The Vasectomy Doctor Read Free

burning off heather in a pattern that is unique to him alone. Thus all these low, smooth mountains are tattooed with the heather burn marks characteristic of that shooting estate.
    The guns are arranged in a straight line across the moor and the dog-handlers follow some twenty yards behind. Every now and then the guns come onto a covey of grouse hidden in the long heather. A covey is a family or clutch of birds containing two adult parents and anything up to twelve mature offspring. They might all take to the air in one great flurry of activity or, more usually, they may get up in smaller groups of two and three. Once a bird has been shot down a whistle is blown and the line of guns stops moving forward. The dog-handlers unleash their retrievers and they go forward to try and retrieve the shot grouse. This sometimes can take ten or even fifteen minutes to achieve because at that time of year with all the heather pollen blowing around the place scent is poor and dead birds hard to pick up. But the code of practice whereby every shot bird must be picked up is not one lightly dismissed and it is a matter of honour that nothing gets left for a fox unless it is absolutely unavoidable.
    I can sit on the dry heather while waiting for all birds to be picked up, take a breather and talk to my neighbouring gun or to a Scottish dog-handler or bird carrier. But if I wish I might just want to be left to my thoughts and be allowed to take in the spectacular views that upland grouse moors always and unfailingly afford. While so musing this may be a time to take stock and wonder exactly why I was shot one month ago and if there was any way of ensuring that this will not happen again and was I not incredibly lucky to have escaped with my life and what a great life it is too. Reflective moments like this are important.

CHAPTER 2
Third World Ireland
    The postman came on foot. He had a limp, something to do with having been kicked by a cow. He didn’t have a bicycle and of course he didn’t have a car, only doctors and priests drove cars in those days. He walked. We called him Joe the Post; his full name was Joe Devine. He did more than just bring the post up to the house from Healy’s post office down in Prosperous each day. He was also our eyes and ears, our lifeline to the outside world be yond the tall beech trees, the limes and sycamores and avenue’s end. Television was yet to be invented and we had no radio, no phone, no transport other than Judy the pony and her trap. And no electricity. The Post would know who was dead and who was dying. More cheerfully, he would know who was born and who was getting married, who was making hay or who was cutting turf. This wasn’t idle gossip either I’d have you know. These snippets of information were vital if you had hay down or were wondering where you might buy some decent firing come the autumn. He could forecast the weather for you as well.
    â€˜What’s the weather going to be like this afternoon, Joe?’ my father would want to know. Joe the Post would then make a careful survey of the summer skies and with a freshly sucked finger held aloft he would check the wind’s direction and speed, for this was a serious business requiring skill and consideration.
    â€˜I’d say you would get the odd light shower this afternoon, Boss.’
    That afternoon there would be an odd light shower. In this way Joe the Post was a walking almanac, a meteorologist, a newsman and reporter, a soothsayer and a wise man. He also brought around letters and parcels in an old canvas bag with a leather strap round his shoulders.
    The Second World War is coming to an end. Dreadful, cruel, inhuman and hideous things have happened and are still happening. But I am oblivious to them all. It is 1945 and I have just passed my third birthday. The ration books are out and Joe the Post tells us that there is a big pile of turf up in the Phoenix Park. When the Post leaves it is my job to