Pixiemania

My dear pixies,

in this post I would like to thank you.


Thank you for robbing my sleep.

Thank you for causing me another dreamless night.

Thank you again.


Listen up! I don't have a problem in general with you securing your pixie-homes, cars, motorbikes, boats, shops and probably your pot of gold with more expensive alarm systems than the whole thing is worth but you might want to consider that:

• These yokes go off every time a passing by cat sneezes, a squirrel throws nuts on it, the wind of change gently blows over it, a typical mid-thirty, high-pitched Irish woman pretends to be delighted about her friend's new shoes, a Liverpool fan shouts out his anger about Rafael Benitez, a bridge collapses just five days after being inspected (well done my Irish friends, well done), Mary Harney farts, skangers turn up Roxette's "sleeping in my car" techno remix on their mobile phones, Pat Kenny laughs his head off while counting his millions paid by taxpayers money, wanna-be recessionistas are sighing about their miserey of only having 5 instead of the usual 6 (in words: s i x) holidays a year or a lonely butterfly somewhere in the Chinese back-country flutters its wings.
  
• Given the above, why would anyone think these days: Oh, holy christ, there is an alarm, I should go and have a look or even better call the police? Children in Germany are being told only to shout for help if really needed, because otherwise people might think: Not again, shut up, would you?! and ignore it.
  No one gives a damn about your alarms. It's burglars paradise, they only have to put in some earplugs to ignore the noise but apart from that it has never been easier to clear out a house. The only ones that really feel a pain about it are people like me, waking up exhausted night after night.
  

I am seriously wondering how many days a man can survive without sleep.
I am suffering from insomnia, I am desperate, if that doesn't stop soon I need to go to see your infamous medicine man, Dr Pixie McKenna (let's not start with your crap health system at this stage).

If she won't be able to help me, there is only one thing left to do: get some old, smelly clove rock jars, put you pixies in there
and throw them in the Liffey, happily singing :

Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da
Whack for my daddy-o. Whack for my daddy-o
There's a pixie in the jar.

Thank you very much.