It was today, however, in the stunning country of Tunisia that the Health & Wealth team struck gold. As we made our way towards the Sahara Desert, we stumbled across a modern-day Florence Nightingale who delighted in sharing with us her abundance of knowledge about treating a cornucopia of afflictions and maladies. And, as proof of their merits, the healer is currently the continent’s oldest person, who has enjoyed an extraordinary one hundred and twenty years so far. And by the looks of things, Tayri Chakchouk isn’t planning on calling it a day anytime soon. Surrounded by close to two hundred relatives, this much-loved national treasure has plenty of gasoline left in the engine! And now, thanks to Tayri’s remarkable kindness, you too can get an insight into how best to live to old bones.
We are currently in the process of updating the remedies’ section of our blog, so keep refreshing the page to discover the magical secrets of the Sahara.
P.S: Unfortunately, we’ve yet to come across a lasting cure for Bob’s smelly armpits!
* * *
Sister Agatha was pleasantly surprised by the eagerness with which her bus reached Dublin Airport, some fifty-four kilometres away. While she acknowledged that it didn’t have the disadvantage of duking it out with early-morning traffic, she still thought it was rather commendable that they had arrived at their destination in less than an hour. In point of fact, so brief was the journey, the soon-to-be assassin didn’t even have ample time to explore the specifics of the challenge she had set herself. What she did manage to decide, however, was that the best course of action to take was to commence her campaign of carnage in reverse order, starting with Tayri Chakchouk.
According to Le Temps, one of the country’s national newspapers, this well-seasoned Tunisian had eighteen children, forty-nine grandchildren, one hundred and twenty great-grandchildren, and seven great-great-grandchildren. Born and raised in the outskirts of Kebili, an old oasis situated on the edge of the Sahara Desert, Tayri’s story—just like that of Howard Hawks, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the monarch-wrecking Wallis Simpson—started in 1896. Despite being a one-woman maternity hospital since then, she had recently celebrated her hundred and twentieth birthday, cementing her position as the fourth-oldest person in the world. According to the articles Sister Agatha had in her possession, when Tayri wasn’t taking care of her rather populous family, she devoted her life to her other passion: home remedies.
“Well, I have the perfect cure for her obstinacy in renouncing life!” she joked, getting somewhat carried away by the task at hand.
Bursting with excitement, she alighted the bus, quickly retrieved her baggage, and strutted towards the airport entrance with a fine kick in her step. Even though it was just seven o'clock, the building was alive with activity. Sister Agatha couldn't help but get swept away by the intrepid spirit of those dashing about, suitcases in hand.
However, the sight of so many giddy friends and couples in cahoots with each other turned her initial cheeriness into sadness. While she had justified the need to disregard the sacred Fifth Commandment, seeing as it was the only feasible way to bring completion to the pact she had once made, Sister Agatha was having difficulties reconciling the fact that she had swiped the convent's for-emergencies-only Debit Card.
At present, the Order of Saint Aloysius had quite robust funds, following a successful fundraiser that had been held to get Sister Josephine a new kitchen. (The talented cook had been making do with a fifty-year-old, barely-functioning gas cooker, while the last time the fridge door had closed properly, Eamonn deValera was still president.) And now, Sister Agatha was on the verge of betraying her dear comrades who had been more than just sisters to her throughout the years; they were also sisters. But this light-fingered indiscretion was a necessary evil, she firmly reminded her conscience; she wasn't going to travel the world on her good looks alone, was she?
“Look, Sister Josephine is that good a chef, she could whip up a feast using the sun alone as her only heat,” she assured herself, her wrist receiving a wallop; she certainly needed to toughen up a little if her calamitous plan was to prosper.
With those pesky, self-righteous inner voices silenced—at least for the time being—all she had to do now was take a flight to Tunisia and eliminate a certain overly-zealous child-bearer called Tayri Chakchouk.
Sister Agatha wondered if she just paid the pilot as she boarded the plane, or was there a ticket-seller she should consult first?
* * *
Growing up, Wayne Farrell’s older brother was nothing short of a scoundrel. As a way of ridiculing the acne that had massacred the impressionable teenager’s face, his sibling had christened him Pepperoni Pizza. Years later, Wayne’s acne had, mercifully, disappeared but the memory of that traumatic time still lingered. As such, the twenty-four-year-old battled with self-esteem and self-confidence, particularly when it came to members of the fairer sex.
Even though he was surrounded by women every day of the week, thanks to his job as an information provider at Dublin Airport, Wayne invariably went bright red or started to perspire at every turn. He assured himself that things would get better as time went on, but if the number of deodorant cans he put away was anything to go by, that prognosis proved unfruitful so far. His only comfort was the fact that at least he didn’t work in a factory plucking chickens, like his hateful kin.
Wayne’s position at the airport was one that he had held for over two years, but it wasn’t just those intimidating, sweat-inducing ladies who required his services; he was often approached by an assortment of larger-than-life characters who would probably feel more at home in an asylum than an airport. Although, that morning was the first time a disorientated nun, who might have been alive before aviation was even invented, came looking for his assistance.
“I want to go to Kebili,” she informed him, while helping herself to the complimentary hard-boiled sweets that sat on the counter.
Wayne didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Had this elderly nun wandered out of a nursing home and was now unable to find her way back to her lodgings? Rather than a flight to Kebili, was she looking for a taxi to Cabra, perhaps? Should he alert security, or his manager at least? But those musings were interrupted by Rita, his stunningly beautiful colleague who stole both his lunch and his heart on a daily basis. She had just arrived to work some thirty minutes later than required—something else she did on a regular basis.
“Trying to get to Kebili, are ye, love?” she enquired. “A spontaneous holiday, is it? Good for you.”
Luckily Rita wasn’t afflicted with the same ageist outlook as her once-spotty co-worker, and immediately got to work helping out this adorable old dame who happily stuffed her face with confectionery.
Blessed with beauty, Rita hadn’t been gifted with brains and didn't have a bog’s notion where this Kebili place was located. Unlike the lady she was assisting, Rita had failed geography, along with English, Irish, maths and history in her Junior Certificate eight years previously, leaving school shortly afterwards. Luckily, she excelled in computer searches, and as soon as she sent Wayne to fetch her a coffee and chocolate muffin, Rita discovered that this sweet-toothed, free-spirited nun was en route to Tunisia.
“There’s no direct flights, love, so your best bet is to hop on a plane to Paris first and change there for Tunis. It will be a long auld trek, but I’m sure it will be worth it. You’ll come back with a gorgeous colour, I bet.”
Seeing as Rita had something of an eye for Jean-Pierre at Air France, she insisted on taking her new friend over to him to arrange the flights on her behalf—an act that proved extremely lucrative for all involved. Sister Agatha was upgraded to first-class (“Alors, a friend of Rita, is a friend of mine!”) while Rita bagged herself a date for Saturday night.
Yes, that brief exchange was profitable for all. Except for poor Wayne, who was left holding a muffin and a mug of coffee that was, just like his love life, getting colder by the minute.
* * *
Airport security officer Yvonne Goodc
hild would always argue that it was far easier for a single father to secure love than a single mother; where a man’s stock soars, a woman’s plummets. The thirty-five-year-old had been on every dating website imaginable in her quest to find someone to share her life with—one that consisted of four children, all under the age of ten. On dates, Yvonne would openly admit that life was tough and the bills were relentless, information that had, unsurprisingly, proven quite unattractive for potential wooers.
Recently, it looked as if her ship had finally come in when, after many frogs, Yvonne met her prince. Or so she thought. Derek was attractive, wealthy, an excellent listener, and smelled like a fresh summer’s meadow. But, when she arrived home one night after a long day at the airport, she discovered him sitting at her kitchen table, filling out forms for the boarding school where he intended on sending her four small children.
“It doesn’t matter if Jeff is only ten months old—they accept all ages!” he brazenly argued.
Yvonne knew there and then that her relationship with this prince wasn’t going to have a happy ending.
Rather than continuing with this sort of wretchedness any longer, she thought the best solution to her financial quandary was to work as hard as she could, get a promotion, and pay her own wretched bills. When she saw a nun in line for the security check, complete with tinted glasses and looking decidedly shifty, Yvonne felt positive that she was on the verge of nabbing herself a shyster, thereby inching her way up that incredibly elusive career ladder.
Drug smugglers dressed as nuns or priests were an old joke amongst employees at security checks the world over; when Yvonne spotted this person, kitted out in the full regalia and looking uncomfortable and unsure as to what was being required of her, the mother-of-four went in for the kill. When the suspect passed through the metal detectors, Yvonne wasn’t surprised that the alarms didn’t sound: criminals were masterful at overcoming any obstacles that were put in their way, but most criminals had not come across the steely Yvonne Goodchild.
“I'm going to have to do a body search, I'm afraid,” she informed the woman, taking her to one side.
Yvonne's initial investigations got off to a crummy start when she realised that her hand-held metal detector was, once again, being temperamental.
“How is someone supposed to shine when they are allocated such inadequate equipment?” she frequently asked herself.
And so, the career-hungry mother-of-four had no other option but to excuse herself while she went to retrieve an alternative.
When she returned a couple of short moments later, Yvonne simply expected her catch-of-the-day to have her arms and legs outstretched. Instead, it seemed that this woman, who might have actually been genuine after all, had taken her lead from those around her who were in the middle of removing their shoes and belts. There she stood, as naked as the day she was born—which wasn’t yesterday or the day before, that’s for sure. With no attempts to preserve her modesty, the woman placed her hands on her hips, stuck out her tongue, and proceeded to reel off a series of “Aaahs” as if she were undergoing a doctor’s examination!
Needless to say, the peculiar scene emboldened all the other passengers and a cacophony of whoops and hollers followed. Even Yvonne’s colleagues were getting in on the act, unable to resist a good giggle to break the monotony of the day.
Having realised the error of her way (“She really is a bloody nun!”), Yvonne quickly gathered the habit, veil, and all the other delicate items of clothing from the ground—at the same time berating a gang of young teenagers who were busy filming the incident on their mobile phones. Uncertain of how to best remedy the situation, Yvonne forcibly led the naked sister into a nearby room.
“Please accept my deepest apologies, Sister,” she pleaded, hoping such contrite words would quench any desire for this poor passenger who, according to her passport, was born Butsy Miller, to lodge a formal complaint, something that would undoubtedly hinder Yvonne’s career ambitions.
But the security officer’s attempts at atonement appeared to have been unnecessary because as the nun busily returned all the items of clothing back to where they belonged (“You couldn’t help me with my zip, dear?”), she talked a blue streak about how much she was looking forward to an adventure of a lifetime.
“If I have time, I will send you a postcard somewhere along the way,” she added.
With that, the magnanimous lady tottered off into the terminal, drawing a line under the whole embarrassing affair.
If only her detector had been working in the first place, all of this could have been avoided, Yvonne thought to herself as she took up her position at the security check once again, giving credence to that old proverb that a workwoman always blames her tools.
* * *
Sister Agatha had never been airborne before, but she was, of course, familiar with the concept of flying. While she hadn’t been around when Leonardo Da Vinci had made sketches of parachutes and helicopters in the sixteenth century, she vividly remembered all the hoo-ha about the Wright Brothers and their aviation accomplishments when she was just a child. (“It will never take off,” her father said of the whole enterprise at the time, with Butsy unsure whether he was being cynical or making a witty quip.)
However familiar she was with the workings of a plane, nothing could have prepared her for the electrifying feeling of taking off, looking out the window and seeing Dublin's beautiful coastline grow smaller and smaller, before vanishing under the clouds altogether. For the first ten minutes after leaving the runway, this fledgling’s mouth remained so firmly open, a swarm of bees could have easily taken up residency within (luckily, Air France had an exemplary hygiene policy).
According to Sister Agatha, what surprised her the most was that she appeared to be the only person on board who seemed to be awestruck by the magnificence of the experience. As far as she could tell, all the other passengers were either flicking through magazines or had fallen into a deep slumber. She knew that she had less than a week left to live, but the hundred-and-eighteen-year-old was emphatic that if she lasted for another ten centuries, she would never tire of this experience.
Thanks to Jean-Pierre, Wayne’s rival for Rita’s affections, the first-time flyer was enjoying her maiden voyage in the best possible light. There was plenty of room to stretch her legs, a blanket should she get cold, and a pillow if Sister Agatha cared to drift off during the short flight (she didn’t).
“Would you like a glass of champagne, Sister?” a soft-spoken air hostess inquired—an offer that allowed this passenger to tick off another box that morning: getting drunk!
Having barely eaten a morsel since Doctor McManus had dropped the bombshell the morning before, Sister Agatha had a stomach that needed filling and the best remedy she could come up with was to throw the contents of the flute into her quick smart. And when that had vanished, a second helping was boldly requested, which was also put away in the same manner.
“Another drop?” she innocently asked once more.
Being the fifth-oldest person in the world, famished and unaccustomed to the ritual of drinking, one didn't need to be a detective to deduce that Sister Agatha would soon find herself three sheets to the wind.
And the flight hadn’t yet cleared the Irish Sea.
* * *
Fergal Kenny had always been an impossible person. In his early years, he had repeatedly broken his mother’s heart as she tried, unsuccessfully, to convince or bribe him to eat his greens or go to bed on time. His harried teachers counted down the days until the summer holidays so that they could be free of the insolent brat who had never done a lick of work in his entire school life. The few girlfriends he indulged for short bursts of time had been left with so many insecurities and bad memories that no amount of therapy or alcohol could erase the damage.
Such a disagreeable disposition stood him in good stead in the subsequent years, however, as he ruthlessly clambered up to the top of the corporate ladder, making light work of anyone who had th
e misfortune of getting in his way. If it hadn’t been for the recession of 2008, which saw his company’s shares plummet, Fergal was sure to have become the natural heir to the thrones of Franco or Mussolini. (He wasn’t quite in the same league as Stalin or Hitler, but that was only a matter of time.) As it was, he still remained insufferable; he just no longer had the moolah to pull it off as successfully as in his earlier days.
For Fergal, one of the most distressing aspects of being bankrupt was the way in which he was now forced to travel. Having spent years being fawned over by beautiful air hostesses in First Class, he had now been relegated to Economy, something he felt was just as horrific as Chinese torture. Today was revealing itself to be one of the worst experiences yet for the poor man. Not only was it impossible for anyone to use the toilet after a fellow passenger, who clearly had been on a lifelong diet of beans, insisted on sharing his spirited bowel movements with the whole world, but the woman next to him had whipped out her right breast, from which her three-month-old baby was happily feeding. What was the world coming to? he questioned despairingly. He forcibly yanked at the shirt of one of the air stewards and let his thoughts on such immodesty be known.
“You can fucking go sing if you think that I’m going to sit beside this shite!” Fergal roared, ensuring that everyone on board became a part of the dispute.
Ignoring protests from the cabin crew, the oaf got to his feet then stormed up the aisle and into the sanctuary of First Class. Here, he discovered that the only seat available was beside a nun, but concluded that anything was better than the lewdness in Economy. Peace at last.
Or so he thought.
Having clearly imbibed the odd splosh or two, the nun who, along with all her fellow passengers, had just overheard his obnoxious comments, decided that someone needed to be taken down a peg or two.
“Maybe you’ll be so kind as to enlighten me,” the sister probed, trying valiantly not to slur her words. “How can someone who is as bald as an eggshell with a belly the size of the Sugar Loaf Mountain have such a high opinion of himself?”
Sister Agatha Page 5
