The fresh faced Colleen

Around the age when three and zero sit comfortably together I was introduced to a lovely Irish girl .You know the sort. Keep you awake all night fulfilling fantasies then hit the confessional for her guilt trip. Not that any priest I’ve ever met really listens. If the press is to be believed the majority prefer hairy males to ‘hail Marys’.

She actually was pretty close to the male definition of womanly perfection. You know the script. Cook in the kitchen, lady in the drawing room, whore in the bedroom. Or even on a good day whore in the kitchen and drawing room as well.

She had the most delicious smile, and personality.

Given my background of white gloves, big drums and tin whistles I was taught that the followers of the man on the cross were not on the same spiritual level as those who did protest. And so I let religion get in the way. Not that I knew anything about religion you realize. All I knew was that Catholics were a strange breed and not to be trusted, except of course when they were pretty and opened their legs. Then they were to be whole heartedly encouraged.

I really was a young and stupid buck.

This fresh faced colleen tolerated my prejudice and behavioral deficiencies with a grace only the Virgin Mary herself could display. Without reservation she accepted the nonsense that I threw out as wisdom.

As ever the foolishness of youth got in the way and I beat it out of a fairly healthy situation. Truth is my conscience bothered me enough some years later to find her and tell her so. Even then she listened to what I had to say with a peace and serenity I did not understand.

Little did I know there would be more than one ‘graceful’ lady enter my life.

Later in life the 'white witch' came a calling and donned the mantle of serene womanhood.

As it stands the knuckles of reality are knocking on the door of celibacy and I know they must be answered. It feels stronger than the pull of a celestial black hole. Seems the innermost squirrel who hides his nuts may wish to delve further into the mysteries of lingerie tinged with domesticity.

For my sins I hope I will not burn at the stake.

As to the sofa the 'f' was delivered and now all is built and ready for launch.

Maybe the 'white witch' would like a test drive.

Oh, the musings of masculinity and egotistically folly.