MH: Well, I must confess this is the last place I expected to be talking to you – over a bottle of water, especially with your reputation for enjoying the finer things of life . . .
OW: My dear boy, that’s exactly why – because this is one of the finer things. I adore simple pleasures; they are the last refuge of the complex. No, don’t smile; I’m being quite serious for a change and this is an exquisite water indeed.
MH: And you really expect me to believe you?
OW: I’ve never been more serious in my life. The mere taste of it, soft as silk compared with what come out of our municipal taps, takes me back in an instant to my summer holidays as a young boy.
MH: Mmm . . . all right, I think I’m beginning to get the idea.
OW: Of course you are. Anyone with a drop of Irish blood and a scrap of imagination can see what I mean. You’ve spent half a day walking in the hills of Tipperary – one of those glorious Irish days when you can see forever, to the horizon and maybe beyond . . .
MH: Well, that’s true for a start. Not much has changed there since your day.
OW: Please don’t interrupt . . . now, where was I? Yes, it’s hot; you’re thirsty and suddenly at your feet is a spring. You cup your hands and drink, feeling the cool purity of the liquid revive you like a miracle. Nothing could be more delicious. Sheer perfection. Better than champagne even at that precise moment, which would have been all wrong and yet, in your mind as the water slips down. . .
MH: Aren’t you getting rather carried away.