NAME THE STORY TELLER

NAME THE STORY TELLER.

Give the Leprechauns Storyteller  writeyouwriteme a suitable name

And WIN a boxed Cadbury’s EASTER EGG

Everybody needs a name. But this old fella is nameless.

I found this little man alone and abandoned at the back of a junk shop In Co Donegal. We took an instant liking to each other. He explained – without words – that it had been a while since he had had any tobacco for his pipe. Without tobacco for his pipe he couldn’t wander the hills and valleys of Ireland telling his stories about the custom of the faereies and the ‘wee folk.”

“What breed of an Irishman are you, “I asked struggling him out from beneath a broken shamrock that had lost its green lustre.

He tried a feeble wink. “What kind would ye like me to be,” he asked silently. I had no answer.

“Would you like him painted up again,” the bemused young one behind the shop counter asked as I heaved his crumbling body close to my chest.

It was near closing time and I had the feeling the STORY TELLER – for I was certain that was what he was – would be just as happy to keep his faded clothes just as long as I took him home with me. “What colour were you thinking about?” I enquired. To my astonishment, the slip of a girl, launched into a detailed explanation of the dress, colours and costumes worn by leprechauns. “Well, it all depends what part of Ireland he’s from and where he’d be going to tell his stories,” she said without cracking a smile.

“We’re agreed he’s a story teller, then,” I said thinking I’d play her at her own game. She gave me a pitying smile and after rummaging under the cluttered counter for a while, she pulled out a tattered looking book and proceeded to dust it off with the sleeve of her Aran jumper. “Here he is wearing his greatcoat and silver buckled shoes and here he is with his breeches…”

I was beginning to think this wee leprechaun was going to cost me a packet. “I’ll take him,” I said hurriedly.

“He’d look better painted.” And she was off again telling me more.

“Paint him – I’ll leave a deposit.”

Satisfied with the sale, she licked the end of her pencil and laboriously wrote down my name in the kind of swirly Irish lettering I remembered from my school days.

I went home and forgot all about the wee man.

But he hadn’t forgotten about me. About a month later, he came to me in my dreams. He was wearing the coats and britches you see him wearing now and smoke was puffing out of his pipe.

The message was clear. He was ready to tell his stories again.

And so I fetched him home and placed him beneath the golden bush you see in the picture. He settled into his new abode and lo and behold, the rose bush that the frost had filled two years before started to spurt buds and then lovely golden yellow roses appeared. Not quite a crock of gold but good enough for me.

But in my haste to buy the old fella I forgot to ask Miss-know-All-Things about leprechauns what his name was.

And so to this day he has remained nameless.

So I need your help to name him. The best – most suitable- name for him will win a Cadbury’s Easter egg – be it man, woman or child.

In addition your name will be credited on the writeyouwriteme.wordpress.com blog ass the person who gave him his name.

So come on! Give the STORYTELLER a name before Easter