Recently, we’ve had visitors morning noon and night, all we’re missing is the three wise men. But wise men are scarce items around here let me tell you.

Maurice’s friends, in fairness to them, have rowed in and are a great help. As you know, he broke his right wrist and his left ankle thanks to high jinks at his Christmas party. He is almost completely helpless. He even needs a hand to perform the most private of bodily functions but, thankfully, Pa Quirke and Tom Cantwell are more than accommodating in that department. Superquinn has taken on the role of procurement officer, keeping a steady supply of grub, drink and drugs coming into the house.

The whole place had to be rearranged and his bed brought down from upstairs and installed in the parlour. When I first realised I’d have to move the bed I had palpitations at the prospect because I rarely go inside the door of his bedroom. He brings down his laundry and his bed linen and I send them back up cleaned and ironed. But as to what’s under the bed, I have no idea. It’s like one of those black holes in space – you wouldn’t know what has been swallowed up in it. I’m too auld for crawling under beds, so I had no option but to seek help to move it.

It’s at moments like this you know who your friends are and who to trust. I sent for Tom Cantwell, I reckon he’s the soul of discretion, and Pa Quirke is nearly as good. As for Pa Cantillon, he’d broadcast the contents of the bedroom all over the country and if the story wasn’t tasty enough he’d spice it up.

Then there’s Superquinn, she’d be well able for the job, but I had to remind myself she’s a woman and just in case there’s something she shouldn’t see, I didn’t ask her to go near the bed. She’ll be needed when ’twas time to rearrange things in the parlour.

To my relief there was nothing found that a mother would be ashamed of. No embarrassing items and no dead bodies, either under the bed or behind the headboard.

The clean-out did unearth a selection of letters and bills that had been considered lost to posterity, along with an enormous collection of odd socks, handkerchiefs, numerous copies of Ireland’s Own and of the local rag, The Weekly Eyeopener. However, one item of great interest to me was a Credit Union book showing an extremely healthy balance. I knew nothing about this until the bed was shifted, but I have an interior decorating project in mind for the spring and Maurice will be footing the bill, with his good leg and the secret account.

Within an hour of his coming home from hospital, the stream of visitors started. You’d imagine he died, ’twas like a wake without a corpse.

I must say I soon got tired of the platitudes and clichés people insisted on trundling out as they attempted to be sympathetic and understanding.

“Weren’t you lucky, Maurice?”

I had to bite my tongue at least five times a day. Lucky they said? What’s lucky about breaking your ankle and your wrist? If that’s luck, I wouldn’t like to see their version of misfortune.

Another stock nugget of consolation was: “It could have been worse”.

I suppose it could have been worse, he could have broken both ankles and both wrists.

The palaver continued on and on until we were all worn from making tay and hoarse from talking scutter to people. The day before Christmas Eve, Superquinn had enough and a sign went up on the door – No more visitors until Stephen’s Day, happy Christmas.

At that point, Cantwell and herself told me they were inviting themselves to Christmas dinner and took over the kitchen and the shopping. I was delighted because I was near dead from all the drama. They transformed the place.

About an hour before midnight mass the smells of cooked ham, spices and stuffing filled the house. You could almost taste Christmas.

Cantwell got Maurice ready for church and Superquinn, who had gone home to change, came back to drive us.

We had a lovely Christmas Day together. In the course of our eating and drinking it emerged that Cantwell had spent every Christmas Day alone since his mother died, 10 years ago, and Superquinn had spent it on her own since Dixie died eight years ago. They were glad of the change.

I suppose some good came out of Maurice’s tomfoolery, so we drank generous toasts to his wrist, his ankle and his dancing skills. CL