The way people differ never ceases to amaze me. I suppose the world would be a dull place if we were all the same. While physical differences are clear to see, and understandable, the differences in personality are intriguing.

For instance, you have certain people who are born cross and cranky. All their lives they seek to make their mark on the world with the sharp tongue and the dig that is guaranteed to pull their subject down to size. On the other hand, they are often good hearted and loyal people, the kind you’d want on your side when times get tough. The Mother is like that, while she’d eat you without salt, loyalty is her middle name.

It’s a common occurrence that people are partnered with men or women who are quite the opposite of them. For instance, my father was a quiet type who got elected and re-elected because he was a nice man, but he’d never have gotten anywhere without The Mother driving him forward and taking on his political enemies. He’d be happy enough to “let them on”, as he used to say, but she’d let no one away with anything.

She had her knife in Moll Gleeson’s father in particular. Moll, as you know, is a council colleague and a bit of a thunderbolt, but her father, who was on the council in my father’s time, was a shlithery, shlawderry auld shleveen of a man, who’d cut your throat while smiling in your face.

If he ever thought my father missed a funeral he’d be sure to do a second round of the bereaved saying: “I didn’t see Moss Hickey here. Ah, sure the poor man is a bit forgetful.”

Meanwhile, he’d meet my father and mention how he didn’t see him at the recent funeral. Not only that, he’d tell him: “I extended sympathies for you, Moss, and they were delighted.” The lying hoor.

The Mother waited for auld Gleeson in the long grass. At the next election he ran on a sympathy ticket saying it would be his last time to go. The Mother lost no opportunity at wedding, wake or christening to describe him as a lame duck who was expecting the people of Killdicken to provide him with a cushy retirement package. He lost his seat and Moll ran the next time.

I suppose the biggest contrast I find is the contrast between the quiet types and the talkative types. Very often you’ll find the two in the one marriage, where one can’t shut up to take a breath and the other won’t say “boo” to the proverbial goose. You wouldn’t know which of them would be worse to be stuck with in a train carriage.

I think the talkative type provides the greatest challenge. You can’t really tell anyone to shut up unless you know them well. What do you do? I often wondered how their nearest and dearest coped with these people until I was told about Nuala Puck Ryan from Honetyne, who was married to The Gust Tynan.

Nuala was the quietest woman on earth, but Gus was known as The Gust thanks to his capacity to talk without taking a breath. The minute he’d see you coming he’d start talking. I’m convinced he was having the one conversation with everyone he met. The only things to change were his victims.

He was like a tap that was constantly running and drenching whoever was misfortunate enough to come near him.

The Gust had an extraordinary gift for interrupting himself. He could start a conversation telling you about a bullock he sold to a fella from Shronefodda and before you’d know it you’d be listening to a blow-by-blow account of a pub brawl in Sydney, Australia. In the course of explaining to you who the buyer of his bullock was he’d get distracted telling you who the man was related to and could wander into every neighbour’s yard and up all kinds of by-roads and cul-de-sacs.

You could end up hearing stories about the fella’s uncle who had a boarding house in London and was bitten on the arse by a flea that came in on a suitcase from New York. No matter how many boreens he went up, he’d always return to the original story and at that point it was vital to extricate yourself from his verbal clutches before he took off on another prolonged tangent.

If you didn’t, you could find yourself anywhere, from sitting cross-legged with monks in Tibet or being chased through the jungles of the Amazon by head hunters.

When the Gust died, the parish priest asked Nuala if he had ever stopped talking. “I couldn’t tell you, Father,” she said. “I stopped listening to him three weeks after we got married and I didn’t hear a word he said in 52 years.”