It Comes Out Of Your Head

I was right. (I knew I would be). A bus is coming.

White Slits and Daniel O'Connell get on.

Where are we going? asks Daniel O'Connell.

I told you, says White Slits. My nook.

But where is it? asks Daniel O'Connell.

In Santa Cruz, says White Slits. Maricruz's back garden. There's a whole heap of us, all related.

To me? asks Daniel O'Connell.

To you? says White Slits. I hope not.

You don't say, says Daniel O'Connell. Why do you hope not?

Look at you, says White Slits.

The whole point of me coming, says Daniel O'Connell, was to see if I'm related.

We'll see if anyone recognises you, says White Slits. But don't hold your breath.

Can't, says Daniel O'Connell.

Me either, says White Slits.

Then why say it? asks Daniel O'Connell.

Why say anything? asks White Slits. Because it comes out of your head. You know, like James Joyce.

Oh. Yes, indeed, says Daniel O'Connell. I've read all his books. Very funny.

What is home without Plumtrees Potted Meat? says White Slits.

Pardon? says Daniel O'Connell.

Finish it, says White Slits.

What is home without Plumtrees Potted Meat?

Incomplete, guesses Daniel O'Connell

Good guess, Daniel O'Connell!

You would scarcely believe he was not really Irish.

So what is he, having lived all his life (until recently) in a poisonous underground cave?

If ANYTHING, he is Romanian.

But White Slits believes with all her heart that Daniel O'Connell is Irish.

And he has just proved it, with a fitting word:

Incomplete.

With it, an abode of bliss, says White Slits.

Bliss, echoes Daniel O'Connell, as the bus rumbles onwards.