My son’s enforced exile in Lissnapookybawna appears to have paid off – he’s up to date with all the assignments for his course and expects to graduate in November. The graduation will be an excuse for me to put on a big hat. He has no intention of getting married anytime soon, so it might be my only opportunity.

Talking about new hats, I badly need a new rig-out but I’m not ready to hit the shops just yet. I’ve put on a bit of condition over the summer and I’m afraid I’ll have to go to the “marquee” end of the boutiques if I go shopping at the moment. My summer trips with the ladies didn’t help: gallons of tea and mountains of scones lathered with clotted cream and jam were consumed. I have the folds of flesh to show for it.

Now that Maurice is coming back, I’ll go on a health binge and you won’t know me by Christmas. I had one last outing with the ladies during the week when we met for our last afternoon tea of the summer. The day trips are over so we contented ourselves with a little gathering in a hotel in Clonmel where we talked the jaws off ourselves and ate our way through a half a tonne of scones and cream buns.

The following day I took myself to my doctor, Martina Doherty, daughter of the auld Dr Doherty who’s still plying his trade here in Killdicken. There’s a rumour he’s retiring since the daughter relocated with her husband and children. The arrival of the young doctor’s four kids saved the school from losing a teacher. Her husband is a writer and a stay-at-home husband. Everyone is intrigued by him. With his big beard and sandals, he’s cut from the same cloth as our PP, Fr Roche.

Anyway, I took myself off to Dr Martina. It’s great to have her back and it’s great to have a woman doctor to go to. I’ll say no more or I’ll be accused of being sexist, but when you get to my age you get very particular about the people you allow to poke at your bits.

She examined me up and down, weighed me, measured me, took the blood pressure and went over my history and my family history back as far as the Normans. She took bloods for everything from the mumps to malaria and, while she agreed I had put on a few pounds, she said I wasn’t in bad shape given the mileage I had on the clock.

However, when the results of the blood tests came back, the story took a different twist. ’Twas like a bad NCT result; it came with a list of repairs and adjustments to be done. I was sitting at home contemplating a complete change of lifestyle when Nell Regan popped in.

“What’s wrong, Biddy?” she asked.

“Oh Nell,” says I, “I got the blood results back and everything is up – my cholesterol, my liver function, my blood sugar level, the lot.”

“Isn’t that the devil,” says she, “everything is up.”

“Everything except my rear end,” says I, “the force of gravity is dragging that down.”

“Well now, Biddy,” says she, “at our age we shouldn’t be worrying about that part of our anatomy – we’ll leave that to the youngsters and the Kardashians.”

“Well, I need to start getting off my backside,” says I, “so, Nell, we’ll have to get the ladies motivated for a bit of healthy living for the winter.”

“But Biddy,” she says, “as soon as Maurice comes back you’ll be busy driving him here there and everywhere.”

“He had better get used to fitting into my schedule,” says I, “I’ve been making my plans: there’s aqua aerobics in Clonmel, pilates in Shronefodda, keep fit for all ages in the GAA hall in Glengooley, yoga in Bally and a new Crookdeedy mountain walking club.”

“You’ll be killed from all that,” says Nell.

“Not if I avoid the yoga in Bally. Knowing that crowd they’re probably doing it naked in the middle of the night in Boorlahan bog.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the sight and sound of a tractor pulling in to the yard.”

“Who in the name of God is that?” says I.

“It’s Maurice,” says Nell. “He’s getting down off a tractor and has a dog under his arm.”

I was out the door in a flash.

“Who gave you permission to drive my tractor?”

“It’s my tractor,” says he, “and I have a licence to drive it. You won’t have to be drivin’ me anywhere any more.”

“You’re gone mad since you went out to that place. And where are you goin’ with that mut of a dog?,” says I.

“We go together as a package,” says Maurice.

“Come in the both of ye,” says I, “if I house-trained you I’ll house-train him.”

He’s back. CL