Writer's Notebook

This week's 3WW words: depart, ignite, rotten

Paddy had one great love in his life - his love for France. And now dear reader, I can see you smile already. You know or think you know that it was really one of the infamous French demoiselles that had ignited such love. I am sorry to disillusion you but such was not the case. Indeed, it was difficult to say what it was that brought on this great love. It was certainly not those wonderful, holiday weeks spent on golden beaches with his parents, for Paddy had never even visited France. Nor was it a love for the rolling valleys resplendent with overripe vines, their nectar dripping down into the streams below. You see, like most Irishmen, Paddy preferred black heaviness to sparkling white. And as already alluded to, the young demoiselles, be ye they from Avignon or elsewhere played no roll in his love either. So I'm afraid his love for France will have to remain one of those unfathomable mysteries, putting him in line with millions of French - men and women - who themselves show a devoted love to their country without being able to explain why.

But if the reason for this love is beyond us, the fact itself remains as unwavering as ever. And so imagine Paddy's excitement when after many years of longing and waiting chance finally knocked on his door and the opportunity presented itself for him to see his beloved face to face. For weeks beforehand, Paddy could not contain himself. He prepared his journey meticulously. Every morning before breakfast he would devour the latest edition of the Beginner's Dictionary, following that up with a series of entrancing flights in which he would conjure up one image after the other, revealing aspect after aspect of his beloved's character. And in the week before his departure he washed his feet at least three times a day in order to be sure nothing could spoil the sanctity of the soil he was going to touch.

But if Paddy's love for France was immense, his hatred of cars was even greater. And so, as Paddy first glimpsed the terrain his heart had so longed for, he raced onto deck to be the first to disembark and embrace his long lost lover. But before he could do so, the bowels of the ferry opened and out poured a stream of cars all desiring to penetrate each nook and cranny of his heart's desire. Paddy immediately took fright and did the only thing he could do faced with such horror... he ran. He ran and he ran until he finally found shelter in a pokey, rotten, little cellar in the middle of one of the dingiest streets that county had to offer, where he remains to this day.

But if Paddy's love was ardent, it was also true. The moment a speck of light poured through the crack in the wall that served as his window to the world Paddy would begin writing. As the speck became a ray and beat its constant progress across the wall opposite, Paddy's fingers would become feverish in production - eulogies of praise to his lover; eulogies which no one would ever read.