Don O. Trent lives in Tipporary by the seaside and I in Northwest Killarney; Don and I had been friends and business partners for over 10 years. My wife and I had enjoyed the pleasure of his company many times.
Then one day I made an innocent little comment; he understood what I was talking about, he thanked me for my observation and apologized.
Then quite unexpectedly after he said he was sorry, he hit me upside the head with his shillelagh! No problem I've gotten knots on this old head before, but after asking him why he did it and not getting a satisfactory response, I did the only thing any Irishman worth his salt could do: I returned the favor. I punched him from every conceivable angle for twelve rounds until 'the man' pulled me off; if he did not, I would still be clobbering him. Nobody thumps Patty O'Furniture and gets away with it.
So anyway, 'the man' insists I take back some of the things I said during the brouhaha; O.K., what the hell I will; I got my satisfaction, I'm over my headache, but his owies will last forever.
Maybe next time Mr. Trent will think twice before he blindsides another old friend.