It was in the heady days of the summer of 1992, when I was a mere slip of a lad who had not often wandered among the hallowed walls of this fine establishment and indeed was not even aware of my ability to do so - that I sauntered casually around the streets of Dublin with a long-time acquaintance from Skerries - a gentleman who I would almost consider a friend. He was revelling in his new-found wealth and desired my comany for the important purchase of a new guitar of which he was much enamoured. I accompanied him, pleased to offer my unique services in the form of conversation and suitable awe at the import and wiseness of his purchase.

However, all was not destined to go simply - and as I was to travel to that city known as Dublin with my friend, one of my guardians (for I was then not of age and had need of these), my mother to be precise asked that I too make a purchase, but on her behalf. To this I consented - knowing not any reason why her request should end in mine own ruination.

She extoled about the article that she desired. It was fashioned from gold and jasmine with shaded glass forming it's body - covered in sworls of great beauty. It had been crafted by a saint using the most primitive of tools to attain it's glorious and simple design. A need - a crushing monomaniacal need had grown in her heart for some time. Her heart desired only to own this object (or should I say one of these objects - for he had crafted many of like beauty) and I was the means by which she would make it hers. And so, this woman who I had revered and trusted told me which part of Lenihan's of Talbot street (where that great hardware vendor once resided) to go to and not to pay a price of more than 2 pounds and 99 new pence.

And so we set out, my companion and I, braving the hot summer's smog for our ends. And after the passage of much time we made our respective purchases and found our way back to the train station known as Connolly. Tired as we were we made our way to platform 4 where there is a step on which a pair of people may sit and fancy they are on a seat of some sort rather than a concrete climbing aid. After a repose of a few minutes, and realising our train would not arrive for some time, I decided to walk the length of the platform and peruse a vending machine for a drink to quench my thirst. After suitable deliberations and some soul searching, I decided upon some hot chocolate.

Having made my purchase, I happily walked back the length of the platform to where my friend was waiting for me. As I walked cheerfully, I became slowly conscious of several things. The first was the fact that several more people had arrived and more importantly a few of them were laughing. One of those laughing was my friend and he looked directly at me as he did so. It could only be guessed that I was the object of some ridicule. I became self-conscious as I saw a few faces laugh at me from the group now formed.

I considered the state of the zip of my trousers, the tousled effect of my hair, perhaps I had paid an inordinate amount for my drink and they were laighing at my bargaining abilities. No, all of these possibilities were improbable to say the least. As I approached my friend in his now creased state, I asked him what is was that was causing such merriment. Still giggling uncontollably he pointed to an elderly gentleman wearing a summer hat coloured pale blue. The old man rocked from one foot to the other in embarrassment. "What has this old gentleman done to imbibe such mirth?" I questioned my friend - perhaps my words were different but the meaning was the same. "He kicked this off the step," my friend replied, now gaining some semblance of control. I looked in horror to the plastic bag which now contained my recently-purchased and even-more-ecently-smashed lamp-shade.

"Old Man," I queried "Why did you knock my lampshade of the step?"
"Is it an egg?" he asked, his distress now clearly palpable.

IS IT AN EGG? How those words still resonate around my mind. What insightful genius - what inspired beautiful sentiment. How right he was. How often I have asked myself since - Is it, indeed, an egg?

However, at the time I was only beginning to grasp the magnitude of the meaning of this phrase and was still coping with my loss. My mind searched for something to counter this question. "No," I said bluntly, somewhat worried at the lack of eloquence in my reply. And as I looked around to see most of the faces having already lost interest a sweet girl caught my eye and laughed a little more. Aware of my stare, she turned, somewhat ashamed at her cruelty.

I could not communicate with the man any more. He was above me intellectually. But I realised that this was an opportunity to move towards his higher consciousness and I became aware of the situation as a third party observer and it was then that I began to laugh myself. And it is since that revolutionary day that I have ceased to live my life as a person, but rather observe my life as it happens - making of it a dramatic metaphor with weak interweaving themes. And it is through this that I have discovered what a poor playwright the supposed higher consciousness is. It remains for me to contemplate whether there is indeed a higher consciousness or if I am the playwright of my own existence.

But I stray from the narrative. Following this strange event that would send it's little shock-waves rippling through the unformed fabric of my conscience, I travelled home with my friend, laughing heartily at my misfortune. I carried the bag containing the pieces to show to my parent, suspecting that she would not be pleased with the loss of that article. I had to show her that I had bought the object, but had merely had it smashed at the whim of some mentally deranged old bugger. She could only understand. I thought naively that at some time in her life a similar event must have befallen her. And knowing that my failure was due only to the most sureal circumstances, she would be placated. She was not at all pleased.

"Why did you let him break it?" I tried to explain that I had not been present for its breakage and that the old man was an uncontrollable force - he was the embodiment of an act of God. This was quite beyond her comprehension.
"Well that'll teach you a lesson."

WHAT?

Indeed, it did teach me some lessons, but I have no idea what wisdom she thought I would glean from the event. Her anger was so righteous - so natural and spontaneous that one would think it was justified. But let us leave for now that little bundle of paradoxes that was once my mother and remember only the sublimity of the philosophers message.