Yes Sir, that's my Babe!

Granny came to stay again last week, she had to get her falseys fixed. Don't get me wrong - I love Granny but she drives me around the bend. She comes up to the `second' bigsmoke to let off a bit of steam. Now, I've no problem with somebody chilling, but I'm the one who has to sort out the chaos when she's back home in Moomoo land.

Speaking of Moo-moo land, no sooner had her foot touched the terra firma of urban concrete, than the Irish countryside was declared to be in quarantine.

Funny how the seriousness of a national emergency does not register until its impact is experienced by the citizen - I was that citizen. That very moment the full implications of foot-and-mouth became crushingly clear.

Back in my flat, Granny contacted her neighbour "Mountain" Mick. He said he'd keep an eye on the farm. Then out came her little black book - the low-down on down town; a few garbled phone calls later and she was on the move again .

"Well are ya comin'?" she said and we were off like a herd of turtles.

I could see him in the distance, a boy scout, leaning against the National Monument on the South Mall. As Granny approached him I sensed all was not right.

"You're not the same fella," said Granny.

"Jimmy couldn't make it, he's in Amsterdam."

Granny didn't trust this new scenario, so she issued what I can only describe as a coded password. "How many `e's' in Granny?" she asked.

"That depends on whether it's a Friday night or a Saturday night!" he bounced it right back at her.

"Sorted!" snapped Granny.

She handed over a wad of cash, he slipped her two clear plastic bags, one containing white powder like bread soda and the other, some loose Aspirin - I think. And following an exchange of vibes, they shook hands .

"E-zy, Granny! E-zy!" he waved.

"Before ya go," Granny stopped him in his tracks. She burrowed deep into her purse, pulled out a 10p piece and pressed it into his hand, "that's for yourself, Sonny!"

It's hard to beat old time values, but two shillings for a bob-ajob? Whatever about the Celtic Tiger, here in Cork we're most definitely in the clutches of the Munster Mongoose.

On the way home, just as we were passing the Grand Hotel, she said that she had to go and powder her nose - she waddled off in the direction of the ladies.

I heard her before I saw her, "Who's in the house? Grannies in the House!" echoing around the foyer. She was rappin' and snappin', mouth motoring and waterin', eyes streamin', voice screamin', she was feelin' up and gettin' down, she was . . . , she was my Granny. And I was standing there helpless, saying "No, no, not again!". Out onto the street with her, movin' and groovin' so preoccupied with her own state of mind, that she didn't notice the squad car until it screeched to a halt within two inches of contact. When Granny caught a glimpse of the two Guardians of the Peace inside the vehicle she totally freaked, reached into her purse and emptied the contents of the two clear plastic bags down her throat . . .

Four full days of mayhem, dementia and dillusionary discourse, ranting and roaring, bouncing off the walls - four senseless days and sleepless nights, trying to talk Granny down from the ceiling. And when she came down, she really came down.

By Thursday she was sitting on the couch sobbing, she missed her farm yard, her chick-e-wicks, her piggy-wiggys, she even missed Grandda, a man who had died 20 years ago amid murmurings of murder but the case was well and truly closed at this stage - although how any man could commit suicide by beating himself to death over the back of the head with a shovel, still leaves many unanswered questions in my mind. But I digress . . .

Granny was homesick for the countryside and landlocked in the city, that's when I remembered: not only did I have a video of John Halas and Joy Batchelors animated classic, Animal Farm (1955) but I also had Jerome's copy of Academy Award winning, Babe (1995). So Granny filled her pipe and the two of us settled into the couch for an afternoon's escapism.

These two films are perfect viewing companions; both set in the enclosed microcosm of a farm yard, where each animal has a job to do and knows his or her place within that society if the status quo is to be maintained. The respective narratives explore the implications for social stability when the rigid rules of a preordained society are challenged. Babe, follows the mixed fortunes of an orphaned piglet who dares to be different - believing himself to be a sheep dog. Regularly led astray by Ferdinand the Duck and other farmyard pests, Babe realises that obstacles are what he sees when he takes his eyes off his goal and ultimately the piglet's blind ignorance, open mind and big heart changes life around Farmer Hoggett's farm for animals and humans alike, forever. A change brought about through consent and the proving of one's worth.

As for George Orwell's masterpiece, certainly, I could identify Stalin, Trotsky, the brutality of a Secret Police drunk on power, but I'm not sufficiently qualified to lecture in any depth on the social study and thesis that is Animal Farm. No doubt it all went totally over Granny's head - well at least I thought it did. But next morning before she went West, just as I was spraying her boots with disinfectant, Granny turned to me and said - "I never knew piggy-wiggys could be so cruel and manipulative, I suppose they're only human after all."

Conal Creedon's new play, Glory Be to the Father, opens tonight at the Forum Theatre, Waterford.