Paddy O’Malley awoke with a start. His head throbbed like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. He groaned, clutching his head. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, headache,” he mumbled. His wife, Moira, peered at him from across the room, a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Feeling a bit rough, are we, Paddy?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Perhaps a bit o’ ‘Paddy’s Irish Remedy’ is in order?”
Paddy knew what that meant. Moira’s “Irish Remedy” wasn’t a soothing herbal tea; it was a concoction of dubious ingredients that tasted like a badger had gargled with rusty nails and cough syrup. He shuddered at the memory.
“No, Moira,” he pleaded, his voice weak. “Not the… the… remedy! Anything but that!”
Moira chuckled, a sound like gravel rolling downhill. “Oh, come now, Paddy. It’s the only thing that’ll cure what ails ya. Besides,” she added, producing a suspiciously green bottle, “I’ve added a special ingredient this time!”
Paddy’s eyes widened. “A special… what?” he croaked, his stomach churning.
Moira beamed, her face practically glowing with pride. “A dash of extra-strength… seaweed!”
Paddy stared at the bottle, then back at Moira. His headache, he suddenly realised, was nothing compared to the potential digestive disaster awaiting him. He gulped. “Maybe,” he said weakly, “maybe I’ll just stick to the headache.”
