So yeah it’s all about your keys. Ye wanna be danglin’ a good oul setta keys, bai. Yuh, am tellin’ ye, nahin’ a woman likes better to see than a man come walkin’ in the room with a big pile a keys hangin’ off his belt. And nothin’ better to inspire awe, and respect, in your fellow man either. But it can all be taken as a bitta fun too.

-Fuck, bai, some setta keys on ye!
-At’s right, aye, I’d say ye’ve been round a few corners alright.
-Aw now, these here’s only for messin’ about, ye wanna see the ones I have at home!

So yip you’ve got your keys there and you’ve a good startin’ point for conversation and that.

-Aye that’s right. I’m a safe-cracker. Eh? Crackin’ safes in ma spare time? Ye know what am sayin’?

Or anything like that. It’s the sort of thing ye can take anywhere with a bit of imagination. Tell ye one thing more a woman likes better in a man than a big setta keys: a fuckin’ moustache. That’s right, ye boy ye, the ‘tache has well and truly returned! and some of us are askin’, ‘Did it ever really go away?’ Nahin’ like a big oul soup strainer to get the girls gigglin’. They love it.

And ye know some men ask me, ‘Deirdre, is it really necessary for you to be carrying all them keys? Seeing that ye don’t even work a proper job or anything? Or for ye to wear a boilersuit? Is all that really necessary?’ And I say ‘Sure wha? Don’t I be workin’ fuckin’ jobs up an’ down the length a this country that you wouldn’t even know about? And you not even wearin’ a proper moustache or nahin, and now you’re trying to butter me with the same breadstick as what you were, for your sins?’ And they’ve nothin’ to say back to that so I just moesy on an ye can be sure that there’s many a woman countin’ down the minutes till she hears my keys come a-jinglin’. Me in the big black boots an’ all. Proper article.

But anyhow, I got a letter from the parish priest, expressing concern over some of my recent behaviour about the village. Poor man seems to think there’s somethin’ wrong wi’ me, and him stuck up in that parochial house wi’ no women an’ no dancin’ nor nahin’. I say he’d give his right hand to be in my shoes for one night only, and I’ll tell ye what, I’ve a right mind to go on up there and tell him exactly what I think, and to maybe give thon maid of his, Dolores, a good seein’ to, while am at it. But me ma in heaven, God rest her, wouldn’t have it, so I’ll say a quick decade of the rosary, and pray for the poor man’s soul instead.

But before I do I’ll say this: For every door that’s locked in life there is a key to it that fits. So should ye ever be in diffs, feelin’ a bit closed in like, just you reach down for the appropriate key, though it may take ye a while sometimes to find what you’re lookin’ for; and here: if the key don’t fit… then hoof ‘er down to fuck!