then his face lights up. �Oh, did you hear about Father Dolan? That bollix of a priest is gone and facing charges from a pile of former altar boys, them suffering his hands on them and worse. Meself is adding me name to the complaint, I am.� 
    Suddenly me baby brother�s all grown up right there in front o� me. 
    �Paddy, what did he do to yeh?� 
    �Siobh�n, you�ll hear the whole ugly story, if you want, when I�m visiting you again in a few days. Now, Gran�s in her wheelchair, waiting for me downstairs, so meself has to run, girl. Ta for now.� 
    I�m startin� to assure him that his big sister�ll be home in a few days, him bein� able to tell me all the awful details then. 
    But he�s gone. 
Fifteen 
    Finishin� up me first round o� Rosary prayers fer Gran, I�m sortin� out so many thoughts, meself is yearnin� fer some wee filin� boxes in me crowded brain. Nurse Bridey comes in to tell me old news-the supper trays is late again. She�s distractin� me a bit with hospital gossip. �Tis a variety o� tidbits. Fer one, Mater�s underlin� staff is gettin� nervous about their supervisors fightin� it out about goin� on strike. Last strike, she�s sayin� was a disaster with doctors� wives cookin� and cleanin�. ��Tis a wonder we didn�t lose a patient to ptomaine poisoning and the dust piles under the beds looked like old grey carpeting. Tradesmen wouldn�t cross the picket lines so patients had to call out for volunteers on the sidewalks to deliver their flowers and mail. What a mess!� 
    Says I, �Well, I�ll be long gone before any strikin�, fer sure.� 
    No reply. She�s goin� on to another wee story to distract me. I�m no eejit. I�m knowin� what she�s doin�, but meself needs her on me side, so I�m listenin�. 
    She�s tellin� about one o� the mental patients who got away this mornin� from three floors up and was runnin� down the hall, askin� folks on his way if them had spotted his girlfriend �Doorbell Dora.� �Yeh�d know her because she has no knockers!� he�d holler and then cackle like a layin� bird. 
    Nursey says sadly. �Some of these poor souls never leave us, dearie. They have no place to go or be cared for.� 
    Before meself�s assurin� her that such is not me case, she announces that she�s hearin� the cart with the tea trays out in the hall. She�s passin� me a wee basin fer washin� me hands and brushin� me pearlies before I dine again on another pitiful menu. 
    When Richie, the meals orderly, is bringin� in me tray, meself�s baffled, thinkin� someone�s finally in me corner, feelin� sorry about me situation, and they�re pullin� off a sneaker on them pros around here. He�s settin� it up on me swivel table, tuckin� a fawncy linen napkin on me upper chest, and removin� warmin� lids from a group o� small green plates as nice as me gran�s bone china. Jaysus, there�s Waterford crystal, too�a small wine goblet containin� jest a sip or two o� the grape, and a wee vase holdin� a perfect fresh red rose. 
    �So, Richie,� I�m askin�, �who�s the smuggler?� 
    �No smuggling, Missy. It�s with the hospital�s compliments. �Tis indeed.� And off he sprints as if he�s sworn an oath, already sayin� too much. 
    �Twas real food. I�m not believin� what I�m seein�, so feckin� surprised that me famous appetite goes on a kind o� hold. True, all them portions are dainty, but there�s a piece o� nice white fish stuffed with tiny shrimps, a light green slaw, a scoop o� fluffy mashed praties, a small slice of Irish brown bread, another crystal bowl with a rainbow o� fresh fruit and, in a wee saucer, three heart- shaped green mints. Meself�s countin� everythin�. 
    And then I�m seein� two other thin�s on me tray. A card Armst prettily printed REMEMBER TO CHEW EVERYTHING SLOW and a little package wrapped like a birthday gift. It�s a small silver cassette player with one o� Johnny- Three-Hands� pieces already slipped in. He�s playin� and Johnny Stafford�s singin� �The Bridge o� Sixteen Arches,� and meself�s smilin� at the change bein� needed in the title. Then I�m pickin� up me fork and dinin� in more style than ever I can remember. Praise Holy Mother. Johnny�s song is about a bridge that used to be, and meself is thinkin� that I used to be, too-who or what? 
    Nurse Bridey�s bein� off duty, some skinny prune o� an aide�s takin� me evenin� vitals, fumblin� with me flab, sighin� and cluck-cluckin�. No chit-chat from that one when meself is askin� about me hoity-toity tea tray. Da had been me first quick guess, but that died in a short minute. Everyone�s knowin� he�s wantin� me back to huge servin�s to regain me fattest title, me needin� to be �in trainin�,� as he says. With me gran so sick and me wonderin� what�s around me corner, I�m askin� the cranky girl fer a sleepin� pill. She�s sighin� again, the bitchy thin�, diggin� one out o� her starched white pocket. 
    I�m groggy when Richie�s streelin� in with another tray, matchin� the posh look o� last night�s offerin�. There�s some kippers in an egg, lookin� like a bloomin� lily, a small muffin, a wee bit o� brack and jam, tiny orange sections, and a big porcelain pot o� tay with wee pink envelopes fer sweetenin�. 
    Nurse Bridey�s back on duty. �Oh, my, look at that grand tray, dear.� She�s peekin� under the warmin� lids. �They must be changing your diet.� 
    �Jaysus, who is it yer talkin� about? I can tell yeh, them is jest orderin� me bird food, teaser meals, and the pretty china ain�t feckin� edible!� 
    �Siobh�n, everything will be clear soon. Meanwhile, let me help you wash up before you have your tea, and, truly, dear, you should be thinking of cleaning up your language, too. You use words that don�t fit that pretty face of yours.� 
    Me face�s feelin� as red as me hair at her lecture, and I�m wonderin� why she�s after me today when I�ve been lashin� me sharp tongue fer close to three weeks. �Arrah, meself gets that bad stuff from Da and me brothers. A gobshite here and a feckin� there jest is more satisfyin� when meself is really pissed. But, around Gran and me aunties or jest about anyone else, except fer me pals, rich Kerry butter don�t melt in me mouth!� 
    She nods. �It wouldn�t hurt, dear, if you pretend that you�re always around your aunties and Gran. Just a thought.� 
    After me big-nothin� illusion o� breakfast, I�m sayin� a full Rosary fer dear Gran and prayin�, too, fer good news o� her soon, please Holy Mother. I�m turnin� on one side in me bed, it seemin� easier to shift with me havin� lost a bit o� lard off me bones. In a kind o� half sleep, I have me back at the door to me room. There�s sounds o� shufflin� steps like someone�s wearin� felt slippers, and I�m turnin� to see. There�s Doctor Euan sittin� in me visitor�s chair with his elbows on me bed rails. Himself�s alone, no train o� whitecoats with him. 
    �So, no monkey-see, monkey-do boyos with yeh?� 
    �Arrah, Siobh�n, I�m working solo, no interns today. I�m just back from business in London.� 
    �And where yeh after visitin� the Queen?� 
    The good looker smiled. �No, but here I am talking to a queen. And, coming and going, I�ve still been updated constantly on your highness�s progress. You know that, don�t you?� 
    �What I�m knownin�, Doctor, is it didn�t take me brain long to figure who�s been tryin� to butter me up with those posh tea trays, them gifts and all. A-course, there�s been no real butter on any o� that flea food yer orderin�!� 
    �Jest save me all yer small talk. Tell queenie here when she�s gettin� paroled and headin� fer home, please God. Enough is enough.� 
    He�s takin� a long deep breath, blowin� it out slow and soft, the kind yeh�re told to take when them medicos is pokin� yer veins or about to be givin� yeh a painful shot in the arse. 
    �Siobh�n, would you give me five minutes or so, no interruptions? I am asking for your attention to what I have to say. Please?� 
    Me eyes steady on him he takes fer me okay. 
    �Siobh�n, it�s not just your charts that tell your story. When you were close to death a few weeks ago, I spent time with your loving family and friends out there in the waiting room. Their prayers were round-the-clock, absolutely willing God to make certain that I save you. Every single friend and relative talked of the huge void your passing would leave in their lives, and it was not your fat they were talking about. They repeatedly spoke of your courage, your wit, your intelligence, your willingness to help your town. I saw your granny, your brothers, your aunties, your neighbors, nuns and priests, your special chums, your uncle, even your father weeping at the thought of losing you. Many told me of how smart you are, how you�re always curious, reading whatever you can after having to live without going to university because of the curse of your weight.� 
    Meself�s startin� to react, but he�s puttin� his finger on me lips, hushin� me. 
    �As a doctor, I never have time for much contact with people in the waiting room, but something made me make time to hear about you, Siobh�n. You mattered to so many fine, caring people, you came to matter to me. Now, that your life seems saved for now, I want to make it a long, full one, lived by a beautiful woman able to accomplish anything she chooses. There�s so much work to do. Ulla�s massaging is getting underway tomorrow. When she approves, we�ll get you an adequate chair for your sitting instead of being in bed all the time. There will be a wheelchair next and, gradually, with more weight loss, you will be increasingly mobile.� 
    I couldn�t wait. �And, then, meself�s going home, right?� 
    He�s shakin� his handsome head. �Dear girl, the family that loves you so much can�t have you home with all the needs you have. Maybe you�ve lost three stone here at Mater, but you couldn�t fend for yourself at that. And, that is where my plan comes in. Simply put, I am the head research physician of an important new government study called the National Task Force on Obesity. You are young, bright, funny, spirited. Oh, you would be a perfect poster girl! There is so much more to tell you, Siobh�n. But will you think about what I�ve told you?� 
    �Meself�s been listenin� and thinkin�, and it�s not a poster girl yeh�re lookin� fer, it�s a feckin� guinea pig. No thank ye, this fat lady ain�t fallin� fer that. Jest get me home, back to me life! Somehow, please God, me family�s not desertin� me if I show up at me front door! Now, leave me in peace and go find yerself another trained chimp!� 
    I�m turnin� me back to the great healer, not lettin� himself seein� me tears runnin� down on Gran�s beads I�m still holdin� in one hand. 
    He�s whisperin,� �Please, Siobh�n,� before his soft tread�s gone out me door. 
Sixteen 
    It�s me thinkin� time again and I�m tellin� meself that if I play along with the massagin� and the exercisin�, gettin� meself up and standin�, gettin� to the �loo on me own, mebbe sittin� in that new special wheelchair, washin� and combin� and changin�, there�s a chance o� me bein� back in Finbar�s van headin� fer home soon. I�m even hummin� the bridge song, liftin� me spirits that I can spoof the smarties around here. Meself will eat the diet o� near-air on them high class trays, and, bidin� her time, Siobh�n Fiona Mary O�Toole�s charts will be part o� Mater�s history. 
    I�m seein� me road ahead with me future at me command when, after me noon tray, in come three visitors at once: Finbar, Paddy and one-legged Maggie, their faces like grey mornin� fog. Finbar has a bunch o� daffies fer me. He�s sayin� that many folks sent me flowers and plants, besides all the mailed wishes. But me caregivers feared pollens and other irritants in the room while I was after strugglin� to live. �Twas me gran�s idea to have nurseys and orderlys deliver the loveliest arrangements to the hospital chapel, and others to forgotten patients. �Grand,� says I. 
    Somehow I knew what was comin� next. Maggie and Paddy still wasn�t lookin� at me direct. �It�s Gran,isn�t it? What are yeh goin� to tell me, dear God?� 
    All three�s grippin� me bed rail, waitin� fer one o� them to say what painful words had to be said. Finbar began. �Dear girl, your gran is still here and we�re all holding a vigil that we have her with us longer. She is on oxygen and getting the best care. Your Doctor Euan has seen to that, bringing over heart speciaists from St. Vincent�s University Hospital, even a visitor from a famous heart institute across the pond.� 
    Meself is sobbin� �Is me darlin� Gran dyin�?� 
    Maggie�s cryin�, too, takin� over fer Finbar himself weepin� into his big white hankie. 
    �Sweet girl, we just don�t know yet. She�s too weak for surgery, they tell us, but there might be a chance of some things called stents, and she�s getting the rest she�s put off for years. She can talk a bit through her mask. Yer name is on her lips constantly. �Tell me pet girl, I love her and miss her. �Aye, she�s not to worry about her gran,� she says. And she knows yeh�re using the Knock beads to pray for her.� 
    It�s me baby brother Paddy�s turn. �If Gran gets strong enough to come home, she�ll be needing constant care, bed rest, special monitoring of her medicines, and no climbing stairs. We�re thinking of moving her into your wee house, Siobh�n.� 
    �Arrah, we�ll just be makin� room fer the two o� us, right? Like roomies?� 
    Paddy�s shakin� his head. �No, Gran will need the place to herself.� 
    Meself�s mind is racin� to some other solution. 
    �Arrah, we�ll figure out how meself can go back to livin� in Gran�s house. Yeh know I�m plannin� on gettin� out o� this prison soon.� 
    Paddy�s touchin� me arm. �Siobh�n, with our gran not able to run her house, we�re having to adjust and make the best of it. Liam and Teresa are moving in with us. Their babe is due in a few days and Teresa wants to take over making our teas, and she and Liam are going to do the cleaning, too. Maggie here and our aunties will pitch in until Teresa and Liam get the hang of it.� 
    I�m near to moanin�. �But, where will I live?� 
    Finbar�s recoverin�. �Dearie, we�ve been looking at other options for you, but right now, nothing�s a fit. You�d be welcome in me rooms over me fishery, but you�d never make it up the stairs, you know that.� 
    Maggie�s sayin�, �Same here, sweet one. I�d have yeh live with me in a heart�s beat, but getting up the stairs to me flat over me prosthetic shop would even be worse than Finbar�s flight. I�m a skinny one and it�s tight for me, love!� 
    Paddy�s tryin� to offer a possibility. �Our brothers Mick and Collin are talking a move to Australia, maybe next year. Of course, �tis true, that�s far out right now.� 
    �Siobh�n, we all love yeh, girl. But we think this is the best place for yeh to be. We�ve heard about Doctor Euan�s big project. Give it a good think, sweetheart. It�s a good option on yer table.� Finbar�s lookin� like he�s expectin� some agreein� from sensible me. 
    I�m tryin� not to shout at them, but meself�s jest lettin� go. �Yeh spoofers. Yeh don�t want me home. Shite,yer listenin� to the guinea pig hunter, wantin� to turn me into somethin� meself is not. Mebbe me fat�s made me a freak most o� me life, but none o� yeh ever treated me like one! I was yer Queen Siobh�n this year, doin� somethin� important fer Ballyfin. Now yer sayin� no one wants me except that pushy bigshot in his white coat with more initials after his feckin� name than Bewley�s has tea bags!� 
    Maggie�s leanin� over the rail, but meself�s turnin� me back to the three o� them. �Jest go away, me so-called loved ones, and leave me be to pray fer Gran!� 
    I�m hearin� each of them sayin� �Ta, Siobh�n� and they�re gone. 
    Meself�s then havin� the biggest, longest sob ever, wettin� me caftan, me pillow, everythin�, makin� Gran�s precious beads slippery in me hands. Nurse Bridey�s comin� in fer me washin� up before me last skimpy tea o� the day. 
    �We�ll need to change you out of that dampness, Siobh�n.� 
    �Please, Nursey, jest leave me be. It�s me darlin� gran needin� me and here meself�s livin� helpless, if yeh can call this livin�. Some choice. Keepin� on doin� this prison time like an inmate at Limerick women�s gaol or agreein� to be a trained monkey at that eejit fat farm clinic Doctor Euan�s peddlin.�� 
    �Well, dear girl, maybe your tea tray will cheer you a bit! Just let me wipe your pretty face.� She�s always a nurse, she is. 
    �No tray fer me tonight. Tell Richie. Me insides is after chewin� on theirselves. I�m that heartsick. Jest leave me alone, I�m askin� yeh polite, no bad words, Nursey. I need every second prayin� that Gran doesn�t leave us, please, please Almighty God and Father!� 
    A second before I was turnin� me back again, I saw her eyes full o� glistenin� tears. 
    �Ah, dearie, of course, you need to pray as hard as you can. I�ve talked with Missus O�Toole many times. She loves you so much. She nearly wore out a bench in our chapel, praying day and night for your recovery. You are a lucky girl to have a love like hers! Her faith almost makes me believe again, maybe not in the failing, falling Irish Church, but at least in God Himself.� And, she looks at the crucifix, one like them always hangin� in Catholic hospitals, slowly makin� the Sign o� the Cross before I�m hearin� her tiptoe out o� the room. 
Seventeen 
    In the dark I�m after figurin� that hummin�s comin� from the blinkin� machines above me head or mebbe from them noisy after-hours pickup trad bands at pubs this end o� Dublin where them famous red skies o� our big town start fadin� out. Then me squintin� eyes is pickin� out someone rockin� in the visitor�s chair. On the other side o� me bed, someone else�s rollin� slightly back and forth wheelchair-like. I�d be checkin� out them dark shadows o� figures in person but meself�s still strapped in me bed on orders o� Big Boss Euan. 
    I�m makin� out half two in the mornin� on the wall clock it shinin� dim in the night. Couldn�t be me sick gran or any o� me usual visitors. I�m gettin� better so everybody�s comin� at regular times now, anyways. And �tis true that the lazy night staff isn�t after botherin� much to lift their arses from in front o� their monitorin� machines down the hall at the nurses� station. 
    �So�s who�s sittin� over there?� says I. 
    �Friends,� says a voice, sweet, soft Irish, hard to place from where. Mebbe Galway or close by. E�re�s a small land but we�re stll makin� guessin� games out o� so many ways o� speakin�. 
    �Well, turn on the light near yeh, whoever yeh be.� No answer. Ruddy cheeks them two. 
    �First, my girl, we have our tales to tell you,� says the chair rocker. 
    The other one�s addin�, �Sure, we�re your sisters and sisters to many others like you. We�ve all be in your skin, Siobh�n. You�re needing to know more and it�s us here to say that it�s time �twas said to you. As stubborn as you are, you need to listen quick, missy.� 
    She�s sayin� �quack� fer quick, a Belfast voice. 
    Says the rocker again. �We have other work to do, but we�ll be giving you all we have while we sit here in your space. Talking, sharing, and �aye, educating, putting as much fresh air in that pretty head of yours, thick as it�s been lately, as we can pump in!� She�s clearin� her throat soundin� as if she�s after emphasizin� points jest made. 
    Sure, and I�m supposin� no harm in me listenin�. The loonies and dopers bein� three floors up and me lungs workin� quite grand these days, meself plannin� on a yell to wake the sleepin� dead if I�m sensin� danger. �Aye, I�ll just be screamin� �Code Green, The Big One�s goin� down in Room 32!� and then be laughin� meself to piddlin�, watchin� them nurseys skiddin� and slidin� to me rescue! 
    �Right, whoever yeh two be, what�s so bleedin� brilliant that I need to hear it from strangers in shadows?� 
    �Just listen,� says Belfast. �Siobh�n, what have you got to lose?� 
    �Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,� says I. �There�s a feckin� comedian in me room!� 
    It�s hours before me next pretend meal o� air, so I�m foldin� me hands across me midddle, me fingers actually touchin� fer the first time in a saint�s age. I�m closin� me eyes, but not driftin� off, and I�m admittin� inside meself they wasn�t scoldin� or speechy, them takin� turns, at first makin� a kind o� list o� where they�d each been. 
    The rockin� chair starts. She�d hit thirty-five stone by the time she was nineteen like me. Her da was on the dole, and with ten to feed at every tea, he jest couldn�t manage, especially feedin� the likes o� her. In the papers he spotted an advert, tellin� o� a vacancy with Frankie Flanagan�s Freak Show. The tourin� group�s fat lady, Madame O.B. Siti, had dropped dead in the middle o� a gig in Galway. Huge cardiac arrest after twenty-eight short years. Rocker sniffled fer jest a minute and then went on. 
    �Frankie said I was an answer to his prayers, so there was I, a bona fide freak with the rest of them. The Bearded Countess (who was really a nice boyo with a serious hormone disorder), Mr. Reilly Gay (and he was, the dear thing), Blade, Sinbad the Sword Sucker, Cyclops Charlie, Fran�ois the Fire Gourmet, Tiny Teddy the Dwarf, and big fat me. Frankie billed me as FATTY PATTY-WATCH HER EAT NON-STOP! What a humiliated bunch we were, but we packed in the gawkers all over Europe, so we swallowed our shame hard and I got to send home money regular to Da and Mammy. Aside from the mean hecklers, folks seeing us seemed to feel better about their own problems.� 
    Her voice became as gentle as me dear gran�s. �Tiny Teddy and me fell in love, and we got married. Oh, how I loved that wee man. I would hold him every night before sleeping and we�d thank Almighty God for our being together. But, one horrible night, I rolled over him in our bed and crushed the life out of him.� I heard her wee sobs when she paused. 
    �Mourning my eyes out, feeling my heart and soul were destroyed forever, I went home to Cork.� 
    She sighed. �I couldn�t eat or sleep or do anything but weep. My weight had killed my dear, dear Teddy. My sugar went through the roof. I had myself a huge heart attack, something you�ve come close to, Siobh�n. Well, my da was still reading his papers and he said that some Yank doctors were stapling fat people�s stomachs so they�d curb their eating to practically nothing, much less than you�ve been getting on your new tea trays, dear. And, if you got stapled and ate more than a little at a time, you�d spend most of your life in the �loo, emptying out.� 
    She finished. �I stayed with me Auntie Maggie in Boston and I was stapled. I grew down, you might say, to a normal size, but if I ate too much I�d get sick and I�d soil myself a lot.� 
    Stapled? I thought to meself. She sounds like a feckin notebook. And I�m havin� a fleetin� thought that she keeps talkin� in the past tense about herself. But these ghosties don�t give me time to be thinkin� on that, me bein� Irish fey or not. 
    Belfast�s takin� over. �Aye, girl, we hear that you�re a big reader, books, the papers and all, even the Good Book if your gran has her say. I�m wondering if you caught the headlines about me. FAT LADY INJURED IN CHIP SHOP�S BOMBING. Yes, I�m that person who got her huge legs blown off there in Armagh. Now the IRA folks still call me their miracle woman, some kind of saint to their cause. The unfeeling Brits say my bulk just got in the way of their bomb, my having my fat, fat self in the Papist man�s chipper when they blew it to smithereens. Some kind bystander managed to gather up my legs for icing on the ambulance ride to the Belfast casualty clinic. But they couldn�t sew my legs back on. One heartless orderly threatened to sew up my jaw so I could only eat wee gulps through a straw. I never worked my prayers so desperately, dear God!� 
    I thought of the straw I almost ate when I finished off that first dumbo liquid meal. 
    Belfast�s wrappin� it up. �I got double pneumonia. I got deadly infections. I went wild, for a time out of my mind, thinking about how much weight I�d lost with me ugly, lardy legs blown off. Finally, they sent me to be closer to my sister in Dublin. I lost too much of both legs for fake ones to fit. Sure, and I�m not after saying that I wouldn�t have lost my legs, myself being fat or thin, but there I was in that doomed shop, digging into my fourth high pile of chips when the Brits� terrible bomb hit!� 
    She had me sobbin� fer her. Neither one was speakin� fer a long minute while I�m digestin� their stories, unable to NOT think o� me own. No sense o� them lyin�, I�m admittin� to meself. All three o� us in different life journeys with the same reason fer our outcomes. Jaysus, fat killed dreams. Like meself, them two hadn�t been eatin� to live, they�d been livin� to eat. Oh, dear God, food had become everythin� in their nothin� lives! �Twas me own tale of woe. Meself�s movin� from sobs into hard thoughts on their message. 
    Rocker is askin� �Siobh�n, we have more to tell you. We must leave you soon. Are you willing to listen a bit more?� 
    �What choice do I have?� But I knew in the well o� me heart they�re gettin� me attention. 
    Belfast�s story�s havin� a �once-upon-a-time� air about it. 
    �Before Doctor Euan Malone was as he now is, he was a boyo living on his family�s small dairy farm in County Mayo. His mother�s cooking was built around rich country dishes with heavy cream, cheeses, lard- based sweets, all delicious and all so fattening for Euan and his beloved twin sister, also named Siobh�n, by the way. Their da and mammy mostly worked off the heavy meals, but Euan and his sister got fatter and fatter. When they were thirteen, Euan was beginning to outgrow his fat, but his sister was way past butterball. 
    One day, teasing her to be more active, he dared her to a race on the dirt lane winding through the farm. He was quite ahead of her when he took a peek back and couldn�t spot her. Then he heard her weak cry and, racing back to a slight bend in the path, he found her collapsed, barely breathing. She died that night. Heart attack. He was inconsolable, devastated, blaming himself.� 
    �Dear God, why didn�t he tell me this?� Meself�s cryin� out, but I�m rememberin� that me refusin� to listen to him hadn�t given him a chance to get past me angry rejections o� his pep talk about me bein� a big fat guinea pig in his laboratory. 
    Madam Rocker�s pickin� up the story. �From the day of his sister�s wake, Euan Malone�s been studying the hard curse of overweight. All his grand schooling has been his arrow of medical dedication, targeting our epidemic of obesity, especially here in E�re where the mixed blessing of the Celtic Tiger has pulled people off their bicycles and hiking paths and in to their cars and lorries, where spoiled kiddies stock up on sweets at the confectioner�s after school, then head for home, mostly in their mammy�s cars that have been lined up for pick-ups at the schools. At home they�re what Yanks call �couch praties,� playing video games, noshing non-stop until tea time, with more of the same to follow.� 
    �He�s fought for research funds, taken on the Bard Bia, our state health bureau, even the Executive Health Service, the official Irish boss of physicians. That bunch of politicians came close to disciplining him for insubordination. �Aye, but now his work�s attracting international attention. Other countries are having their own Celtic Tigers of fattening prosperity with too much of everything. Researchers are coming from everywhere Japan, France, Germany, even the States- to learn from our Euan Malone!� 
    I�m confused, I am. �So, what gets him noticin� me? Is it jest meself�s common name with his dead sister? Jaysus, I�ve seen fil-ums more convincin�!� 
    Belfast�s turn. �Why, he saw the headlines and stories on the telly about you just like all of us did. He was heartsick at the idea of you being glorified as the fattest woman in Ireland. He couldn�t believe that an Irish town would put on a festival encouraging the one health disaster that he�s waged war against. But when he right away called Doctor Buggle to protest and to ask what could be done for that young woman being shamelessly promoted for her obesity, he learned how you and your family, even your wonderful gran, had just seemed to accept what your life was. Doctor Buggle told him �I�ve tried and tried, but the O�Toole family just tunes me out, playing deaf. They�ve shut off my lectures and attempts and now they�re marketing Siobh�n as God�s gift to Ballyfin�s economy, all because of her forty stones or more, and, Euan, I�m certain she weighs even more!� I�m askin�, �Well, if Dr. Euan is such a crusader, why didn�t he come to Ballyfin and see me da or gran or me? Mebbe we would�ve listened to him, I don�t know.� 
    Rocker�s tellin� me more. �Why, girl, he was right there in your famous parade, riding with Doc Buggle and other medical folks on the �Healthy Eating� lorry, himself seeing you in person up there with your beautiful, big fat royal court. He even helped Buggle deliver your friend�s baby girl in that makeshift delivery theatre. And when Sheila named the baby Siobh�n after you, somehow he felt that it was also a namesake for his dead twin, an omen, a sign, the kind we Irish take seriously. Tears streamed down his handsome face, him remembering his sister dying of fat on that farm road so long ago.� 
    Meself was chokin� up, full o� more questions, them about to be answered. 
    Belfast�s continuin�. �He had no heart to intrude on the O�Tooles until the Fat-Fest�s afterglow was dimming. And, dear God in heaven, just when he planned contact with you, your da, your gran and anyone else you wanted there, there you were near drowning, near dying, and near Doctor Euan right here at Mater! And, all the time you�ve been healing, please God, he�s been with your family, often sleeping as little as they were for days on end, hearing their prayers for you, learning about you, seeing all the love the O�Tooles and their friends have for one another and especially for their dear Siobh�n. Slim as the man is, he�s been throwing all his official weight around, getting your gran the best cardiac care there is!� 
    �But, why didn�t he tell me all of this?� 
    Rocker�s tellin� me and askin� me. �He�s wanted you to use your intelligence to grasp what he�s offering you, not using some kind of emotional salesmanship to persuade you. And, Siobh�n, did you listen to him when he tried?� 
    Them two wasn�t waitin� fer me answer. Belfast: �We�ve run out of time, girl. You should know that your Gran shared one secret with Doctor Euan. She told him that, of course, she had prayed for you even before you were born. Then she whispered from her bedside just yesterday, �Oh, Doctor, year after year I was loving her so much and feeling so sad for what was happening to her, I was piling her plates higher and higher even as I was pleading with God in Heaven, to melt her fat so that me girl could have the life she was deserving, her being so beautiful, so smart, so good. I am so sorry. I didn�t know what else to do but love her and cook all the dishes she loved.� 
Eighteen 
    Between cryin� hard and bein� honestly weak from no feedin� fer nearly a day, it�s exhausted I am, me eyes fightin� to focus, then closin� about to slip into sleep, but before me ears join them, I�m hearin� whispers. 
    �We�re having to go, Siobh�n, Lucky you, you have all your parts, just too much covering them. Praise God, you are a survivor. You are not your fat, girl. You are a beautiful Irish woman, strong as they come, but you have a very big problem. Our heavens are flooding with prayers for you. And Doctor Euan knows you are a woman, believe us. He wants to help you more than you can imagine, more than he himself knows for now. Good night, girl. Sweet dreams.� 
    Meself is blurrin� up, thinkin� am I hearin� real whispers or am I already in a dream? And what are these two? Mind readers, some kind o� Druids? How do they know about me hidden feelin�s fer Euan, that he�s been in me dreams ever since he first touched me frame, bendin� over me while his white-coated parrots bobbed around him like novelties on a lorry�s dashboard mirror? 
    I�m openin� me eyes. It�s gettin� really morning bright over the River Liffey, and me room�s wakin� up to the day. The rocker�s empty and there�s no wheelchair anywhere, but a hundred lovely scents is seemin� to blanket me nose. There�s gorgeous plants and flowers everywhere. Meself�s in the middle o� a bloomin� greenhouse. 
    Nursey Bridey trots herself in. �Good morning. Richie�s been tiptoeing in with some of the lovely gifts folks have been sending you. Doctor Euan says you�re well enough now to enjoy them without any possible reactions. He told us that even when Bono�s mammy was his patient here, she didn�t rate so many!� 
    �And how are we today, Siobh�n?� 
    �I�m after bein� feckin� tired, I am-oh, sorry, Nursey-I�m after bein� terrible tired, I am!� 
    �Aye, the night monitors are showing that you were quite restless before you finally got to sleep. Your Uncle Finbar didn�t want to wake you this morning. He left a note for you and told me that everyone-your gran, your brothers and your da send all their love and promise to be visiting you soon, once Missus O�Toole is settled back at home.� 
    �Gran�s better, right?� 
    ��Aye. Doctor Euan can fill you in, dear.� 
    While she�s pullin� Finbar�s note from her smock, I�m needin� to tell her the why�s and what�s of me exhaustion. �Nursey, them bleedin� hearts you sent to lecture me gummed all night long, and me such a weak sister with no food or drink fer more than a feckin� day� oops! sorry again.� 
    �What visitors, Siobh�n?� 
    �Them former fatties you sent in to pick at me head.� 
    �Ah, dear girl, you were by your own self last night. Were you dreaming that way that seems real at times? Medicines can make folks a bit daft some times, you know.� 
    �Now,� says I. �This is serious. People is wanderin� around here at night and you don�t have a bleedin� notion what they�re doin.� 
    Says she, pattin� down me blanket. �Ah, maybe it was a pair of angels. They work in pairs in hospitals, I hear.� And then she�s after winkin� at me. 
    �Right,� says I. These nurseys are always out to humor the fat girl. 
    But I�m needin� time to think. About the way Euan concentrated that time he leaned over me, breathin� sweet, minty breath on me face. About the way it felt when he held me hand to check me pulse. How he must have noticed at his touch how it fluttered and raced like a gull in the wake o� fishin� boats out o� Ballyfin. 
    In Finbar�s note he�s sayin� that he�s writin� fer Paddy and Da, as well. They�ve made everythin� ready fer Gran at home. She�s weak but doin� better. She�s sure that me prayin� so hard fer her is doin� the trick and she�s sure that Doctor Euan�s another son fer her, a saint savin� her and about to save me, her darlin� girl, givin� me the life she�s always prayed fer me to have. Oh, Gran, what a gift yeh are to me! 
    And Da wants me to know that Ballyfin will always be grateful fer me puttin� it on the map and how meself now has a chance to help the whole world, workin� with Doctor Euan if I�ll let him. And Da�s addin�, says Finbar�s note, that the City Council�s lookin� fer a new festival theme come next year, mebbe to do with our fishin� industry now that it�s pickin� up so well. Finbar�s endin�, promisin� visits soon here at Mater or at the suite I could be livin� in over at the fine facility at St. Vincent�s clinic where Euan reigns. 
    Me reaction�s stickin� in me throat as Nursey helps me wash up and then Richie�s bringin� in another beautiful tray, and meself is realizin� that �tis a honest but sensible hunger I�m feelin�. Pourin� me first cuppa o� the new mornin�, I�m watchin� Bridey doin� some straightenin� up around me room. As she�s leavin�, she�s pickin� up somethin� from the rocker. �Here, maybe your gran tucked this in Finbar�s note for you. Oh, it�s a saint�s card. A rare one, I�d say. What�s this name?� She�s squintin�. �Saint Corpulena. My, she�s a stout one.� 
    She�s turnin� the card over. �It says here she�s the Patroness of the Fat. Look at this, will you, there is another card on the other side of your bed. Why, it�s the same saint. Do you want these, love?� 
    I�m holdin� a card in each hand when two whitecoats parade in, Doctor Euan leadin� his little pack. �Siobh�n, you look so sweet today. Let�s release those ties and let you swing your legs over the side of the bed while I take a good look at you.� 
    Meself�s thinkin�: Oh, Euan, look at me, really see me, I�m here and I�m alive!� 
    The dear man�s pattin� me knees as I sit upright, a bit shaky, �tis the God�s truth, but steady in me undivided attention to his touch. He�s turnin� to one o� his note-takers, grinnin.� �Please note that our young patient has a wonderful bone structure. Her skin and hair are exquisite and her eyes could melt the heart of any man deserving to call himself Irish.� Then says he, �Now, we�ve got some plans for you, sweet Siobh�n, Queen of all that you survey. Are you up to listening to our ideas now?� 
    I�m sighin� and smilin� to meself. I�m smilin at him. I�m smilin� at his clones. I�m smilin� at the whole bleedin-sorry, Nursey Bridey-at the whole brilliant, flower-filled room.� 

THE END