The Honeymoon

We were flat broke after our wedding, and there was no money for fabulous trips to the Grand Canyon or Australia for the honeymoon.

We booked two weeks in Greece with Budget Travel and were damn glad of it.

We’d been together for eleven years at this stage, so I’m not even going to pretend that the honeymoon was full of surprises.  That would be dishonest and downright stupid.  And nobody would believe it.

No, if memory serves, it was a normal sun holiday.  I know I got drunk quite a few times, His Nibs had given up drink for good already.   When he was about thirty he woke up one morning with a roaring hangover and said he was giving up drinking for good and actually did it! This is not an urban legend.  It’s absolutely true.  I was so impressed I married him.

No, sadly our honeymoon isn’t memorable for the high jinx and chandelier swinging it might have, but didn’t, involve. 

Our honeymoon is memorable because of the trip home.

His Nibs and I don’t really have much luck in airports or with air travel in general.  I mean in an everyday way, not in the “strangers put heroin in my luggage and I got ten years in the Bangkok Hilton” kind of way.  If there is ever going to be a problem or delay on a flight, it’s always on our flight. 

We were only in the air for about forty five minutes when this plane lost pressure and dropped from 37,000 feet to 12,000 feet. 

There was a very sudden sensation like going downhill on a rollercoaster, and the oxygen masks dropped out of the ceiling.  Obviously, everybody got a bit of a fright.  I am not able to stay awake in planes, so I was very happily dozing when all this drama started. 

We were absolutely not helped by the young and inexperienced-looking steward, and I am not joking about this, who ran down the aisle of the plane waving his hands and squealing

“Jesus Christ, oh Christ almighty!!” which perhaps unsurprisingly, caused all out panic. 

They always make it sound, in the safety demonstration, as if you just pop the mask over your mouth and carry on.  This is not what happens, or at least it didn’t happen on the plane we were in.  The mask over my seat dropped just a couple of inches.

Still fairly dozy, I looked at His Nibs, waiting for an explanation.  He was kind enough to fill me in with the words

“We’re in big trouble here, put that mask on you, and brace yourself”,

before he started pulling on his mask.  Bewildered, I grabbed my mask, which didn’t move.  I gave it another tug, no go.  I ended up taking off my seatbelt, (strictly forbidden in the circumstances), standing up and actually swinging out of the mask in my attempt to bring it down to face level.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I couldn’t do it. 

Eventually His Nibs noticed.  This was our honeymoon, these days I could be doing the hula hula in a grass skirt (God forbid) and he wouldn’t notice  Anyway, he fixed the mask for me.  It was very soon after this that I realised that the captain was giving us too much information.

In an ideal situation, I think the captain would come on the speaker and announce that we had lost pressure, but not to worry, he knew what he was doing, and he’d tell us anything we needed to know about.  This would be done in a soothing and professional sounding voice.

No such luck.  He decided that the best course of action would be to tell us everything that happened, as it happened.  So we spent the next ninety minutes being given nuggets of information like

“We were going to do an emergency landing in Italy but I don’t think we can keep the plane up over the mountains.  Rather than risk it, we’re going to go down around the boot of Italy and try to do an emergency landing in Spain instead”. 

This information was no help to us. 

There’s always one in every group, and somebody started a decade of the Rosary.  I just sat there, wondering what he meant by “trying” to do an emergency landing, with the Hail Mary ringing in my ears. 

We were a lot less hysterical than I would have expected.  As a matter of fact we spent a few happyish minutes talking about how if you have to go, at least a plane crash is more interesting and glamorous than being run over by a moped. 

Although we could see land outside the window for the duration of the flight to Spain, we stayed in the air.  Even the steward seemed to calm down a bit.  Possibly because his colleague, a far more professional person in my opinion, was holding his hand and telling him not to worry, that the captain knew what he was doing and to have faith.

The emergency landing was a success, and after a few hours in an abandoned air hangar the plane was pronounced safe for us.

So we got on it and came home to two discoveries. 

One, the code on the security gates of our building had changed during our absence and we had to climb over the 6 foot high vertically barred wrought iron gates, and get my extremely heavy suitcase over it ,to gain entrance. At five o’clock in the morning. 

And two, that our little adventure had made the front page of the Irish Times. 

Dear Hairdresser

You know perfectly well that you wield more power than you ought to.  You have the power to make any woman you get your hands on look like a complete gobshite.  You should really use your power wisely. 

But no, you have chosen, instead, to tell his harmless eejit, time and time again, that you’re going to give me a haircut that will be perfectly manageable and will fall back into place after the simplest blow drying manoeuvres.  Even though as a professional you must know that isn’t true.

And in doing so you have put me in a position where every single bloody morning I get to stand in front of the mirror, hairdryer in one hand, straightener in the other, on the verge of tears,  and swearing revenge on you.

I’ve gone from salon to salon, hoping to find someone with some compassion and human kindness who will just tell me the bloody truth.  That my hair is a nightmare and there’s no fixing it.  That smoothing creams and anti frizz serums are for people whose hair is just normal frizzy, just to make it shiny and smooth.  That there is nothing that can help me, a woman who seems to have normal hair, covered by an extra layer on top that just stands on end.

I can’t even consider a fringe, because it will just point outward, perpendicular to my head, and still be frizzy. 

I tried cutting it short. On your advice.  Christ almighty, never again.  How in the name of all that’s holy does any woman with thick hair keep it short?  It just sticks out all over the place.  I had to buy a new straightener because the old one is as wide as the palm of my hand (it had to be, just to get the top layer to lie down) and it burnt the ears off me when I tried to use it on two inch long hair.

So then, stuck for further inspiration, you decided we should try an in between length.  And like a complete gom, I agreed again.  Desperation will make you do anything.  Once again I believed you when you said it would be lovely, it would fall into place in the morning.  I told you, I always tell you, that I get up in the small hours of the morning, and that I don’t have time to mess around with my hair for ages.  Do you care?  Do you feck. 

In between lengths, it appears, when your hair is very thick, requires layers.  Layers, for God’s sake.  I can’t believe I fell for it.  Great lumps of hair sticking out all over the place.  I find myself failing to straighten it properly, so it’s either turned in like a pudding bowl cut, or turned out like I think I’m six years old.  It’s depressing on every level.

And yet I keep doing it. I have to.  My hair grows snow white these days, while I’m in for the colour I get it cut too.  I haven’t much choice, if I don’t I’ll just end up looking like It from the Addams Family. Wouldn’t everyone?

And while I’m there I’m tormented.  Either it’s non stop talk, or complete silence until I’m having the colour washed off, and then you start off like a clockwork toy, while my ears are full of water and I’m concentrating on not squirming at the streams of water running down the back of my neck.  Don’t worry that I’m so uncomfortable, with my head at an unnatural angle, just tell me all about the date you went on last Friday.  That’s fine.

I bought the hairdryer you told me I needed, by the way.  No discernible effect.  Thanks for that.  And I’ve tried the recommended deep conditioning hair mask.  Same caper. 

Please stop lying to me, and making me promises that will never come true. Or I’ll start mixing domestic bleach into that enormous bottle of conditioner you keep on the sink.  I’d like to see you explaining that to the other customers.

Yours in frizzy good faith

Dear Teenager

I’m not going to give out to you.I know your life is a living misery, nobody understands you.Everybody hates you, and let’s be honest, you hate everyone.
No, I’m not going to attack you.I’m just going to make a couple of little suggestions that should help make your world a little easier.

For example, please stop thinking you invented music.  Your parents used to think the same thing. So did your grandparents.  None of them were right.At least in our day we just complained that old people’s music was awful.  (Now look what you’ve done.You’ve reduced me to saying “in our day”.  For feck’s sake).

But half of you seem to walk around wearing Beatles or Jimi Hendrix tee shirts and spouting on about ever more obscure bands, presumably in an effort to intimidate the rest of us with your encyclopaedic knowledge of all things musical.Nobody is impressed by your ramblings about an “eclectic, post punk band made up of indigenous people of Guatemala.”

Just belt up.
And if you do choose to play strange music, for pity’s sake do it quietly when you’re on public transport.
Please try to use proper words.LOL is not a word.And, like, there’s no need to like, say like all the time.
The other big thing, no offence, is your clothes.Now, I know what you’re probably thinking.What the hell would an old fogey know about what we’re wearing.  And God knows, you’re right.I have absolutely no idea about what you’re wearing.

There is no excuse in the world for walking around town in pyjamas.  And I don’t care if “everyone is doing it” or if you’ll “look like a right eejit” if you don’t do it.  Get dressed before you leave the house in the morning.  The only time it’s ok for people to go out in their pyjamas in a medical emergency.

I know, you’re forced to go to school, and to visit elderly relatives, and what have you.  But you don’t have to worry about the mortgage, or whether the children are eating right, or if your spouse is having an affair. You’re fine.  Get dressed.  I recently saw a girl in Centra in not only her pyjamas, but a fecking fleece dressing gown as well.  Words fail me.

Teenage boys, there’s only one thing I need to say to you.  Pull your bloody pants up.  Nobody wants to see your underpants. There is absolutely no advantage to you, or to the rest of us.  Pull them up, I’m serious.  This has to be the worst trend ever, in the history of the world.   And your arses must be numb.Have some sense, please.

I know that you think the world revolves around you.  But it really doesn’t.  We’re not relying on you to change the world, or to change the future of music.  Relax.  If you feel angry, do it quietly. There’s no need to share with all of us.

Just chill out. And pull your pants up.  Or I’ll start sneaking up behind you and giving you all the wedgies of your lives.

Yours with elderly affection

Dear Bride and Groom

Hearty and heartfelt congratulations on your coming wedding, and thanks a million for the invitation.

Unfortunately, His Nibs and I won’t be able to be there on the big day.

Rather than feed you a load of old nonsense about this, I’m going to tell you the real reasons why we won’t be there.

Firstly, I do not have the hundreds of euro necessary to deck myself out, once again, in a colourful dress I’ll only wear once.No, you’re right, you’ve never seen me in a dress worth hundreds of euro in my life. But it’s not only the dress.

It’s the ridiculous pashmina or wrap, in this case it would be a pashmina, since you’ve decided to get married in the middle of the winter.I don’t know why.It’s not the happiest sight, a bright blue bride standing outside the door of the church, hoping in vain that the guests can’t hear her teeth chattering.But far be it from me to offer unwanted opinions.

Then there’s the hat, fascinator or fancy up-do that the hair has to be professionally styled into. God forbid, after all, that a woman go to a wedding with her hair looking anything like it normally does.

And the fake tan, since we’ll all be wearing dresses.And the jewellery to match the dress.The bag, the shoes, it just goes on and on.No matter what shoes I get, my fat ankles always sort of dangle over the sides of them and ruin them.And this is all before we even start thinking about the industrial strength scaffolding that passes as underwear if the dress is bigger than a size 14.

I have absolutely no idea what to buy you as a gift, since I’ve never been inside your house in my life. Like ourselves you’ve been living together for years so I assume a toaster or kettle isn’t necessary.This forces me into a position of trying to guess, just from looking at you, what style your house is decked out in.

I realise I have options on the wedding list, but since the most normal item on there is a set of napkin rings for over a hundred euro, I’m afraid that’s not the road for us.(By the way, please don’t think that we or anyone else think you sit down with linen napkins in rings at dinner time every night – we know bloody well it’ll be Super Noodles once you’re back from your honeymoon, the same as it was before).

Also, I do not have the spare day’s holidays from work.I note from the invitation that you have planned your nuptials for a Thursday – “to make a good long weekend of it” apparently .Do you think the rest of us were born yesterday?  Everyone knows that weddings are cheaper from Monday to Thursday.  Which is fine, I'd get married on a Thursday too, but don't pretend it's for the guests sake.
The problem with a Thursday wedding is that His Nibs and Iwould have to stay overnight (another €200 for the hotel and another reason not to go) and lose a second day from work.

To be honest, we do have the days off coming to us.But we’d much rather spend the time, and the money, on a long weekend in Barcelona during the summer.

Also, due to having a full time job and being more or less a carer for a halfwit husband, I do not have the energy to bring his suit to the dry cleaner’s, or talk him into buying a new one, or keep nagging him to book the day off work.

And you know if we go he’ll only get bored by about 10:30 anyway, and go to bed, leaving the whole place thinking we’ve had a row and he’s gone off sulking.

No, all in all, I think it’s better for all of us, and for our friendship, if we don’t go. I’m sure you won’t mind.Since we haven’t seen each other for three years, I assume we’re only invited to make up the numbers anyway.

If you do mind, please keep it to yourself.If I hear one word of any giving out about us, I will turn up after all and tell them all about the night you both tried out dogging in the Phoenix Park.

Yours in friendship.

Dear Beauty Counter Assistant

Is there any need to take such frightful advantage of the plainly foolish and possibly bonkers customer?


Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. If a large, not well dressed lady, wearing no makeup but looking longingly at your over priced wares wanders past, you can just let me go sometimes.
There’s a certain cruelty to chasing after me and offering to make me look ten years younger.


I admit it, I may be the author of my own misfortune. There is little advantage to wandering up to a beauty counter and saying something as stupid as “I’m looking for the perfect lip gloss / foundation / moisturiser”. I realise that I’m setting myself up for a fall.


There’s clearly a golden opportunity for you here. But you don’t absolutely have to take it you know. Sometimes it’s fine to say “There’s no such thing dear” or “I wouldn’t bother, it’s not going to help” or even, if you’re in a particularly good mood “Why? You look fabulous as you are”.


But no. You obviously know that here is a desperate and sort of tragic woman, who will gladly hand over the mortgage money to improve her saggy and rapidly aging face.


Do you absolutely have to tell me that my current skincare routine is completely hopeless and that I should immediately purchase a new cleanser, toner, night moisturiser, day moisturiser, serum and extra moisturising mask? I know you probably work on commission, but seriously?


Do you have to offer me little presents and gifts if I buy everything, right now, without further ado? And to add insult to injury, when I fall into this awful trap, do not give me tiny mascara that’s too small for anyone but Barbie to use, or one of those samples that come in a little sort of sachet that the product has to be scraped out of using the fingernail. Especially if it’s foundation.


Sometimes, you know, it’s fine to just sell me a bloody lip gloss that suits me. That won’t make me look as if I have no lips at all (there’s a difference between “nude “ and “invisible” you know) or like a teenage goth.


Just admit that unless I am going to start spending half my wages on botox, there is no way my face is going to stop dropping toward my collar bones.


Stop taking advantage of my stupidity, please. Or I’ll stand at the end of your counter, with my dried up droopy face, shouting “Don’t believe a word out of her, I did, and look at the state of me!”


Yours in good faith

Perfect Flower

My friend Jesse's fabulous, unphotoshopped picture of an African Daisy, taken in Lanzarote.

Video of Listowel Writers Week

Please check out the link below for a flavour of Listowel Writer's Week 2012 - I was there, and let me tell you, this doesn't do it justice!!

http://www.youtube.com/embed/mVJiWugZads"

Rainy Days and Flip Flops

OK, I know we're Irish, and we should know better than to expect anything other than this manky stinky weather.  It's the 8th of June, for God's sake.

But surely,  even by our standards, this is, so far, the wettest June ever? 

I suppose it's at least saved me a few quid, namely my annual rush around the city centre buying flip flops  that range in price from the almost free Penney's ones to ridiculously expensive so called designer ones that I'll never get the wear out of.

I buy the cheap ones, I think, because no matter which way to look at it, it's a pair of shoes for a fiver. 

I buy the ridiculously expensive ones because I think they're going to make me look stylish and, hopefully, make my clothes look cool.
It never ever works.  I just look like a person in shapeless clothes with foolish shoes that kind of hurt between the toes

I wonder if the fact that I want to look cool at my age just shows how unspeakably uncool I am?
Anyway, you should have seen the face on me this morning when I had to root my boots out again.  Even my pretty pumps are consigned to the back of the wardrobe.  I know they're pretty pumps because it says so, on the inner sole.

And believe this if you like, but when I was on my way to work this morning the driver's side wiper of my car dislocated itself and was left hanging from its hinge pointing out at the bonnet.  In the driving rain, obviously.  Sure what would be the point of it happening on a sunny day?

If one more person tells me that it's supposed to brighten up tomorrow I will kill them.  I'm not in the mood to listen.  I don't believe it, and I don't want to hear it.


That is all.