Sunday 21^st August

My reputation does not precede me. At least a dozen birds have gathered in the tree beneath my window and they are singing up a storm. I retrieved my marble stash from the drawer. You have chirped your last my feathered friends. With a single marble clasped between forefinger and thumb and my body poised for precision, I swung my arm like a seasoned pitcher and relinquished the glass ball.

It hurtled through the air, deftly avoiding branches and foliage, and incredibly still picking up speed as it continued its descent from balcony to bird. A muffled thud resonated in the early morning air, ousting the remaining fowl from their perches. I leaned over the balcony to assess the damage, only to find I had indeed hit my target but not with the full force I had intended. A large crow with severe concussion was staggering about on the footpath below. That’s just bloody great! That in no way solves my problem. A dead bird sends a message. A concussed bird can't even relay a message.

Bert picked me up at 07:14. I dragged my suitcase down two flights of stairs, past the flustered crow, which was now flying in circles a foot off the ground. I resisted the urge to kick it as I walked past, since there were people around, who undoubtedly frowned on that sort of thing. What ever happened to the circle of life? The natural rivalry between all God's creatures in a constant battle for survival. No-one gets on the dog's case for chasing the cat, or the cat for chasing the mouse. It's not my fault the crow is my natural enemy. If I discovered a human singing in the tree outside my apartment, I assure you they would receive exactly the same treatment. Man, woman, animal, black, white, hairy, bald, young, old, religious, atheist...I don't discriminate. I hate you all equally.

The journey began on a high note, as Bert spotted the crow frantically orbiting the bin, now three feet in the air and climbing. Bert, bent over the steering wheel in hysterics, started to cry as I explained to him the reason behind the bird's antics. See? The mistreatment of animals can be funny. You just have to know your audience. Despite the purpose of the trip, Bert tried to maintain an upbeat attitude, demonstrating his own version of I Spy. This version is not the fondly remembered game of your childhood but rather a fishing expedition for the ugliest person in the vicinity, (Not only a fun game, but also a test of your observational skills, and a lesson on local wildlife). For example: “I spy with my little eye a fat bird in leggings and a hoody that could double as a hammock”. You get the idea. One girl was so ugly Bert made an illegal U-turn in the middle of a busy street to show me, thereby claiming his title as I Spy King. That might seem unnecessarily cruel but he was absolutely right....won him the game.

We arrived in Baltimore at half ten and pulled up outside what could only be described as a mansion, previously referred to by Bert as “the farmhouse”. I'm not sure if Bert has ever seen a postcard but I think he'd be surprised to find that this was not your conventional representation of rural Ireland. It had two stories, a gravelled driveway, and no live stock or smell of shit to speak of. Even more confusingly, the sun was shining, and I thought, if I closed my eyes I could be anywhere right now. Ah, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts...it'd be Christmas every day for paedophiles.

Familiar with my aversion to small talk, Bert ushered me past the grieving friends and relatives that were gathered throughout the house. After showing me to my room, he disappeared to another part of the castle to get ready, allowing me to do the same. He returned a while later dressed in black jeans and a grateful dead t-shirt, while I donned the customary funeral attire of women worldwide, the black dress. Not to be confused with the LBD or little black dress...an outfit designed for pulling men, a task not usually deemed appropriate at funerals. I'll be the judge of that.

The funeral proved far more entertaining than anticipated. Bert organised the entire event and as such, it was not your garden variety funeral. As with every other aspect of his life, Bert dealt with the situation the only way he knew how, by mocking the long venerated traditions upheld by the Catholic church and offending the sensibilities of anyone with the ability to hear, see, and on more than one occasion, smell.

The ceremony began at noon in the dining room, where Bert's father, Joe, was available for viewing between the hours of twelve and one, for genuine mourners and the unashamedly curious. Funerals are a much loved pastime in Ireland, for where else might one be in the company of misery and free food. It never fails to amuse me, that after the burial of a loved one, it is not unusual to hear the contradictory statement “It was a great funeral”...an opinion generally expressed by strangers and avid readers of the obituaries. We gathered at the graveside to mourn the loss of a friend, relative, and respected member of the community. A small, local choir stood at the foot of the grave, patiently awaiting its cue. Tears were shed and hugs were shared. Flowers were placed reverently on the coffin, their hands lingering on the satin wood as they said their final goodbyes. The coffin was lowered gently into the earth and the mourners bowed their heads in silence, as Bert gave the nod of approval to the waiting choir.

My knees buckled as the opening verse of 'Going underground' reverberated across the cemetery. I made a grab for an equally faint Bert, who in turn grabbed the elderly lady standing next to him. Not built to carry that kind of load, she stumbled forward, following the still descending coffin into the freshly dug grave below.

To say the crowd's response was negative would be an understatement of such magnitude, it would be like saying the North Pole's a bit chilly, or Ireland's a bit damp. Or Americans a bit fat (McDonalds on every corner), or the English a bit greedy (Six counties, six counties, six counties), or the French a bit rude (I do not speak English, spoken in perfect unbroken English). I could go on and on....

As the rescue mission for the fallen pensioner got under way, her cries for help lost in the impressive vocals of the Baltimore Baritones, Bert and I made a feeble attempt to compose ourselves. However, the sight of an old lady scrambling up the side of a grave, desperately grasping for outstretched canes and walkers was more than we could bear. We made a hasty retreat, sidestepping nosy spectators, clawing their way to the front for a better vantage point. Our getaway car, a 1998 Nissan Sunny, awaited us at the cemetery gates and after much spluttering and a blast of smoke we were away.

Back at the farmhouse, Bert and I prepared for our nettled guests, by getting completely hammered and interfering with the finger food left by the caterers in our absence. It all started off innocently enough, with the odd sneeze sandwich here and there, but it wasn't long before we were playing Frisbee with the cold cuts and juggling the vol au vents. Bert licked every slice of cheese and grape on the cheese board whilst I took care of the crackers. By the time the guests arrived, there wasn't a crumb in the house that wasn't covered in the saliva of one or both of us. Just to be clear, there was only one item that contained both our saliva, a piece of smoked salmon, and I can assure you, that was an accident. Just a drunken miscommunication on our part.

They greedily consumed every morsel like the famine was making a comeback, and declared it all delicious, thereby forgiving us our earlier misdeeds at the graveside. With all the food gone, the small talk began, fuelled by copious amounts of alcohol. Anecdotes spilled from every corner of the room, and Danny Boy echoed from some distant corner of the house. In my drunken stupor, I somehow became embroiled in a battle of the woes with Bert's aunt Morag, a woman tragically afflicted with a terminal case of the “me too’s”. The poor woman seemed to be plagued by every disease known to man, and in the end I started making names up. We discussed at length the painful symptoms of Conjunctivinal Syphilitis and Haemorrhoidal nasal blisters. Swollen Rectal abscesses stopped in her tracks though. She didn’t seem to want to commit to that one.

It was after ten before everyone left and I was glad to see the back of them, shower of whiny old biddies and cantankerous old men the lot of them. But then not everyone can be the perpetual font of positivity that I am. The reading of the will is tomorrow morning, and Bert is nervous Morag, and her band of monkey children will get the house. I don't know who he hates more, the old battle-axe herself, or her attending offspring...unwilling to leave the well until it has completely run dry. But I don't think it'll come to that. He'll burn the place to the ground before he'll let them have it. Bert's insisting I go with him tomorrow and since its taking place in the very house in which I'm staying, I see no way out of it. We stumbled to our respective beds, tired but surprisingly jolly all things considered.