When I saw the text my heart sank.

“Hello.anNe.i.might.call.up.to.you.for.a.chat.sally.ps.Francie.Juniors.toenails.are.at.him.would.you.have.that.cream.”

(She still can’t manage the spaces on the phone.)

A grand Saturday afternoon and now I had a visit from Sally Considine to look forward to. Normally, she’ll spend the whole visit giving out about Francie Junior, but it seems today I was going to have to hear about his fungal feet. I’m awful, I know. I shouldn’t complain. Poor Sally has had a hard time. She spent years looking after Francie, the husband, before he died lordamercyinim. And Francie Junior is in his 40s and shows NO signs of leaving. He has it too comfortable altogether. I always said to my lads: “I want ye out the door or else ye’re paying yere way.”

Francie Junior’s a bit odd. I’d see him on the bus going up to town a good bit. Always carrying that oul Lidl bag of his. What he has in it, I don’t know, but he’s always sort of looking into it as if there’s an answer in there. Of course I’d salute him, but I’d be afraid of my life that he might sit next to me, because you wouldn’t know WHAT he’d come out with. He’s big into his conspiracy theories. I spent the whole journey one time listening to him going on about how the police are part of the The Machine. I was going to say that I don’t think the sergeant was part of any machine, seeing has how he’s already had three cases thrown out of the district court because he couldn’t work the speed gun, but I said nothing. There’s no arguing with Francie Junior.

The anti water charges crowd had to ask him to stop coming to the meetings, because he wanted to do a big banner about the Illuminati at one of the protests and they reckoned it would give the cause a bad name.

This time Sally wasted no time. Even before I’d made the tea.

“Oh Anne I’m at my wits end.”

“What’s the matter Sally – are his toenails that bad?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I hope they fall off. It might keep him out of trouble. I only put that on it in case he’d be reading my phone.”

I waited. This sounded like it might be a cut above the usual Sally visit.

“I think he’s mixed up in some sort of cult Anne.”

“A cult?”

“Yeah you know like the Scientists.”

“You mean the Scientologists.”

“Yeah them, whatever they’re called. But now he’s locked away in the garage nearly all the time. And I hear him shouting and banging.”

“But shur he’s always in there anyway. What makes you think he’s in a cult?”

“He’s secretive these days. He gets all this gear delivered. And he won’t let me NEAR it. I was going out with the clothes there one night and …”

Just then the door opens and Himself walks in.

“How’s Sally and how’s the young lad.”

“Oh he’s grand.”

I’m glaring at Himself to get out so I can hear the rest of the story, but he sits down with the paper, the clown.

“I’d better be going,” says Sally.

“Are you SURE Sally. Will you not have a hot drop?”

But no, Sally must have been spooked and she clammed up as they say in NCIS. I was raging as she went out the door.

After I’d let Himself know my feelings, I decided to send Sally a text.

“Nice to see you for the catch up call in any time u want anne x.”

You have to be there for people when they need someone to talk to.