I'm not sure of the gentleman's name. He was a fairly nice man and seemed to always have a twinkle in his eye. Each time we'd meet or cross paths he'd yell out, "Hey, tinker, tinker, Irish Man." I'd laugh, shake my head and move on. I haven't seen him in years.
To this day I still don't understand why he'd yell the phrase. A tinker was a craftsman, a tin smith. A trade traced as far back as the thirteenth century (recorded) or further. Others believe it refers to Irish Travelers. Either way I'm neither. I am Irish, but my forefathers were boat builders.
Anyhow, I've had the jingle stuck in mind all darn day. Since early this morning I've been in the garage dinking around. This past weekend Sweet Wife allowed me to purchase a set of shelves to help in my months long reorganization of the garage. As I went about the assembly of the shelves and my other chores, I'd mumble, 'Tinker, Tinker, Irish Man.' Over and over and over. The earworm from hell.
If I ever see that 'ole boy again I'm gonna whip his butt.