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The Saint Patrick’s Day That Refused to Behave Properly.

17 Mar
The Saint Patrick’s Day That Refused to Behave Properly.

The Saint Patrick’s Day That Refused to Behave Properly.

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*A Ballykillduff Adventure*

It began, as all sensible Saint Patrick’s Days ought, with a parade that had absolutely no intention of remaining sensible.
Ballykillduff Square was dressed in green—
not merely decorated, mind you—
but decidedly and aggressively green.
The bunting shimmered.
The hedges glowed.
Even Murphy’s shop window had taken on a shade of green that suggested it might, at any moment, begin offering advice.
Alice stood beside the cream-and-green telephone box (which, as always, was behaving far more normally than everything else).
“I do hope,” she said politely, “that the day proceeds in a straightforward manner.”
Fle the ancient elf, who had been leaning against the postbox for at least three centuries, opened one eye.
“It won’t,” he said.
The Parade That Arrived Before It Began
At precisely eleven o’clock—
or possibly ten fifty-nine and a half—
the parade arrived.
Not began.
Arrived.
It came marching down Curran’s Lane in full swing, as though it had been going on for hours somewhere else and had simply decided Ballykillduff was next.
At its head rode Seamus on a bicycle that had been painted so green it squeaked.
Behind him marched a brass band playing a tune that sounded suspiciously like three different songs arguing.
Behind them came a float labelled:
“THE OFFICIAL BALLYKILLDUFF LEPRECHAUN (PROBABLY)”
Upon it stood a small man in a tall hat, waving enthusiastically and throwing gold coins into the crowd.
The coins bounced.
Then hummed.
Then, quite distinctly, hopped.
Alice caught one.
It wriggled in her palm and whispered:
“I’m not real, you know.”
“I suspected as much,” said Alice, placing it carefully in her pocket.
The Leprechaun Who Objected to Reality
The leprechaun leapt from the float mid-parade and landed directly in front of Alice.
“I object,” he declared.
“To what?” Alice asked.
“To being the official leprechaun,” he said.
“I never applied.”
“That seems reasonable,” Alice replied.
“I am,” he continued proudly, “an independent magical contractor.”
Fle nodded.
“Freelance nonsense,” he said.
“Exactly!” said the leprechaun.
The Problem of Too Much Green
By midday, something had gone wrong.
Not dramatically wrong—
Ballykillduff rarely did things dramatically—
but persistently wrong.
Everything was becoming… greener.
Not just festive green.
Excessively committed green.
The sky took on a tint.
The river shimmered like liquid emerald.
Even the sheep in the nearby field looked faintly suspicious of themselves.
“Is this usual?” Alice asked.
“No,” said Fle.
“Which makes it traditional.”
Murphy stepped out of his shop holding a loaf of bread that had turned a thoughtful shade of moss.
“This is not regulation,” he announced.
The Discovery of the Pot
They found it, of course, where such things are always found:
At the end of a rainbow that had become stuck.
It wasn’t arcing across the sky.
It was… leaning.
Slightly.
As though it had grown tired halfway through its duties.
At its end sat a large black pot, gently steaming.
The leprechaun folded his arms.
“That’s not mine,” he said quickly.
“No one said it was,” Alice replied.
“It looks like responsibility,” he added.
“I avoid that.”
Alice peered into the pot.
Inside was not gold.
Inside was green.
Not paint.
Not liquid.
Just… green.
A colour so concentrated it seemed to hum with enthusiasm.
The Explanation (Which Made Things Worse)
Fle leaned over and squinted.
“Ah,” he said.
“That’ll be the Essence of Festivity.”
“Is that dangerous?” Alice asked.
“Only in large quantities,” said Fle.
They all looked around.
The fields were glowing.
The sky was humming.
Seamus’s bicycle had begun to sing.
“Yes,” said Alice.
“I believe we may have exceeded the recommended amount.”
The Attempt to Fix It
“Put the lid on,” said Murphy.
“There is no lid,” said Alice.
“Then stop it leaking,” said Murphy.
“It isn’t leaking,” said Fle.
They all paused.
The pot was not overflowing.
It was simply… encouraging everything else to become green.
“Well that’s inconvenient,” said the leprechaun.
The Solution (Entirely Unsatisfactory but Effective)
Alice thought for a long moment.
“Perhaps,” she said, “Saint Patrick’s Day is not meant to be only green.”
Everyone stared at her.
“That sounds dangerously sensible,” said Fle.
Alice reached into her pocket and removed the coin.
It wriggled indignantly.
She tossed it into the pot.
There was a plop.
The green flickered.
Then softened.
The sky returned to blue—though a slightly cheerful blue.
The river calmed.
The sheep relaxed considerably.
The pot gave a satisfied sigh.
The Ending That Refused to End Properly
The parade, which had never officially begun, suddenly decided it had finished.
The band stopped mid-note.
The float turned around of its own accord.
Seamus’s bicycle apologised.
The leprechaun tipped his hat.
“I shall be elsewhere,” he said mysteriously,
“doing something considerably less official.”
And vanished behind Murphy’s shop, which had resumed being merely a shop.
A Quiet Moment (Which Did Not Last)
Alice stood once more beside the telephone box.
“Well,” she said, “that was rather pleasant.”
Fle opened one eye again.
“You say that now,” he said.
From somewhere in the distance came a faint sound—
Not music.
Not quite.
More like…
A kettle…
trying to organise a marching band.
Alice sighed, but smiled.
“Yes,” she said.
“I expect it isn’t quite over.”
Final Line
And in Ballykillduff, on Saint Patrick’s Day,
it very rarely ever is.

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2026 in saint patrick's day

 

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