No word of a lie

I’ll tell you a story. This is not a word of a lie.

There was an old man arrived in here one winter evening ten years back. He had a big feathery yellow head on him much like a large mouldy turnip. It was said he came down from the hills behind Knockbrack but it wasn’t said by him. In truth I haven’t the faintest notion where he is from or what kind of man he is.

He settled in to the snuggest chair in the kitchen and gradually inched it up next to the Aga. He has hardly set foot outside since that evening. And why would he? Hasn’t he all of the things a man needs. A warm back, food in his belly, people to listen to him, and a right good pair of boots.

This is the same gentleman who relayed to me this story and so now you know why I can tell you for certain that it is no lie of mine. I’ll tell you it exactly as he told it to me.

‘Begor now,’ said he (he could be a terrible man for begorring when you were trying to get to the kettle), ‘Begor and no good could ever be got out of the same lady. Nothing would do her only to rear up on her back legs and trip out the door the very same as if her tail was on fire. Only it was myself was following the hearse at that time I suppose she’d be going still. I’d be quare well up that way. …. Well I suppose it would be better if I was to start at the beginning.’

‘Hold up there a minute now. Do you not hear that person beating on the door? He had like to never get in. Go and take a gander at him and sure the story will keep….