Elaine Lennon is a film historian. She is the author of ChinaTowne: The Screenplays of Robert Towne and is widely published in international film journals.

She has a background in television production and film financing and was a lecturer for a decade in film studies and screenwriting at the School of Media, Dublin Institute of Technology.

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This Is Not My Weasel

By Elaine Lennon

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So there I was dossing outside Brennans Bar minding my own business having a drag on a Players when who should I see only Larry Leonard. Did I ever tell you about him? Anyway, there I was and there he was, with a plastic bag in one hand and a copy of Scene in the other after coming out of Fosters newsagents.

“How’s it hanging?” says I.

“About the same,” says Larry. He held up the bag with the Musicland  logo and the unmistakable shape of a twelve inch. “The new Lizzy album. Going home to have a listen.”

“Bad Reputation,” says I.

He nodded. “One and the same. I’ve been waiting over a month. Ojus sounds. Brian played a track up in the shop.”

“How’s Bernard,” says I, sucking on the ciggie.

“Ah, he’s mellow enough, thanks for asking. Not many do.”

There’s a reason for that.

*

Larry loped up the street and unlocked the yellow Mini his mother gave him after she crashed it into a tree.

“Very Marc Bolan,”  Dennis had said.

“It still goes,” said Larry.

He whipped the engine into a frenzy and slipped into second gear as he ground his way up the Main Street.

He noticed two familiar figures skulking outside Woolworths and pulled in. He wound down the window. The two little girls were sucking on sweet cigarettes.

“Ladies? Wanna lift?

They ignored him.

“Michaela Josephine Leonard will you please come home!” said Larry and his sister reluctantly climbed into the back and her friend Lucy Lou sat in the front because she fancied her friend’s big brother something awful.

“What’s going on, girls?” asked Larry “Bit early to be let out?”

He hit third gear down Bridge Street, up the bottom of the Barrack Hill and round by the Bus Station. He was still getting used to driving but agreed to an L-plate on the back window.

“We were thrown out of the Cathedral for laughing during the Bishop’s funeral,” said Mickey Jo.

“Fascist feckers,” said Lucy Lou.

“Jesus, you’ve some mouths on you for nine,” said Larry.

He sped up as they got close to the church on the hill, surrounded by cars and festooned with flags.

“Heads down, girls,” said Larry.

The girls crouched down as the spire loomed. Crowds of mourners started to emerge from the portals.

“We need to get out of town,” said Mickey Jo.

“I see your problem,” said Larry. He did a handbrake turn around Elm Bank, out the Cootehill Road and made a left down Cullies. “I know just the place to hide out.”

They skidded up the road and hung a right into the boys’ college and he slid to a halt at the handball alley. The girls tumbled out of the car.

“Isn’t that the Bishop’s Palace a hundred yards away,” said Mickey Jo.

“Into the belly of the beast,” said Lucy Lou. “What fresh hell is this?”

“Exactly. Think tactically,” said Larry, lighting a fag. “There’s balls in the boot if you want a game.”

“Not on your nelly,” said Mickey Jo.

Larry yanked the go gos holding her bunches.

“Take a look at this!” said Lucy Lou.

Larry and Mickey Jo joined her at the entrance and stood slack-jawed at the sight that greeted them.

FATHER CHESTER CHILD MOLESTER

The giant words were daubed in purple paint and block capitals all over the end of the handball alley.

“They’d have needed a ladder to get up there,” observed Mickey Jo .

“So he’s still at it. It makes me sad. He was always after the little fellows when I was here,” said Larry. “Imagine what he would have done to Bernard if he’d got a look at him.”

“Bernard? How would he have done anything to Bernard?” asked Lucy Lou.

“Sure, he was only ever interested in boys, wasn’t he?” said Mickey Jo.

“A hole is a hole is a hole,” said Larry, unaccountably moved by the words on the wall. “If he ever got near Bernard, Bernard being so small and all …” 

Larry’s sentence trailed off as he held his hands out measuring Bernard in the air and then thought of Father Chester Sylvester and the size of him. He looked down at his fly.

“No, you’re right, that would be the end of him altogether,” said Mickey Jo. “Maybe you should make sure it’s the end of Sylvester.”

“Larry, you seem very pensive. Are you alright?” asked Lucy Lou.

“I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll bring you girls home. Don’t worry about the mater, Mickey. She’ll understand. She has no time for these perverts.”

“You’re up to something, aren’t you,” said Lucy Lou. “Do you have any Players? I’m parched.”

*

The lads were in the Leonards’ sittingroom and the music was blaring.

“It’s a terrible idea,” said Dennis. “Got a pen?”

Larry pulled a piece of Basildon Bond from his mother’s supply on the top of the piano.

“I know what you did last Wednesday,” said Larry.

“What? What did I do last Wednesday?” said Dennis. “Sure I don’t remember what I did this morning.”

“No, write that,” said Larry.”You know what Chester did last Wednesday.”

“What did he do last Wednesday?”

“Feck knows, probably something. Wasn’t he always up to something. What difference does a day make?”

“Fair point,” said Dennis.

The record had reached the end of Side One.

“Turn it over, there Larry,” said Tosser from the vantage point of the floor as he stared at the ceiling. “That’s some album, man! I’m in the mood for some headbanging now!”

Now I don’t want to tell you the speed he was going and I wouldn’t tell a lie but if I told you the truth you’d never know who’d find out, the Guards could be reading and we wouldn’t want that, now, would we. Them feckers would have his guts for garters. They took that poor little farmer who came ten miles into town every mart day on the tractor and breathalysed him on the way home one night and he wound up losing his licence for a year. The man never got pissed in the pub again. And he was so short it hardly took a pint to fill him so he was a cheap round. Bastards. That was the end of the scam himself and Larry had going at the dwarf-throwing events every summer. They really cleaned up at the agricultural shows. I digress.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead at that shambles,” said Larry as they pulled up to the door of the community hall. “But now that we’re here, I might as well go in.”

“Never know who you might shift!” said Dennis.

They watched as a gang of six women tore down the posters advertising the night’s gig.

“Diehards,” said Dennis. “Wouldn’t want to cross them.”

The place was heaving. You could hardly see anyone in the fug of smoke. The bar was packed.

“Introducing the legend that is … Mister Dickie Rock!” a voice boomed from the stage and a lean figure emerged through the cloud of Silk Cut into a coven of screeching biddies.

Tosser had smoked so many Majors and drunk so much Bass before they’d even left town his eyes were bulging and he was going, Spit on me Dickie! I mean it Dickie! Spit on me! And I swear Dickie Rock was scared of his shite of Tosser and he didn’t even have a pair of knickers to pacify his biggest fan because all the crazy women had backed off and kept their undies on: who knows where those Dunnes Stores specials might have ended up. And Tosser kept at it, roaring, I want to lick your spit, Dickie! I want your drool all over me! Dickie kept singing because as we all know he’s a trouper and he wouldn’t let a madman in the front row put him off but in all fairness even he looked nervous. Now Tosser was a stylish dancer, you’d have to give him that. But nobody wanted anywhere near him. He had a very particular talent for creating a certain type of ambiance around him. Total fear.  The sweat pooled under his armpits and there was some trickling down the back of his Farahs – Protestant trousers! On Tosser Smith! his concession to the sheer showbusiness of the occasion –  so that it looked like he’d pissed himself back to front. It was hard to tell. It must have been a complicated arrangement under that flimsy zipper. He was pogoing up and down like a Sex Pistols fan. Pure demented. Nobody wanted to tell him that Dickie was singing the Eurovision favourite (sixth place!) ‘I Can’t Go On Without You‘ and he was in Ballinagh Hall not the Camden Roundhouse. Tosser was in a world of his own, dancing to Dickie. The guy was obsessed. It was another few minutes before a couple of bouncers lifted him off his Hush Puppies only by then the eyes were in the back of his head. He was lost. Lost in music. He didn’t even know when they dumped him at the back door. He kept on dancing and shouting in the hypnotic reverie known only to a precious few music lovers.

An hour later, the lads found him leaning over the bridge puking.

“Now lads,” said Tosser, wiping the vomit off his face with the cuff of his shirt. “When are we going to give teacher a lesson?”

They didn’t have to wait long. Back in town, as they turned down College Street there in front of them chugging along at about 30mph was a green Lancia. Larry could just about pick it out in the dim street lights.

“Bejay!” said Tosser. “Speak of an ass and he’s sure to pass. Put the foot to the floor, Larry. Pretend you’re James Hunt. Kill the kiddyfiddler!”

They trundled up the street and past the Cathedral and out the road where the Lancia gathered pace.

Larry shunted the car within two inches of its prey.

 

“Head him off at the pass! Out the road, block him at Cullies so he can’t get into the college gates!” Tosser said.

Larry swerved and overtook the car and put on the full lights, slowing down as the lads waved at Father Chester Sylvester.

The priest blinked in fright and overcorrected, swinging the Lancia into the field at the cross for the College. It flipped and landed arse over tip on its roof in the corner, wheels spinning.

Larry paused the Mini.

“Do you think he’s dead?” asked Tosser.

“Do you think he got our letter?” asked Dennis.

“He saw us, didn’t he,” said Larry.

“Well feck that for a game of soldiers,” said Tosser. “I’m wrecked.”

“And so is his car,” said Dennis.

            Larry stared at the car that looked for all the world like a stranded turtle.

            “Home, James,” said Tosser.

            “I hate back seat drivers,” said Larry.

            He gunned the engine.

                                                                        *

It was an unseasonably warm October day  and it was sweltering in the courtroom. The fans whirred overhead, the windows were open and the stink of perspiration was overwhelming.

“All rise for Judge Arthur MacArthur,” announced the clerk whose grey pinstripe suit was matched by his greasy striped combover.

In pranced a specky four eyes outfitted in the whole judgy kit and caboodle..

“That’s the judge,” whispered the solicitor to Larry who was by his side.

The judge was a squirrelly little feck of a fellow.

“Now what?” the judge demanded. The court clerk read out, “The Guards versus Larry Leonard in the case of Father Chester Sylvester.”

“What kind of a name is that? Entirely ludicrous,” said the judge. “Right, out with them.”

Larry and his solicitor stood at the end of a table where some legal eagles were reading The Irish Times.

A Guard stood up in the witness box. “Larry Leonard was involved in a fracas in a supermarket in which a priest got hurt,” said Guard Thomas.“A priest. Who was, eh, helping himself to some, eh, goods.”

“So you took the law into your own hands,” said the judge to Larry.

“Not exactly. It was Bernard,” said Larry.

“Bernard? Who is this Bernard? Is he in the court?” asked the judge.

“No, he’s out in the car,” shouted Tosser from his seat thirty feet away. “Will I get him?”

“Who is that man and why is he in my court?” asked the judge.

“A friend of the accused?” said the solicitor, raising his eyebrows. Larry confirmed he was. The solicitor shuffled some papers in his hands.

“An accessory?” asked the judge.

“Not that I’m aware of,” said the solicitor.

“Can this Bernard be located?” asked the judge.

“Right you be,” shouted Tosser and pushed his way through the crowd, out through the double doors creaking in his wake.

The judge got up off his chair and elevated his wiry body to its full five feet seven inches to adjust himself, hoicking at a leather belt holding up his trews. And just like that out from his capacious gown popped a gold necklace. It had a circular medal hanging on the chain.

Tosser brought Bernard in on a lead and the tiny co-accused’s nails scratched the floor as he skidded this way and that. There was an audible gasp.

“This – this – is Bernard?” asked the judge.

“He is,” said Larry.

“And this is your weasel?” asked the judge.

Bernard stood up on his tippy toes and looked this way and that. Tosser had enormous difficulty controlling him as Bernard caught a whiff he liked and started sniffing shoes.

“This is not my weasel,” said Larry.

“Whose weasel is he, then?” asked the judge.

“Bernard is an autonomous being whether recognised in society or not, Judge,” said Larry. “Hoc non est Mustela mea.”

“I will not have this in my court!” screeched the judge.

“It’s Latin,” said Larry.

“And you’re telling me this weasel understands? You’re being preposterous. In this court we speak the national language which is English. What possible reason could you have for setting your ferret on a man of the cloth?” asked the judge.

“Is that what happened, Guard?”

Guard Thomas nodded. “I think so, Judge.”

“It was a case of mistaken identity,” said Larry.”And he’s a weasel, not a ferret. The priest’s coat had a fur stole on the shoulders and it had a head on it, with eyes and teeth and the whole bit. And Bernard sadly lost one of his own eyes in a catfight so when he saw this creature with his one remaining eye and at that angle – he’s very low to the ground – he naturally thought it was his mother. He misses his mammy. She got run over by a nun. Ever since that happened he can’t stand the religious cohort. A pathological detestation. Plus he has an awful Oedipus Complex. That means he has psychological damage, Judge. And when we followed the child molester into the supermarket and then found him fucking the Kerrygold an opportunity presented itself. It was out of my hands, unfortunately. I can only express my deepest regret, Sor.” Larry was giving his explanation the best knacker he could muster.

There was a sharp intake of breath in the room.

“You followed the what? Who? Is this priest in the house?” asked the judge.

Father Sylvester hobbled up the courtroom. His blonde beehive wig was askew and the split ends were in the stole’s mouth and the heel had broken on his right shoe. His tights were ripped vertically on his shapely calves.

“I hadn’t noticed before but he’s got great legs,” Tosser said to Dennis. “Not that I’m queer, or anything but I’d have a go at him myself. From behind, though” he added. Dennis  shifted a few inches away from his companion.

“Show me the stole in question,” said the judge.

The second guard helped Father take it off his coat.

The judge looked at the dead animal staring up at him from the bench, motheaten and desperate. He looked into the eyes. He placed one hand over his own right eye. He peered over the bench at Bernard. Then he he placed a hand over his other eye. He opened one eye. He closed one eye. He squinted at the stole.

“I can see why that could happen,” said the judge.

Bernard went mad.

“You’re provoking Bernard, Judge. Have a heart!” said Larry.

“So what is he in for,” said the judge, pointing at Father Sylvester.

“He was arrested in the Mace supermarket.”

“But I thought the other fellow was arrested there.”

“He was, Judge.”

“So why did you arrest this – this – man?”
“He was found in a state, Judge,” said Guard Thomas.

“In that attire?” asked the judge. “Is there a pantomime in the vicinity? Are you the fashion police?” He smirked at that one himself.

There were titters in the court. The judge banged his gavel.

“Father is a respected member of the clergy. He’s a teacher in the college with reams of devoted pupils,” said Guard Thomas.

“So why did that man follow him in?” asked the judge, squinting at Larry.

The solicitor grabbed Larry’s arm and said to the judge, “He thought he knew him from somewhere.”

“He was my Latin teacher,” said Larry. “And I never followed him. We just happened to be there.”

“I told you to shush,” said the solicitor.

“So you knew this priest? Had you seen him in woman’s clothing before?” asked the judge.

“No, he only wore men’s dresses in the classroom,” said Larry. “You know the way them fellows do.”

The judge moved awkwardly in his chair.

There was a loud guffaw in the back

“None of that in my court!” said the judge. “I won’t have it! This is no laughing matter!”

“He was always overly involved with students, if you catch my drift,” said Larry.

“Moving swiftly on,” said the judge.

“He was a great student,” said Father admiringly.

“Who asked you? In what way, great?” asked judge. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

He sighed.

“Let me get this straight. You,” the judge said looking at Larry, “suspected him” – he paused to look at Father on the other side of the court – “of interference. And you followed him into Mace and your weasel attacked him. In some sort of act of – retribution – for past misdeeds? Is that right?”

“That’s reading too much into it, Judge, if you don’t mind my saying. I was only going shopping with Bernard,” said Larry. “Ask anyone.”

A silver-haired man in a navy shop coat ran into the courtroom at that very moment.

“It’s true!” he said.

“Who is this?” asked the judge.

“I manage the Mace,” said the man.

Larry laughed. The solicitor elbowed him in the ribs.

The judge frowned at Larry. “So this was all a coincidence. You didn’t intentionally attack the, eh, priest, despite your, eh, prior acquaintance? Think carefully about how you answer, Mister Leonard.”

“That’s right. I had just been in Geoghegans for a load of mouse traps because Bernard was hungry and he needs seven mice a day to fill his little tum. He’s got a fierce appetite, the poor blighter. Then I remembered I had to get some messages for the mammy.”

“Bernard’s mammy? I thought you said she was dead,” said the judge. He looked pityingly at the stole.

“No, my own mammy, Judge,” said Larry.

“What? What? Is it not possible you had an – ulterior motive – for hounding this man? You are a man. Aren’t you?” he looked at Father. “Guard! Enlighten me!” said the judge.

“When we arrived at the Mace following a call from the manager we did indeed find Father Chester Sylvester up to his goolies in a slab of butter,” explained Guard Thomas.

“Butterfucker!” roared Tosser, who was on the Cavan Cola now. He always kept a bottle at close hand. One easily fitted in his pocket.

Bernard jumped up on his hind legs.

“Quiet in the court!” hissed the clerk.

The judge addressed Father.

“Why were you having your way with a slab of butter?” asked the judge. “And in a dress?”

He screwed up his eyes behind his glasses. “And in a wig.” He looked closer at the priest. “With makeup, if I’m not mistaken. Who do you think you are – Danny La Rue?”

Father’s melting waxen face flushed. He stayed silent.

“Has this man got a tongue in his head?” asked the judge.

“As long as that’s where it stays” shouted Tosser.

“I can explain,” said Guard Thomas.

“Tell me, Guard. I’m all ears,” said the judge.

“At approximately twelve-fifteen today in the Mace Supermarket on the Main Street we received a call from the manager who said he observed a man in a dress getting his bits out and sodomising a bar of Kerrygold,” said the Guard. “And  then a lad came in with a weasel on a lead and he went mad – “

“Who went mad?” asked the judge. “The lad?”

“The weasel,” said Guard Thomas.

“You’re presenting a case, man, we must be precise. Go on.”

The Guard cleared his throat and checked his notepad. “And there was a commotion and the weasel appeared to be trying to kill the priest.”

“I see,” said the judge. He shook his head. “What am I talking about? Why was a weasel going shopping? What is going on here?”

Larry got a pecular feeling. A strange stirring. The Greeks have a word for it: anagnorisis. He had an idea he knew where he’d last seen the judge. That flick of the wrist. Then the adjustment of the spectacles, little finger up, like he was having tea with the Queen. He may not have been wearing the Oliver Peoples aviators or the white suit that adorned him at the time of their prior encounter under a glittering ball but he’d know that signature move anywhere.

It was Medallion Man. The last time Larry saw him it was not in a courtroom. His mind flashed back to a dismal night in Mullingar not three weeks ago. The disco dance off. It had all been so promising until he lost by a whisker to this – this – Dancing Queen!

“Do you have an explanation, Mister Leonard?” The judge’s eyes bored into Larry.

“How deep is your love, Judge?” Larry asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Would you blame anyone for staying alive?”

“I’m confused. What is going on here today?”

Larry struck a John Travolta pose. Right arm extended, left leg elongated, left hand on left hip. Staring straight to camera. You never knew with The Anglo-Celt. There might be a photographer in the house.

“Yes, Judge. I can boogie.”

The judge knew everything in an instant. He, Arthur MacArthur, in his alter ego of Medallion Man, the Miniature Muscle Man from Mullingar, had beaten this fellow by a squeak. The fellow they called The Prancing Peacock. And now the man was in his court and had  recognised him. He feared for his position. His good name.

“A dancing queen is a very fine thing, Judge,” Larry said.

“What is this man doing here?” the judge asked of nobody in particular.

“I beg your pardon, Judge?” asked Guard Thomas. “Which one?”

“I mean, how can he be the witness for the prosecution and the alleged perpetrator of this crime? And what crime is it any way? Sounds to me like a quest for justice. Nothing wrong with that. Nobody got hurt. Except the butter. Wasn’t that in Last Tango in Paris? Shouldn’t be allowed. Was that not banned? The film? And the – ” his words hung in the air.

“There was possibly a previous incident,” Guard Thomas began. “Involving a car chase reaching a peak of twenty-nine miles per hour on Farnham Street on out the Cathedral Road on the Cullies corner. Father’s car overturned.”

The judge held up his hand to indicate Stop. He turned to Larry.

“My good man, I am sincerely sorry for this most egregious waste of your time in a no doubt busy day. I apologise most sincerely for the mistakes made by the so-called keepers of the peace. Please accept the thanks of the Court for your gracious indulgence.” He glared at Guard Thomas.

“I don’t understand, Judge,” said Guard Thomas.

“This is a clear case of mistaken identity,” said the judge.

“What I said,” said Larry, turning to his solicitor.

The judge turned to the clerk. “Clerk, what’s in the poor box?”

“What just happened?” asked Guard Thomas, looking over his shoulder.

“Don’t ask me,” said the solicitor, closing his file.

Father scratched the back of his bloodied right leg with the heel on his one good shoe. His feet were killing him. Bernard had bitten right through the flesh.

The clerk made a big thing of finding the key in his inside jacket pocket. He produced it with a flourish.

“Get on with it,” said the judge. “This isn’t The Generation Game and you’re not Anthea Redfern, more’s the pity.”

The clerk opened the tin of petty cash. There were murmurs around the courtroom.

Bernard squeaked and stood up on his hind legs. Tosser bent down and patted Bernard’s tiny head. His stumpy tail flapped with pleasure.

“There, there Bernard,” said the judge. “This must all be very upsetting for the fellow.”

“He’s traumatised,” said Larry.

Bernard let out a howl.

“It’s as if he knows what we’re saying,” marvelled the judge.

Bernard starting trying to hump the solicitor’s leg. The solicitor tried to shake him off his trousers which were shredded with a magnificent rip.

The clerk was making a hames of counting out the coins on the bench in front of his desk.

“There’s forty-seven pounds and fifty-five pence, Judge” announced the clerk.

“Give it to him,” said the judge.

“Who?” asked the clerk.

“Bernard, who do you think?” said the judge. “Oh, will a pound cover the butter?” he asked the manager from Mace. “Spare a pound for him,” the judge said to the clerk.

The manager nodded and took a biro out of his hair and wrote the figure on a piece of paper in his pocket.

“As Bernard’s human advocate, I’m happy to accept on his behalf,” said Larry, drawing himself up to his full height as befits such an honorific. If he hadn’t been six feet under the judge’s bench he’d have been six inches over him.

“And the stole!” said the judge. “Will somebody take this poor beast from the bench?”

Guard Thomas stepped forward and handed it to Father, who demurred. Thomas turned to Larry, who showed it to Bernard, who went mad with delight.

“Here, Tosser, hold her for minute,” said Larry. Tosser held onto the furry decoration as Bernard jumped up and down kissing it.

The clerk narrowed his eyes as Larry approached the bench. Larry held out both hands and poured the piles of proffered coins into his suit pockets with a wink at Judge MacArthur, who avoided making eye contact.

“It’s murder on the dancefloor, Medallion Man, but I’m up for it if you are” whispered Larry. “See you next Tuesday.”

The judge affected not to hear him.

“How will I record this, Judge?” asked the clerk. “In whose name will I mark up the donation?”

“Bernard Leonard,” said the judge. “Esquire.”

“What about this fellow?” asked Guard Thomas, pointing at Father Chester Sylvester.

“Butyrum irrumator!” shouted Tosser. Dennis whooped from the pews.

Father looked at Tosser with what appeared to be paternal pride. “I taught you so well, Tosser,” he said quietly, his eyes rheumy with emotion. “You are a loss to the priesthood.”

“I’d love to tell you what to do with him but I’d probably have to go to confession,” said the judge to Guard Thomas. “Buy a better disguise? I’ve heard enough for one day. You’re some operator. You need to cool your high heels in the barracks for a few nights. Father Chester Sylvester. I ask you. Get out of my sight. This session is over!”

He banged the gavel.

He left the bench. Everyone rose to watch the squirrelly feck disappear.

Out in the car park, Bernard was blinking furiously as the lads tugged on his leash and he yelped and squealed with delight when Larry took a dead mouse from his Dingos and fed it to the little animal. Bernard held it in his two front paws and eagerly chewed the head off.

“That was some day out, you gave us, Bernard,” said Larry.

They leaned against the Mini and watched Guard Thomas and his lackey push Father Chester Sylvester into the squad car. The heel fell off his other stiletto as they slammed the door.

Bernard chomped on the mouse and the lads smoked themselves into a state of great ease.

“That was a Condor moment,” said Dennis watching the motes dance in his eyelids.

“Which one?” asked Tosser.

“All of them,” said Larry, blowing rings into the Indian Summer sunlight.

They all laughed.

“You’re a little dote. For a stoat,” declared Tosser.

Bernard swallowed the mouse’s tail.

                                                            *

There’s a special bond between a man and his weasel. It’s impenetrable. Quite possibly inexplicable. But one thing is true. If you’ve got a problem that you can’t solve, you can always do it in the mix.

There’s a weasel for that.