Tag Archives: life

And

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On this day, I fell in love
with a song on first hearing.
It helped that I was driving.
And the sun was shining.
And the window down.
And we were on our way back
from visiting a childhood friend.
And she sat quietly 
before issuing a demand
that it be turned up.
And I looked at her
in the rearview looking sideways
through the window with her small foot
tapping at my back.
And she looked back at me.
And away again.
And the music took her her way,
and me mine.
And when we arrived home, 
the same sun had slid down the back fence
as it peeled the last strip of daylight away.
And flung it on the earth’s bedroom floor.
And finished its striptease 
before it made way for the moon.

You’ll not know yourself

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Was there ever a phrase that contravened standards of accuracy so blatantly as this? Apart from maybe “going for the one”.

Here is a sample of life-altering recommendations that have fallen dramatically short of achieving that objective:

Courtesy of my Mother:

  • Krill oil. The most recent ‘present’ she brought on her visit. Standard issue chocolate and biscuits have gradually been replaced by various anti-aging and life-extending interventions. It started with a collection of face creams for my 40th birthday. Subtle. I’ve since been handed down the third bottle of Centrum vitamins from all her three-for-two buys in Boots. For my nails, and my hair she regularly likens to the Wreck of the Hesperus. For years, I thought that was a Greek Goddess who had let herself go after too many nights on the sauce. My Mother is nothing, if not consistent. Now I’ve got Krill. It’s multiplying. And I’m losing control.
  • A steel potato masher. You too? Amazingly energy efficient compared to the Teflon alternative. I bet your dinners don’t know themselves either.
  • A slow-cooker. This from a woman married to a man fond of economising on the length it takes to boil a kettle, to a woman married to a man with an OCD-like propensity for checking all plugs are switched off. Good one.
  • Emphatically imploring me to do the household chores on a designated day of the week. Housework. Now that would be radically out of character.
  • The 5:2 diet (the age she fears I look)

Courtesy of my fella:

  • Go to bed earlier
  • Get my car serviced [not a euphemism for anything else]
  • Give him a weekly shopping list
  • Swap our lie-in days every other weekend
  • Don’t cook at the weekends

How low-maintenance is this man? Christ.

Courtesy of my friends:

  • Yoga
  • An Ipad
  • A Satnav
  • A 4 week blow-dry
  • A Parent and toddler group
  • Designated ‘Me Time’
  • Batch cooking
  • On-line grocery shopping
  • Mindfulness
  • From Couch to 5k
  • A house extension

From this lot, I regularly re-visit the mindfulness suggestion. Taking the time to enjoy the moment and be at one with nature has its benefits. Look at the lovely trees. Look at the beautiful leaves that have fallen from the lovely trees. Look at me just being among the beautiful leaves that fell from the lovely trees. Consciously getting all matey with nature.  Look at me flaring my nostrils as I mindfully inhale the soothing country air. [Three minutes later]. Ah sod this, let’s go get a coffee.

From my colleagues:

  • Get everything in writing
  • Just follow the rules
  • Ignore the rules
  • Get your travel expenses claim in every month*

*Therefore guaranteeing the shuffle of notes from an ATM within 10 days of payday. Finally, we’re getting somewhere.

What I reckon it would take to not know myself:

  • On-line personality shopping
  • Getting my mind serviced
  • Thrill oil
  • From grouch to Special K
  • The 4 second blow job
  • Following my own rules

Then getting it all down in writing.

Capitulation

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We give ourselves that feel-good moment, and leave a few quid for the chambermaids tasked with speculating whether we were obliging guests or just allergic to personal hygiene. From the strange, we continue further South. So impaled am I on the thrill of the unfamiliar, my fella barely conceals his surprise that I’m Huggy Bear about an extra hour’s drive. One due to dismissal of my directions. Another hour on top of that wouldn’t bother me too much either. Some of us like driving to stand still. But he doesn’t need to know that.

To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure of the way either. We are both wearing that unbearable swagger that only fits when we’re so intent on proving our familiarity with places past, we over-estimate it. His is rumbled while mine is saved by an assertion the new one-way system is the culprit responsible for back-tracks into town. Then relief as the hotel façade juts in to view. There is no new one-way system.

I inform our wee one this is the place where her Dad and I got it together proper. Where the symphony of our getting-to-like-yous was composed. He points out all the stations of the courtship: the road we wobbled home drunk, the pub where we held hands, not forgetting the petrol pumps – the last pit-stop before his exit onto the motorway home. He laughs to himself at the memories of sadness he used to feel on departing.

Eight years on, it’s different but deeper. So the glossy mags and mid-day female panelists would have us believe. But I wouldn’t say no to another evening of exaggerating about being the outdoor-type, and wheeling out some of my better yarns for the first time for few of his guffaws. In the same way I don’t love our one any less just because I wouldn’t turn down a few nights with her as a new-born. We were lucky – she was a good sleeper as a nipper; and this town was a discreet, but lively, chaperone. I wonder aloud if less vibrant towns would have set us up as successfully, ignoring his middle-distance gaze. No need to nail it to the ground then.

I stand as a fellow tourist with the pair of them in the same spot where I stood as a new resident back then. We’re waiting on a makeshift train to bring us around the sights at a mortifying 20 miles per hour. Back then I was waiting on a coach-load eager to see what kind of place was designated for them to set up home. With no idea of how success was to be measured.

The tour-guide points out ancient ruins to our right, while I fixate on the shop to our left where young faces hoked through emblems and crests to see which fitted. On our left, another church flings its spire in the air three doors down from the health-centre where most of them registered in the days following their arrival. Around the corner one of the oldest graveyards in the country apologies for itself, and I shiver at the flashback of fruitless flat-hunting on the road adjacent.

Sentimentality is egging me on to begin another round of remember-whens. But I’ve no patience with it today. Or its inflated sense of entitlement, and obsession with converting transient feelings into something mawkish and manipulative. My inner steely tour-guide marches on, willing my resolve to keep hugging the present.

Coats hanging on the back of chairs, we clink glass. To the future. And all that. Whatever that is. The menu has changed.

“Are you ready to order?”

I look up directly into the brown eyes of one of those erstwhile fresh faces. Long grown out of the school blazer with at least another foot below her knees and I.. and I… and I…

While you were away…

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We took a pretend holiday home to my folks’ where I pretended we all get on well. A new direction in experimental good relations. Strangely, it sort of worked. I tried to pretend we weren’t broke when we returned; mainly because we were already broke before we left. Hence the word ‘holiday’ inserted into the re-branding of the trip.

Nevertheless, we did get to sneer at holidaymakers other than my beloved fellow gene-poolers having dusted off a hotel voucher veering dangerously close to its use-by date. Our over-nighter of an afternooner in the bar coincided with the Ulster Final. With the aid of German beer, I dug deep into my otherwise latent county loyalties. Nothing makes one yelp “G’wan …eh *whispers what’s his name again?*…” with such intensity than realising one is surrounded by supporters of the rival team gleefully applauding our wides. My right to always see myself as a victim was further vindicated when we lost.

But the trip was not without its enjoyable moments. I checked tripadvisor when we returned to see if anyone had a similar experience. Apart from a few neurotic Americans manically pacing the lower end of the star-ratings, it seems I was alone in the double sink triggering the imaginings of a scene reminiscent of a Wood Allen film. You know the one. The couple having a breakdown. Or one of them accusing the other of having one, just because they’re talking extra fast, and/or having an affair. Despite the opportunity to expand at length on our respective existential crises between moments of synchronised teeth-brushing, my fella declined to join me for the occasion. So I neurotically paced in front of the 800 inch TV instead before switching it on only for some plinky plonky jazz to permeate the room. It was almost authentically New Yoik except for the distant sound of sheep and a dog-eared copy of the RTE Guide on the table.

Which, coincidentally, was not unlike the state of my enthusiasm for returning to work, which I reluctantly undertook to do amid several valid alternatives put forward by myself. I elected to attempt coping with reality by refraining from listening to my voicemails until I had built up sufficient courage, and wearing my sunglasses all day indoors.

It’s been two days and I’ve graduated to answering the phone but my phone voice must still be on leave as everyone asks me if they can speak to me.

Thanks for asking.

Next question?

Checkmate

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9

It used to be that visits were so infrequent, I was convinced they’d changed the carpet in my absence. The longer the gap, the odder it looked. Are you sure?, I’d casually interrogate, looking down at a previously unregistered row of flowers snaking under the glass table. From there it zigzagged towards another buoying up an assortment of exhibits proudly wearing their counties of origin like a status-tag.

Waterford still borders Belleek despite the arrival of Galway and other Rocha-come-latelies. Well, something’s different, I mumbled the other evening, ignoring the dust no longer visible to the octogenarian eye. Who’s that making his own tea in the kitchen? “Your Father”.

By the third day, our one wondered when we were going home. This could only have meant one of two things: 1. She was having an enjoyable time 2. She was having such a good time she was growing ever anxious about the inevitable Sunday-night-like Fear. Or (I’m gathering momentum here so feel it necessary to add a third) most likely 3. She was experiencing a disturbing combination of 1. and 2. We’ve all been there. In receipt of unfettered treats knowing there’s a comedown at the bottom of the next empty wrapper and a return to front-seat issued orders about bed-time. They get you into a confined space where you can’t move for two hours and set all sorts of conditions. You hate it now, I smiled sympathetically, but will learn to master it by the time you’re in a serious relationship.

By the fourth day, I was beginning to feel at home. This could only have meant one of two things 1. I was at home 2. I was at home, but it was my home. Or (work with me) 3. I was experiencing a disturbing inner conflict between rejection and romanticising of 1. and 2. We’ve all been there. In receipt of unwavering hospitality from one, and from the other a raised brow at the level of oil usage. They get you into a confined space where you can’t move for two days and set all sorts of unspoken conditions for keeping it civil. You hate it now, she smiled up at me sympathetically, but just think what all’s ahead of me.

I thought better of sticking my tongue out at her, so robbed a Curly Wurly instead.

waterford crystal

Seeing through each other

Audience review

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Equidistant from the bar and the bogs. That’s us. Strategic. Lined up at the critical spot where we can fully survey the audience while absorbing the sounds with a respectable three-feet radius between us and the next middle-agers. Plus the occasional reveller, though I suspect they’re just desperately trying to locate the toilets. It’s the three of us. Her, him, and me.

First half-hour:

Her: Fairly decent crowd, eh. That’s the good thing about being among our own – we’ll be spared all the cameras and phones in our faces

Me: And everyone looks like someone slightly famous

Him: ‘Nother pint? *waves empty plastic glass*

Me: Nah, thanks. Driving.

Him: What about a coffee?

He’s especially polite when he’s the one on the lash and not the designated driver.

Text from mate over at Beyoncé:  Hey!!! Lovely white clouds covering crokers!!!!

I swear the exclamation marks are a wind-up.

Middle section:

Me: There’s yer man. Erm. What’shisname. Eh no, false alarm, it just looks like somebody.

She: Everyone’s aging alright, aren’t they?

Me: I was just thinking that. And there’s a fair few much older. Although we probably share the same age category in the Census. My rule of thumb is if they are old enough to be my parent, well, they’re super oldies.

She: Andrew (her brother-in-law) will be the same age as Joanne’s (her sister) mother-in-law this year

Me: No way. He doesn’t look it. My mother-in-law is 21 years older than me. Just made it.

He: (back from toilet) Just saw Joe Brolly. Pissed.

Me: How did you know?

He: Erm. The way he was walking?

Her: There’s my old college lecturer *waves at grey-haired man smiling over* Can’t you tell he’s one, sure look at him

We both survey the shorts and sandals ensemble

Me: All that’s missing is the socks. Look! It’s Will!

Her & Him: Who’s Will?

Me: Will! From the Ray D’arcy Show! One of the funniest fuckers on radio

*silence*

These people have no appreciation.

Final half hour:

We’re joined by another pair of friends. Let’s call them er.. them.

Her: I thought I saw Leo Varadkar there when I was going to the toilet

Me: Yeah, that’s him. He looks taller on the telly

One of them: He goes to my sister’s gym. Says he’s an awful poser. It’s all about being seen apparently

Her: Well, if I’d known it was him, I’d have tripped him

She’s 5ft nothing and the most polite woman in Ireland. But we’ve gotta take her word for it.

He: (returning with another pint) Just saw Aidan Gillen there at the bar

Me: Meh. He’s everywhere. And a bit self-consciously cool, is he not?

He: Well, he was in The Wire

Me:  You’re right *solemn tone* I take it back

The other one of them: I bet ya Leo is taking a selfie so he can check how many people behind recognise him

Text from my mate at Crokers: Phenomenal!

One exclamation mark. She must mean it.

John Grant: You’ve been a wonderful audience

Him:  Yes, we have been

Her: Yes, we’re still up

Him: Without the aid of any mind-altering substances

Her: Well, I had a cuppa tea

Me: And I had some chewing gum

Her to Him: Just think if you weren’t coming back again tomorrow, we could’ve gone to Coppers

Her, Him & Me: *laughs uproariously*

The following morning:

Text from Beyoncé convert: Were we not all lucky not to be poured on?????

You can take the music fan out of the middle-aged crowd……..

******

This audience review was brought to you in association with the wonderful John Grant from the perfectly intimate surroundings of Iveagh Gardens, Dublin.

Saturday 9th July 2016.

john grant

John Grant takes a moment to welcome Leo Varadkar

Mother inferior

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So, wannabe Conservative Party leader, Andrea Leadsom, reckons having children gives her the edge on rival, Theresa May. Apparently, it elevates the status of her stake in the future of Britain to higher worth. It worked for Thatcher, remember?

It’s hardly a surprising assertion given the only comparative differentiation between one candidate and the other is anxiety about getting children into the best private schools. A low point for meaty mud-slinging, but a possible Mexican eye-roll opportunity for women across the Northern Hemisphere who do not have children.

While commentators are foaming at the keyboard, many women will be reminded of how they are regular receptacles for the same assertion made more matter-of-factly along with a number of other assumptions far too frequently strewn around.

If you’re a woman who doesn’t have children, it’s likely you’ll be unsurprised to learn the following:

  • Your capacity to be affected by horrific news stories of children dying isn’t as great as women who do.
  • Sexism and discrimination in the workplace don’t affect you as negatively.
  • Your work ethic is not under the same scrutiny or pressure for reform so you don’t work as hard either. No need for you to prove yourself.
  • It’s your choice to work 80 hours in a top corporate job at the expense of your fertility. Because life’s that simple, and worthy work, or ‘careers’ are only ever to be found in those sectors that require grooming and a third level alma mater.
  • Consequently, you probably haven’t suffered the indignity of participating in ‘low-skilled’ work.
  • If, or when, you ever do have children, it’s only then you’ll realise the need for feminism.
  • You’re constantly hung-over. You lucky sod.
  • You smell of cat wee. Probably.

Look what I stole for us, darling

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A five minute commute (for you)

A non-backed out of school-night gig  (for us)

One day of her as a new-born (don’t look at me like that)

A really high fence for the back garden (for them next door)

An impulse hover over the match ticket purchase button. Go on! press the damn thing.

Life insurance. Oh no, wait, you bought us that last week. Sorry.

Former colleagues. Hey, back off, those are mine.

500 tea-spoons. Only messin’. Eh calm down, I’m sure I can get some next time.

What do you think it looks like? That dime bar dessert from ten years ago you mentioned.

*holds up hanger to chin*  For respectability in the workplace. What do you think? It’s probably too small.

A stash of ready-made semi-colons to insert wherever you like.

*reads back of packaging* Oh yeah, I forgot about this – a matching shame-gland to go with the work gear.

Two-for-one confidence supplements. We’re not supposed to use heavy machinery or drive for at least four hours after taking these.

Eternal spotlessness of the box-set mind. It looks more like a tanning machine to me. Still, if it means experiencing The Sopranos from scratch, who cares, eh?

Decisions, decisions

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book of questions

Question 1:

“For a person you loved deeply, would you be willing to move to a distant country knowing there would be little chance of seeing your friends or family again?”

Hmmm

How far is distant?

Can you define ‘country’?

Is there broadband access?

Is the country isolated or just shy?

Immediate family?

What about acquaintances who think we’re friends?

Do they have cheese in this place?

Is that considered cheese?

A sizeable Enya fanbase?

Are you certain?

Does everything shut down at 6?

Will I be able to get a job in a place where everyone follows up an agreed meeting date with at least two check-ins to make sure it’s still going ahead?

Equality of access of wind and rain?

Does it have a running festival?

Can you double-check?

Does respectability mean being a teacher/priest/obituary announcer on local radio and/or holding the hand of a person for an excruciatingly long time after they’re initially introduced?

Does it have at least two local rival GAA teams?

Two international soccer teams who wear the same colour?

A sizeable fan base for two opposing teams in a third, independent, country?

Higher than average consumption of anti-depressants?

I’m not saying yes or no, but I might consider it.

*******

What about you? Take it away there like good dot comrades…