A row with Superquinn happened. The two of us were discussing the possibility of taking over the post office from Lily Mac, who is retiring. In the course of the discussion, Superquinn cast aspersions on my abilities and when I reminded her that I was elected to the council on four different occasions she claimed I got elected simply because I’m a harmless auld gobdaw. Her assessment cut to the bone and sent me into a bit of a black hole.

Needless to say, all notions of going into business with her are shelved. In fact, I feel so bad at the moment I have shelved all notions of going outside the door. I can’t face people and decisions of any kind are beyond me. Even deciding which shoelace to tie first or what side of the egg to top bamboozles me. I’m in an awful state.

The Mother decided a change of scenery might be good so we decamped to the farm in Lisnapookybawna and will stay here for a few weeks. In the meantime, I’ve asked her to take over the writing of this weekly column. She has a lot to say and this is her chance to say it.

Hello, I’m Bridget Hickey, known to my friends and relations as Biddy or Bid. You know me as Maurice’s mother and like all mothers I won’t let a word be said against my child. In that regard, I can’t wait until Superquinn crosses my path because I’ll roast the ground from under her. Needless to say, I give myself full permission to say what I like about him.

We have moved out here to Lisnapookybawna while he pulls himself together. It’s a blessing in disguise since I need to get the silage cut and I’m hoping to save a few acres of hay while I’m at it. I sell the fodder in spring and it brings in a nice few pounds. You might think I’m mad trying to save hay, but the horsey crowd are always mad for it. The problem is how to get the hoors to pay you – a lot of the tally-ho merchants have champagne taste and buttons for money.

Anyway, during our sojourn in Lisnapookybawna I’ll travel in and out to Killdicken to collect the post and make sure the house isn’t falling down. If anyone asks about Maurice I’ll tell them he’s busy with the silage. Of course they won’t believe a word of it, they know as well as I do that he couldn’t care less if a blade of silage was never cut.

My first job on arrival in Lisnapookybawna was to find that looderamawn of a contractor, the Clocker Hanrahan. Like all animals of that breed, he has a loose relationship with the truth and an even looser relationship with time. He’ll promise to be with you in the morning but doesn’t specify what morning and won’t turn up until you threaten to dismember him and hang his disembowelled body from the rafters.

The Clocker is no ordinary agricultural contractor, everything about him reeks of the relics of auld grandeur – his manners are Victorian, his language is Victorian, his machinery is of the same vintage and his notion of time predates the invention of the hourglass.

Having failed to get the hoor on the phone, I spent two days driving around the country trying to find him. My search proved fruitless, but like the Lord himself, on the third morning he appeared in the yard on his antiquated equipment.

“Mrs Hickey,” says he, taking off his auld hat and holding it to his chest. “As soon as I got your message I made the greatest of haste.”

“Well, Clocker,” says I. “I’ve been phoning you for two weeks, if this is your version of the greatest of haste, I wouldn’t like to see your snail’s pace.”

“Ah but, Mrs Hickey,” says he. “I’m here now and that’s all that matters.”

“All that matters,” says I, “is getting my silage into bales before the next downpour.”

“Of course Mrs Hickey. But a word of congratulations first, the famous Maurice must be over the moon to be re-elected,” says he.

“Yes,” says I, “and he’s still at the other side of the moon. Now, get yourself and that antique into the meadow.”