I begin with a disclaimer. Should you not be up for exploring a coup de litterature, then simply stop right here. If you are curious, enjoy an outrageous story, bizarre characters and tons of giggles, press on. May I introduce myself? I am Lord Reginald Quinton Leary, the author and the one to blame. I was faced with a unique, almost insoluble problem. I had a wonderfully strange and funny little caper peopled with outrageous characters that begged to be shared. My problem was how to get the story on paper. You see I am just short of a hundred and seventy-five years old. That is correct, dear reader; I am a full fledged, card carrying member of the spirit world. Now you understand my problem. How does a spectral presence write a book? I made feeble attempt after feeble attempt. I needed help. One of our little gang was Clive Brigham, a very successful English author, intelligent, handsome, witty and terminally horny. Naturally I turned to him for help. Wrong! He was much too concerned with the visions of merkins that danced in his head. The next most obvious choice for assistance in our gang was a very successful Irish publisher, Seamus Cullen. Again, wrong! He was far too busy with his delusions of grandeur and being a professional Irishman. I was ready for a padded room. Then suddenly: a Zen moment. Tradition and redundancy be damned! I will be my own ghost writer. There always has to be a first. So I began with a vengeance my reinvigorated effort. I will do the bloody thing myself. Ghost writer; Hmmm; I like the sound of that. Let’s begin with my favorite subject; me. I was born inEnglandinto the titled Leary family. Some distant relative supposedly fought in the Norman Conquest and was awarded English land for his faithful service. Castle Leary was built and the noble Leary lineage had begun. Generations later when I was a mere puppy in residence, pater was off fighting withWellingtonatWaterloo. He was unfortunately standing too close to his battery of cannon when a volley completely scrambled his marbles. He returned from the wars with an un-diagnosed medical condition: almost continual sexual arousal. He remained, into his dotage, an aberrant, drooling, over sexed war hero with a bulge in his baggy tweeds. About this time, mores be damned, I decided to wear one of Mother’s lovely frocks to a royal ball atBalmoralCastleinScotland. The Empire almost collapsed. I would have been racked in the Tower were it not for mater and pater’s influence in the closet of the House of Lords. Mercifully, I was exiled to GlenLeary inIrelandto watch over the Leary estate. I still think all the fuss was because I was the prettiest one at the ball. One weekend, long after I should have ceased such falderal, I climbed on the back of a great bay brute and rode off to the music of the hounds. At the first fence, the bay and I parted company. Yours truly made a balloon ascension and then attempted to lunch on the stone fence - time for the big dirt nap. When I came around I realized, as Seamus is fond of saying, I had taken up residence among the Banshees. I lingered and became GlenLeary’s famous or infamous, depending on your point of view, spectral resident. GlenLeary lingered as well and it was a race to see which of us could use the most patching plaster. Finally and gratefully, the fourth member of our gang arrived on the scene, a rich American, business woman, Hanna Denning. She suggested to the Georgian Society and the National Trust that a bed and breakfast would help save the grand old place and make it pay. Today we are one ofIreland’s most popular tourist accommodations. The next step was the Georgian Society’s wisdom in sending us the final member of our merry little band, James O’ Brian. He is a handsome young Irish Concierge who, as it turned out is not only a wonderful chef, oenophile and gentleman b