As I told you last week, the community council is compiling a book about Killdicken and I’ve been volunteered to write a chapter on the history of the place. I’m nearly gone quare in the head trying to figure out where to begin. Once I was given the job I thought I wouldn’t hear a word about it until the pressure came on to get the thing out for Christmas. I should have remembered that Superquinn is editor-in-chief of the project and she believes only in the now. The woman never asks: ‘When do you plan to do it?’ She asks: ‘Why isn’t it done?’

The book is intended to be a social, political and sporting history of Killdicken, entitled From Caparoo to Waterloo. As this is the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, the book is meant to commemorate a certain Ted Nolan from Caparoo, Killdicken, who fought with Wellington at the famous scrap. I was detailed to write the political history of his native sod.

I wasn’t home from the first meeting about the book, when I got a phone call from the good lady editor-in-chief wondering when I planned to have a draft of my chapter on her desk.

“Wouldn’t the end of September be fine?” says I.

“Is it the weather you’re talkin’ about?” says she. “I want the first draft on my desk by the end of the month and it better be good, I don’t want any pile of auld shite. If it isn’t on my desk and isn’t up to scratch, I’ll give the job to someone else. Maybe Percy Pipplemoth Davis would like to write the chapter?”

She knew that threatening to give my job to that hoor of a Percy was like threatening to tie me to the post office door and ask the people to pelt me with rotten turnips. The public humiliation would be too much to bear.

The pressure was on, and when the pressure comes on the first thing I do is get an attack of stress. I’m a hoor for it. I stay awake at night, I stare into my cornflakes in the morning and generally go around the place like one of the ancient Gauls, expecting the sky to fall in at any moment.

Then I panic and fly around in circles like a bluebottle with a sore arse, until The Mother or Tom Cantwell come to the rescue.

I’m in the worrying phase at the moment. I was sitting in the hut at the recycling depot, staring at my boots, when Todd asked: “Maurice, what’s up? There’s no bit of life in you at all this weather.”

“Oh,” says I. “I’ve been landed with the job of writing a chapter of a book on Killdicken’s history and I don’t know how or when I’m going to get it done.”

“Don’t be a bit worried about that. Listen, over the years heaps of auld books on local history are dumped here in the book bins. I rescued one and have it at home, ’twill surely sort you out. It’s called The Parishes of South Tipperary, from Cromwell to Croke, it’s been out of print for years, so you can take all kinds of bits out of it.”

“Jaysus Todd, that would solve all my problems.”

“It might. But in case you get notions about that thing ye’re writin’, let me tell you that for every copy of a local history book that ends up on a library shelf, at least 10 end up in places like this and go on to become bedding for greyhounds. I suppose the greyhounds do well out of it. I’ll bring in that book tomorrow, you can take what you like out of it, no one will notice.”

I was like a new man. The following day, Todd brought in the tattered book and from a quick skim through it I could see it had enough stuff about Killdicken to help me write four chapters.

I took the tome home where I perused it in more detail. This was the answer to my prayers, but I wasn’t going to let anyone in on my secret. I didn’t even show it to The Mother. Like all the best journalists I would jealously protect my sources.

The following evening, when I came in from the depot, there was a parcel waiting for me.

“Breda Quinn dropped that in for you,” said the Mother.

I opened it and nearly dropped to find another copy of my secret weapon, The Parishes of South Tipperary, from Cromwell to Croke, lookin’ out at me. The parcel included a note from Superquinn: “This might be useful to you, but I don’t want to see lumps of it regurgitated in my book.”

That woman is on a mission to make my life a misery.