Saturday, August 8, 2009

Michael Nugent

Michael Nugent parked us in yesterday.

We returned to our car after lunch to find it blocked by another car whose driver hadn’t bothered to pay his car park fee. An older gentleman informed us that he had told the driver that he hadn’t paid, whereupon the driver promised to be right back. Twenty minutes and one fruitless Gardai appeal later (“Sure, he’ll be back soon”), he still hadn’t kept his promise.

A father and son getting into a nearby car opined that we might be able to squeeze through the place they were leaving. We might have, too, but it would have been a near thing. I doubted that I could make the right turn necessary to free our car without scraping one, two, or possibly even three other innocently parked cars, all while the blue truck and trailer that barred our way got off scot-free.

We had just about decided to wait it out in a pub. I anticipated that the owner of the blue truck would return before we did, and that we would get ticketed for going over time. You know how it is. At that moment, the man driving the nearby car returned. It seems that he recognized the blue van as that of a local lawn cutter and knew in which pub said lawn cutter was likely to be found.

“Just go into S. Moran’s and ask for Michael Nugent. He’ll be there havin’ a drink.” (The “S” in S. Moran’s distinguishes that pub from just plain Moran’s, another Westport watering hole.)

So, we walked over to S. Moran’s and opened the door to a smoky bar filled with men. All conversation came to an abrupt halt.

“Is Michael Nugent here?”

Much hemming and hawing, one guess that he was off cutting grass, and an inquiry as to whether we owed him money followed.

“Because his truck has me blocked in.”

Much laughter. A man with guilt written all over his sheepish Irish mug raised a finger and mumbled that he’d go out the back door and meet us by the cars. He must have raced out there, because by the time we had gone out the front door and walked around to the park, he was well on his way.

Is this a great country or what?

See Premium T.'s version of the encounter here...


Dorothy said...

You have to love it when the guy that mows the lawn is at the pub having a pint before he gets to your home. The lines in the lawn are not quite straight but he had a good time mowing. Life moves a little slower there and somethings have less of a rush or less importance. What a great state of mind.

Ima Wizer said...

LOVE it!

Roy said...

I'm cracking up over this, because what I get running in my head is that Genesis song from Selling England By the Pound - "I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)", with the lawnmower guy sitting on the bench eating his lunch. And that great last line before the final chorus: "Me, I'm a lawnmower, mate! You can tell me by the way I walk." Heh, heh! Now I'm gonna have to search for that on YouTube and include it with today's blog post.

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