As you may remember, the late Mickeen Ross bequeathed 22 acres and the house at Lisnapookybawna to me on condition that I farm the place for three years. I inherited it in the fall of 2012 and I hope that by November this year I’ll have disposed of it and the money will be bulging in my arse pocket.

The Mother won’t be happy, she has grown very attached to the place. Herself and Stefan almost set up shop out there, but then his prolonged proposal of marriage and her subsequent involvement with the women’s group put paid to all that.

In fact, since she established the local branch of the suffragettes she has lost all interest in Stefan and in the farm, so I didn’t bother to consult her before I contacted Tinky Ryan to begin the process of selling it.

Tinky is the quintessential rural businessman, combining a career as an undertaker with that of an auctioneer. He is a dab hand at dispatching human remains and equally adept at disposing of property. He hasn’t quite made it to the upper echelons of the rural business fraternity, where the honours class is populated by men who generally have four standard irons in the commercial fire, these include: funeral direction, auctioneering, ownership of a licensed premises and a seat on the county council.

Thankfully, Tinky never considered pursuing the latter, he tells me he finds it easier to deal with the dead rather than the living.

Himself and myself hit for Lisnapookybawna last Tuesday to survey the property. Again, I said nothing to The Mother, I suppose what she doesn’t know won’t trouble her. The only people I had to worry about were the two nosey hoors of neighbours, John Joe Ryan and Tom Brannigan. I can’t go within an ass’s roar of the place but those two boys appear from under a bush wondering what I had for the breakfast.

’Twas pouring rain when we got to the farm, not a great day for walking land. Tinky was armed with a clipboard and a measuring tape and I could hear him whispering as he recorded his observations: “Traditional two-bedroom farmhouse, quite habitable, but in need of complete refurbishment and modernisation.”

“Tinky,” says I, “when you’re putting the brochure together you’d want to be careful what you write about this place. If you say the wrong thing The Mother could be down your throat.”

“’Tis down your throat she’ll be if you sell the place out from under her.”

“What do you mean out from under her? ’Tis my property, I can do what I like with it,” says I.

“I don’t think you’ll be saying that kind of thing straight to her face,” says Tinky. “Your need to keep that woman sweet is far greater than her need to keep you sweet. If she decides to pull the plug on the transport department you’ll have a sore arse cyclin’ your bike to and from council meetings.”

“Whatever she says, I’m sellin’ the place,” says I.

With that, there was a knock on the door.

“God bless all here,” ’twas that hoor of a John Joe Ryan and hot on his heels his sidekick Tom Brannigan.

“If it isn’t the councillor and the undertaker? Is it a funeral ye’re plannin’?”

I wanted to tell him ’tis his funeral we’d be planning if he can’t keep his mouth shut, but, as you all know, I’m not the violent type. Tinky winked at me as he turned and had a hop off John Joe.

“We were just sayin’,” says Tinky, “that this place would make a great spot for a crematorium.”

“A what?” asked Brannigan.

“A crematorium,” says Tinky. “A place where the remains of the dead are cremated.”

“Burned you mean,” said John Joe.

“That’s right,” says Tinky, “’tis all the go nowadays. Everyone who’s anyone is gettin’ cremated. Indeed, there’s a great business in pet cremations, everything from the poodle to the pony.”

“But you’d need plannin’ permission for a thing like that,” says Brannigan.

“Sure I’ll have no problem with plannin’,” says Tinky. “Haven’t I the councillor here to give me a hand with it,” says Tinky.

“I wouldn’t be happy about havin’ that kind of a thing here,” says John Joe. “You’d have all types comin’ around the place.”

“Whether you’re happy or not the place will be sold,” says Tinky “and if no one buys it I’ll buy it myself and build what I like.”

The two boys left in a hurry.

“What was all that about,” says I to Tinky.

“There’s nothing like a bit of controversy to generate local interest in a property. Those two galoots will spread the rumour about the crematorium and we’ll have plenty of locals biddin’ to keep me out. While they’re at it, they’ll be fillin’ your pockets.”