Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree

 

We’re not great on Christmas decorations in our house. 

His Nibs, for example, will have absolutely nothing to do with the whole business, and insists that there’s no need for a tree, no sense in fairy lights, and absolutely no rational explanation for the two foot high Santa I like to stand in the hall, to be knocked over every time the door is opened, or a waggy tailed dog walks past.

I’m not the most Christmassy of souls myself.  It’s not that I don’t like Christmas, I do.  But only when the Christmas season has actually arrived.  I wouldn’t even consider putting the tree up in the last weekend of November, which seems to be quite popular these days. 
And I can’t stand when people start wishing me a merry Christmas from the 8^th of December on.  It’s always a struggle not to shout “It’s not bloody Christmas yet!”
A few years ago, after a few accusations of being grinchy and a general misery arse, I picked 15^th December as the beginning of Christmas.  I decided that’s when I’ll stop whinging about its being too early, and agree that fair enough, it’s Christmas.

So in my little world, Christmas has finally arrived.

 Merry Christmas, everyone.

I decided to put up the tree at the weekend. 

We’ve had our Christmas tree since 1998. 
Yes, it's an artificial one.  I never fancied dragging a real tree up and down the flights of stairs to our various flats. 
And almost as soon as we got the house we got the dogs.  Only a complete moron would put a real tree in a room with our dogs.  I know what  they do to every tree they pass, and I'm not putting one in the house.

Anyway, when I put it up last year and took a step back to admire my handiwork, I was distressed to realise that it had had its day, and it had become completely ragged and sad looking.

By the time I realised this, all the decorations were on, and there was no way I was stripping it again and starting all over. 

So last year was the Christmas of the shabbiest tree I’ve ever seen.

I set about buying a new tree last Thursday, when I was off work but was very much supposed to be involved in another project entirely.

I chose one in a shop near us, but of course they didn’t have the tree I wanted in that branch (pardon the pun).  So I phoned His Nibs and demanded that he purchase the tree in Dublin before he came home.

He rang me back from the shop.

“How big is this fecking tree?” he asked.  “The box is enormous.”

“Seven feet tall”. 

“Seven feet?  Seven feet?  Have you gone mad?  What are we going to do with a seven feet tall tree?”

“Well” I told him, quite sourly “if history is any teacher, I think we can safely say that “We” aren’t going to do anything with it.

I’m fairly sure I’ll put it up, decorate it, make the place nice and festive, and then after Christmas take it all down again and put it back in the attic.”

“Love, how are you going to decorate the top of a seven feet tree?  You’re not seven feet tall.”

“Ah now” I told him reasonably “Sure aren’t I at least five and a half feet tall?  And my arms are definitely eighteen inches long, it’ll be no problem.”

“I don’t think it works like that” he told me.  “Mainly because your arms aren’t growing from the top of your head, so you can’t actually reach seven feet into the air.  But if you want it, fine, you will get it.  I’ll be home soon.”
It never crossed either of our minds that we could use a stepping stool, for some reason.

When he arrived home, on the 12^th of December, three days before my “beginning of Christmas” date, my curiosity overtook me and nothing would satisfy me but to open the box for a look.

Then the tree couldn’t be got back into the box in any sort of reasonable way, so the box was sitting under the stairs with branches poking out and being generally messy and annoying looking.  It was annoying me so much that the following day I had to put the stupid thing up.

His Nibs was in work, and rather than wait for him to return, then have the annual argument about how he should go up into the attic to get the decorations, why he should go up, when he should go up, and so on and so on, that I decided to do it myself.

I was on the second step of the stepladder when I realised that it was very unsteady.  I checked the catch, the legs, the stoppers, but could find no reason for the shaking of the ladder.  It turned out that it was caused by a large woman shaking with fear because of a terror of heights.

The whole business took fecking hours.

I was delighted to find the silver pine cones I bought in the pound shop the first year we lived together, when I was a student. 

I can’t believe that I still have decorations that were bought in an actual pound shop, rather than a Euro Store.

Then I found the gorgeous little silk decorations I bought from a woman in Laos years ago.  Again, it’s my beloved His Nibs who gave me the memory.  I distinctly remember him giving out about how it was only October, and we were on our holidays, quite a long way from home, and still Christmas was invading.  And I told him to belt up or the tiny seller would think he was giving out about her, and stuffed them in my rucksack.

I found the little snowmen I bought in a Christmas market in Brussels the year my sister was so pregnant with my beloved nephew that she couldn’t come home, and His Nibs and I went to see them instead.

All very sentimental, so far.

When I finally, eventually, got what felt like thousands of decorations onto the tree, I discovered that the fairy lights had given up the ghost.  I didn’t get new ones until the following day. 

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get fairy lights around the top of a seven foot tree, when your own husband is standing chanting “I told you so” in the background and you haven't the wit to get a stepping stool?

Finally I was finished.

I haven’t a minutes peace.  I sat down to watch an episode of Frasier yesterday, and I stood up at least seven times in the twenty five minutes it was on.

I’m constantly seeing two of the same bauble, side by side.  Or two purple ones too near each other, or too many baubles on one branch, and none at all on another.

I won’t be happy with it until well after the New Year.  Just in time to take it all down again, as usual.

 

 

Happy Christmas, dear readers.  Thank you so much for reading the blog .

 

 

 

New Suede Shoes

It’s hard to part with an old pal.
I’ve had this one pair of boots for absolutely years.  They’re flat, and they’re a rather weird shade of brown.  They’re nothing special, I suppose.  But for some reason, I’ve loved them since the first day I saw them.

I’ve worn them everywhere.  Not to weddings or fancy do's, they’re flat ankle boots after all, but to work, or with my casual clothes.  I’ve brought them on holiday, and wore them every day in all that snow we had a few years ago.

I always assumed that when they finally gave up the ghost, I’d simply get them re-soled or re-heeled or repaired in some miraculous way that would ensure their immortality.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a pair of boots for so long.

The kind of damage they've now sustained is definitely irreparable.  It hurt a little bit, to finally throw them in the bin.  They've been a friend, those boots.  When I was in trouble in work, or having a row with His Nibs, at least my feet never gave me any trouble, encased as they were in the world's most comfortable shoes.  And I didn't take a single tumble in them, when the compacted ice on Abbey Street was causing people to drop like flies all around me.

I’ve always been a fan of shoes.  Of looking at them and buying them, I mean.  Not necessarily of wearing them, especially if they happen to come with a heel or a pointy toe. 
I like nice shoes, but I’m fond of my comfort too.
And from the day I found those boots, all other footwear had to start vying for my attention like never before.

I’m so fond of them, that for years if I said to His Nibs, usually late, and in a hurry to leave the house,
“Quick, quick, get my boots”

And if he decided to take the opportunity to have a quick little give out about how many shoes I own by saying

“Which boots?  God knows, you have so many, it's hard to know”

I’d yelp

“My boots, my boots, what do you think I mean?  My boots!”

Eventually, he got so used to seeing his wife in the same boots every day that he stopped asking, and just got on with the boot fetching.  
Sometimes he’s a marvellous husband.

One day last week, though, the left one started making a weird sort of puffy noise with every step I took.  I make a good few puffing noises as I walk around anyway, so I didn’t worry.

About two days later, sadly, the boots went to the great cobbler in the sky.  The sole actually split completely in half.  It’s never happened to me before, that I wore a pair of boots so much that they eventually  collapsed.  I could fit my finger in the space between the two halves of the heel.

 

I was distraught.  I got a bit dramatic, actually.  I started thrashing around a bit, and wailing, and wondering what I’d do now. 

Eventually somebody suggested that although I may have loved these ones, there are actually other boots available in the shops.  That God be with the days when I’d be almost vandalising my own shoes, just for an excuse to buy a new pair. 
That I should stop whinging, basically.

I grudgingly went out to look around the shoe shops.  I was unusually downcast. In normal circumstances, there’s nothing I’d like better than wandering around shoe shops, with a leftover birthday voucher in my bag.  But before I went in the door I’d already decided I’d never find a pair of boots to match those I’d lost.

They had a lovely pair of brown leather Chelsea boots, as it goes.  I’m very fond of a nice Chelsea boot.  I was absolutely delighted when they came back into fashion.  They were reduced by 25% and I didn’t even miss my tram, I bought them so fast.

When I got home, I took out one of the boots, and put it on top of its box.  I placed it between myself and the television, where I could glance at it on and off all evening. 

At first I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that I liked the boots as much as I’d thought I did.  That happens to me sometimes.  While I'm in the shop  I love something so much that I believe I can't carry on unless I get it.  Then when I get home I might find that what I've bought isn't actually that special, and I've wasted more money. 

I’m trying to stop throwing money around.  Money I don’t have, and cannot seem to stop myself from spending.  So these days, I look at things, decide I want them, and then leave the shop and don't return for about three days.  If I still like and want it, then I feel justified in buying things and do so without guilt.
I didn’t do that with the boots.  I’m not quite sure why it was so urgent that I get new boots on the actual day the old ones fell apart, but that’s what I did.
To make sure I hadn't made my usual mistake with the boots,  I set them up on the box for a full review and consideration.

I love them.  I don’t know why, but I’m taking it as a good sign, seeing as the last boots I loved as soon as I bought turned out to be my favourite shoes ever.

I wore them going out the following night.  I wasn’t going to a particularly Chelsea boot place, but did I care? I did not.  I even walked home.  I wasn’t in pain.  There was a bit of pinching, but I was well able to put them on again the following morning.

The next day, I sorted out a space for them on the shoe rack under the stairs.

And what did I find?  A really nice pair of brown suede Chelsea boots.  They’re very similar to the leather ones I’d bought on the Tuesday.  And I have absolutely no idea why I’ve never worn them, or why I never even broke them in.  I presume it must be because I loved the old boots so much I didn’t bother.

But they’re not leather, they’re suede.  So that’s not the same thing at all, is it?

 

The Social Whirl

It’s been a mad week.

Well, in fairness, that’s probably not true, if I was in my twenties, and a city slicker still, it would probably have been a very ordinary week. 
But for those of us who have had our fortieth, and live in the country, and become alarmed when the phone rings after 9pm and jumpy when the doorbell rings unexpectedly, it’s been quite an adventure, since last weekend.

On Monday I went to see my friend and her children.  Because I’m such a country mouse these days, my visit necessitated an overnight stay.  I arrived armed with wine, and toys to bribe her children into liking me, and had a lovely time with them all. 

But wine on a Monday night is a bit of a treat, and I have to say, part of me was glad when she said at eleven o’clock that she had to go to bed, since her new little son would have her awake for most of the night. 
I’d already had three glasses, which is about six times more than I should have on a week night.

We had a lovely time on Tuesday morning.  I’ve finally reached an age when I don’t get panicky when a baby roars.  Obviously, if he’d needed winding or feeding or changing or something I would have done my best, but he had a pain, the poor little pet, and I couldn’t help him. 

Just a couple of years ago I would simply have thrown him at his mother and found a way to make it look like I was doing something productive, and so couldn’t mind the baby. Surely it’s a sign that I’ve grown up, that I insisted that his mother bring her little girl off to crèche, that he’d be fine with me?

And in fairness he only cried for a couple of minutes, he was very good.

I had a half day off that morning, and had a great time with my friend, who I don't see enough of recently.

On Wednesday night I was meeting my lovely niece, and an also lovely friend of hers.  I always have a good time with my niece, she’s fun and funny, and the best of company. 

We met in a wine bar.  I’d say it’s probably a very cool wine bar, but frankly I wasn’t impressed.  It works like this.  You go in, and give the man some money, and he gives you a plastic card, much like a hotel room key card.  You put this card in a slot in the wall, it tells you how much credit you have, and you choose a wine from the display behind a glass door.

Then you press a button to determine whether you want a taste, a half glass, or a full glass.  The wine is dispensed in a not dissimilar way to how the fizzy drinks are served in McDonalds.

This caper is referred to as their “specialist Enomatic serving system” and their website boasts “We afford wine enthusiasts a rare opportunity in Dublin to explore their passion, not only in an efficient, but also in a thoroughly enjoyable fashion.”

A right load of cockology if you ask me.

I realise I’m getting old and grumpy, but I don’t like this carry on one bit.  I thought it very much had an “Emperors New Clothes” feel about it.  They have a nice four word name for it, but it amounts to their not having to pay a student to work in their bar at night, and the customers having to pour their own drinks.  And I may as well say it,  the wine wasn't any cheaper for having to do it yourself.

The illusion of “exploring your passion in an efficient and enjoyable fashion” was completely ruined when one of the bottles of wine ran out.  The one I was drinking from, incidentally, but that was just a coincidence, I’m sure.

The single staff member in the place came along and opened the glass door, pulled a tube out of the empty bottle, a rosé, put it into a bottle of white, without even the pretence of any sort of rinsing or wiping, and wandered off again.

Now, my lack of approval of their system didn’t for a minute detract from how much I drank.  But the less said about that the better.  Suffice it to say that it was well after midnight when we got our midnight chips, and I was working again on Thursday.

Then on Friday night we had a work night.  That was great fun.  I had unhealthy food and started drinking pints rather earlier in the day than I usually would.

And last night I was at a play, being all cultured and grown up.

The social whirl, my darlings.  I was exhausted, I swear.  It’s just as well that I won’t be going anywhere for ages again.  That was probably my socialising for the whole winter, all done and dusted in a week.

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Ads

 

I don’t mind pre-Christmas ads in general, and actually I love the one in the picture above.   I know we need toy ads from about September to help the little people decide what they want from Santy.

And I suppose I don’t really mind the supermarket and department store ads shouting at us from October about ordering turkeys, sure what else would they be doing?

Although I’m not impressed by the Marks and Spencer ad this year, it’s like a short film based on Alice in Wonderland.  It’s very annoying.  Particularly when that amazing looking model Rosie something or other finds herself in her bra and knickers twice during the ad. That’s extremely annoying.  Or at least it is for me.  His Nibs might quite like it, I'm afraid to ask.

Generally speaking, it’s the ads that have nothing to do with the festive season, but where they just throw in the word “Christmas” to create a panic, that annoy me most.

There’s one for a strange product that seems to be a sort of brush that you put on the shower floor.  Then when you’re having your shower you just put your feet in and brush them.  Apparently there’s a pumice stone on it too, so you can remove the dead skin on your feet as you go.

This is not a Christmas product.  Yet the ad finishes with a shouted “Get perfect feet for Christmas”.
I suppose for the ladies who will be celebrating the festive season in black sequinned dresses and four inch strappy shoes, getting perfect feet for Christmas is a priority.
But I think those women might have lovely feet anyway.

For those of us whose only essential outfit for Christmas is new flannelette pyjamas with Santy or Rudolph on them, getting perfect feet for the season is so far down the list of priorities as to be a pointless dream.
Isn’t it enough that we all spend flip flop season getting pedicures and using lotions and potions to have the feet of a child, without having to re-start that whole caper in November?
If we have to have nice feet as well as everything else, I’m not doing Christmas this year.

There’s another ad that yelps at us all to order a new sofa or bed now, and take delivery of it in time for Christmas.

Christmas is one day.  A day when, in my experience, the morning is spent with every surface covered in scraps of wrapping paper.  In the afternoon everyone is asleep, and in the evening most people are drunk. 

I’m not getting new fecking furniture.  It’s hard enough to buy the presents and the food and the drink and everything else without having to buy new furniture as well.  
And we all know that if we need new furniture, it’ll all be reduced to half price in January anyway. They can feck off.

Although there’s one furniture store currently running a very irritating ad, promising to give the January sale price on any sofa bought now.  What’s the point in having a January sale if everything is reduced in December?

Now we’ve not only bypassed the usual six weeks, and bounced directly from Halloween to Christmas, this crowd have galloped past the whole season, and launched us straight to the January sales.

I think it's Aldi who are suggesting lobster for dinner.  How do you even serve lobster?  Do you give it to your family with its shell still on, effectively turning Christmas dinner into a talent show, where etiquette and agility are awarded points at the table? 

I wouldn’t have a clue how to tackle a fully shelled lobster.

Apparently you buy it cooked.  So do you serve it cold?  I can’t imagine a cold dinner at Christmas.  It’s all too much to think about, really.  Again, they can feck off.  Poultry will be fine.

Sainsbury’s asked their customers to record their special Christmas moments last year, so that they could use them in their ads this year. 

The one with the kids recording a Christmas message for their Dad in Afghanistan when he arrives in the door to surprise them is a complete tear jerker.  Maybe it’s only my tears it jerks, but I very much doubt it.  I’m not that hormonal.

But the one with the family tramping through the forest dragging their Christmas tree behind them just makes me feel inferior.  We do well in our house to drag the artificial one out of the attic in time for the Big Day. 

Can you imagine His Nibs and I going to a forest to chop down a tree, dragging it back to the car park, getting it into or onto the car, bringing it home and decorating it?

We have rows in the supermarket, just buying our groceries.  There’d be war. We’d have split up by Christmas.
That’s not a  normal Christmas family moment.  At least, I don’t think it is.  Surely it’s more average for the man of the house to be sent out to get the tree, since the lady of the house has to do everything else?  He arrives back with a tree that’s either too big, too small, too narrow or too bushy, and she gives out about that for what seems like hours.  Then the rest of the day is wasted with him trying to stand the tree up in its bucket, cursing and swearing and insisting the whole Christmas business is a waste of time anyway?

There’s no videoing each other happily dragging a large tree through a forest, laughing and teasing.  In reality they’d all be eating the faces off each other.

It also annoys me that ads for completely random things now end with “makes an ideal gift for Christmas”. 
This evening I saw one for a flexi torch.  It’s a torch that the ad suggests you might like to carry in your pocket, car or handbag.  It’s a normal torch, but has a flexible handle almost two feet long.  The handle, the ad proudly states, is bendy, and has a strong magnet in the light up bit.  Very much like a torch that Inspector Gadget might carry.

The example they give of where this torch could be very handy is when you drop your keys down a grate.  You just whip out this torch, stretch it out, light it up and can see clearly into the grate. The keys will stick to the magnet, and are easily retrieved.
I’m not the most imaginative of souls, but I can’t think of another single time when a stretchy magnetic torch would come in useful.

And the ad ends with the suggestion that it would make an ideal Christmas present.  Not for me, I may as well tell you.  If someone handed me this piece of tat and tried to pass it off as a Christmas present, I would spend the day wearing my very, very sulky face.

I must warn His Nibs.

 

 

Does Life Begin at 40?

 

 

Right.  I'm three weeks into my forties.  I've coped well so far, I think. 

In fairness, this could be because I've been accepting flowers and cakes and presents and affection of all types.  I've had a whale of a time.

But now, sad to say, the cakes (yes, plural.  There was three.  They know me so well)  are eaten, the cards have been taken down, and the vouchers have been spent.  The glory bit is over, and I have to get on with being a woman in her forties.

The big day was a Saturday.  I had great fun for the weekend, but when Monday morning rolled around  and I had to get up and go to work, I decided that maybe I would start embracing this new stage in life, and become a grumpy old woman. 
Feck it, I thought, why not?  I'm forty, I may as well go a bit mad.

I was moany on Monday, testy on Tuesday, whiney on Wednesday and all-out psychotic on Thursday.

On Friday my sister and brother-in-law were bringing my two small nephews home to our fair land, and I abandoned the grumpiness and started getting all excited and giddy at the thought of seeing them.

But it hasn't all been fun and games and bad behaviour.

Unfortunately, I've been rather busy lately.  I haven't had a day off at home for yonks.  The upshot is that I have the whitest hair I've ever had in my life.  And I can't get it done next weekend either.

By the time I get my hair sorted out the white part, which doesn't usually get much further than a stripe at the top of my head, will be stretching down to my ears. 
This is not making me look less than forty.

I got some vouchers for my birthday, and had decided to buy myself some lovely makeup brushes. 

Actually, that isn't really true.  I didn't decide to spend the voucher on the makeup brushes.  My beloved brother, who was much braver than me when he was turning forty himself, asked what I would like.  My reply was swift and certain.

"The contouring and blending eyeshadow brushes from Esteé Lauder please."

"Jesus Christ" he said.  "Are you speaking gibberish? What do you want? Answer me properly."

So I asked for a voucher to spend on makeup brushes. 

Going to the beauty counter to get the brushes led, needless to say, to my buying unplanned makeup, which I was delighted with. 
I've tested it, played with it, admired it, and arranged it as attractively as possible in the bathroom. 
The only problem is with wearing it.  Nothing can detract from my snow white tresses and so there seems little point in even slapping it on.

I have recently suffered from a dull ache in my right knee.  I've never worried too much about it, I've a bad habit of sitting on my legs.  And my considerable weight is enough to put any joint under pressure even when I'm just moving around, sitting on it as well is too much for it to cope with, I suppose.
Anyway, in the three weeks since I turned forty the dull ache has developed into a sharp pain. 
There is no explanation for this deterioration other than my advancing age.

Twice last week I forgot social engagements.  I completely forgot plans to go out for lunch one day, and for after work drinks another day.  It's not that I wanted to miss these outings, I most certainly didn't.  But I genuinely and completely forgot them.

Three times in three weeks I've found myself starting sentences with "I don't approve of", which can't be a good sign, surely?

And more and more often, I find myself reaching for the teabags rather than the coffee jar. 
Tea, the choice of my mother, and her mother before her. 
Rather than coffee, the choice of young city slickers who walk around with Starbucks cups and complicated orders for semi fat latte mochachinos rolling off their tongues as if they were reared to it. 
I wonder if this means anything?
I’m guessing that it doesn’t mean I’m getting cooler, the older I get.

On the other hand, as part of my "using up my birthday vouchers on impractical things" project, I bought not one but two liquid eyeliners. 
Fair enough, I’ll have to die wondering whether I could ever have mastered the “flick” out the corner of the eye that the young and the gorgeous use every day.  If I tried a flick the eyeliner would just run into one of my crow’s feet and highlight it, for all to see.
Still.  Two liquid eyeliners.  It’s a comfort.  It would appear that despite my advancing years I'm not willing to give up the ghost just yet.

I've made the necessary hair appointment and will have conker brown tresses again before the week is out.

I went on a walking tour, yesterday, with a great group of people I know. 

I was fairly nervous, to be honest.  I wouldn't usually be one to trouble anything that can be defined in terms of "walking".  I was fairly sure that I'd either have a heart attack trying to keep up with everyone else going up a hill, or that I'd fall head over arse getting through a ditch, or over a stile. 
It was the kind of walking tour that involves climbing through ditches.

But although I had to make sure I didn't try to talk for a few minutes at the top of the hill, lest everyone know that I was far more out of breath than the 68 year old who was coming behind me, I didn't collapse, or fall over, or make a show of myself at all, really.

To celebrate this affirmation of my ongoing youthfulness, maybe I should go another way. 

Rather than just become a grumpy old woman, I could lose the run of myself completely.  The older I get, the worse I might behave.

I might start drinking on a much more regular basis. Maybe even on work nights. 
But only a small glass of wine, there's no need to go mad altogether.  It takes me two days to get over any more than a glass these days.

I think I'll start wearing makeup in an inappropriate way, i.e. wearing far too much, and in the wrong colours, the way old ladies who don't give a feck anymore tend to.
Except that would be such a waste of my new Esteé Lauder brushes.

I could start eating the face off everyone who annoys me.  I don't want to risk an ulcer or even a stress induced stroke from swallowing my temper all the time. 
Unless my rudeness is likely to make the person not like me, or even cry.  That's what I usually do when someone eats the face off me. 

I might stop doing anything I don't want to do. I might refuse to do what I'm asked, no matter what it is, and no matter how selfish it is not to do it. 
Unless it's a work thing, I suppose, I can't afford to lose my job. 

Maybe I should just carry on as I'm going?

I went to college in my twenties, so that when all my school friends were moving up the career ladder, and getting married, and being grown up, I was drinking in the afternoons and going to class for about three hours a day.

I’ve had adventures around the world I could only have dreamt about, when I was in my teens.

I’ve got the kind of friends that you usually only read about in books, funny, supportive, willing to put up with me.
And of course His Nibs and I remain a pair, and although we have our moments, he's an excellent friend.
I must say, it’s really not a bad life.

Maybe I don't need a new life philosophy, just because of my age. 
Maybe I'll just carry on doing more or less whatever I want, as I have been.
I know I usually enjoy a good moan but, dare I say it, is it possible that I'm doing absolutely fine, regardless of birthdays?

Oh No, the big Four Oh!

Well, it's finally happened.

I first got concerned about yesterday ten full years ago, the day after my 30th birthday, when I realised that the next big one was my 40th.
But ten years seemed like a long time, and it all seemed so far into the distance that I shrugged off my worries, and carried on.

A decade, I'm afraid to say, isn't actually that long of a time after all.  For it's been and gone and I'm forty.  Forty years old.

It's a bit confusing, because I cannot understand how I got from being sixteen to here, in what feels like about ten years.  But I'd been warned, and I am brave, and actually I don't mind turning forty.

Why not, you might wonder.

It's because, actually, there's loads of advantages to turning forty.
I'll give you a few examples.

At forty, I can say to my much younger friends and colleagues, the ones in their twenties especially,
"I am old and wise, and you should listen to me".  They don't take any notice of me of course,  but most of them feel so sorry for me for being old that they pretend to listen.  And then I get to blather on to a rapt-ish audience.

Because we're now in our forties, and have been together for more than half our lives, His Nibs and I have found a nice little groove where we're so used to each other we can have small or massive rows or drive each other absolutely bonkers, and know that it's fine, we've done it all before, there's no need for a drama.
In our twenties (and for part of our early thirties, if I'm honest) we got into the habit of the dramatic row, where we found ourselves both packing our bags, arguing about who was leaving,  racing to get to the car first.
I'm glad that's all behind us.

On a similar note, on the odd occasion that I get out, in makeup and maybe heels, and go to the pub at night time, I can have a good look around at all the boys, and wonder whether some lovely lad over in the corner could be persuaded to run away with me.
Then just when I think it must be almost time to go home, the pub suddenly fills up with fabulous gorgeous young women in five inch heels, and what looks like just their knickers, and I realise my days of trying to tempt boys are over, and I can go and get a bag of chips and be in bed beside a snoring His Nibs before midnight, and before I make a fool of myself.
It's a lovely feeling, as it happens.

But what have I learned, over my four decades?  What pearls of wisdom have come to the surface?
Well quite a few things, actually.  And it's taken me forty years to learn some surprisingly simple lessons.

I may as well use this auspicious occasion to list a few.

Tears are a last resort, not a first one.  Young ladies, listen to me, for I am old and wise. 
I overplayed my hand on this one, early in my co-habitation with His Nibs, and in doing so lost my pride, my power and my dignity.
I've given up with the waterworks now.  These days, I just go bonkers and mental and insane with temper.  I find it's just as effective as tears.  Unless I get so angry I start crying, which happens more often than I'd like.

Next, one of life's most important lessons, in my opinion.  I wasted all of my teenage years, and a good proportion of my twenties, worrying about how I looked, and what people thought, and whether they were talking about my most recent weight gain, or whether I don't wear makeup often enough.
I used to hiss at poor His Nibs if we were having a spot of bother in public.  God forbid that anyone might think we weren't the happiest couple on earth.
And I used to make up excuses not to go out for lovely dinners, or go on spa days with my friends.  God forbid , again, I just tell them I couldn't afford it.
At 40 though, I've realised that everybody is so worried about their own weight or their spot or the fact they haven't had sex for ages, or the fact that they've reached their overdraft limit before the middle of the month, that they honestly don't give a flying feck what's going on in my little world. 
So now I just do what I like, and assume anyone that notices the things I used to worry about is a nosy fecker, like I am.

I've learned that it's nice to have a job, and at least to know there's a salary coming in at the end of the month, so you can pay the mortgage and not end up living under a bridge. 
But if you find yourself worrying about what's happening at work when you wake up during the night, it's time to take a long hard look at yourself.
Basically, I've learned that actually everyone can't be an astronaut or a nuclear physicist, or the CEO of a multinational company.  So chill out, do what you can while you're there, and then enjoy your time out of work.

I've learned that the myth that gel eyeliner is easy to apply if you buy the correct, expensive brush is a load of nonsense, and tomfoolery of the highest order. 

I've learned that not everyone likes me, and that's okay.  I used to try really hard, when I was very young, to be well liked.  I gave it up.  And funnily enough, I think the proportion of people who like or dislike me remains the same. 

I've learned that cooking takes far more time than eating, and so is a waste of time.

It's good to finally be safe in the knowledge that I am a person who is limited in my abilities, and my focus.  I now know that it's extremely unlikely that I'll ever run a marathon, or become a gym bunny, or get a Masters in English Literature.  And that's okay.

No matter how much you want to live in a clean house, unless you live by yourself and go around the house in one of those white spacesuits that crime investigation people wear, it's not going to happen. 
If you have to spend more than half the time you're in the house cleaning the fecking thing, then give up. 
Either pay someone to clean your house, or accept a reasonable level of mess.  It's just not worth it.

The older a woman gets, the more important her tweezers becomes.  This is a not a happy lesson.

As a bit of an outsider in the world of children, I've learned that a small child is often the funniest and most clued in person in a room, and that they should always be carefully listened to.

I've learned that the posher, more important career wise, or glamorous person in my company, the more likely I am to fall over, spill food all over myself, or accidentally start swearing like a trooper.

But most of all, I've had a good long think for myself.  I've realised that I had more fun in my twenties than in my teens.  I had more adventures in my thirties than in my twenties.  I can only assume that I'll have more fun and adventures in my forties than I've ever had before.  So how bad can it be?

Bring it on, that's what I say.

Wedding Day Blues

I read a fascinating story in the online newspaper the other day.  A couple in the UK became engaged, which of course is usually a happy enough story.  Unlike some, they moved at a reasonable pace, and proceeded to actually organise a wedding. 

Without the eight year cooling off period His Nibs and I considered sensible.

I have no idea why, but it was decided that the groom would take full responsibility for booking the registry office and for completing all the official paperwork.

He failed to complete either of these tasks, and believe it or not, decided to keep this information to himself.

On the morning of the wedding, the actual morning of the planned nuptials, he finally became hysterical about the whole thing, couldn’t bring himself to confess, and decided that the best thing he could do would be to phone a bomb scare into the registry office.

So that’s what he did.

I’ll repeat that, because it’s so insane I think it bears repeating.  The man never booked his wedding, never told anyone, allowed the whole reception, dresses, cars, and everything else to be organised by his fiancé, and then on the morning of the wedding telephoned the registry office and told them there was a bomb in the building that would explode forty five minutes later.

He then carried on with the day, in fake blissful ignorance.

The bride arrived, along with the bridesmaids and the guests and family and who have you, in her full wedding regalia, to be told that the building had been evacuated and no wedding would be taking place.

Can you believe it?  I think he should have at least turned up early, phoned the bride back, and told her not to bother coming, since the wedding was off.  At least she wouldn't have been left standing on the street like a fool, all dressed up and nowhere to go.

Anyway, he said nothing, and that was, as my mother would say, the rock he perished on.  The bride was outside the registry office, looking at the pointless panic of policemen and bomb disposal experts searching for a bomb that didn’t exist, and happened to ask some official what arrangements would be made to re-schedule her wedding.

At which point she was informed that there was no wedding booked in for that day.  I must say, the registrar must have been pretty surprised, first a bomb scare, and then a full wedding party turning up to watch the drama.

The groom was arrested before the day was out.  I don’t imagine they needed Inspector Morse to  work it out.

He’s facing jail.  Apparently there’s no question of not getting into very serious trouble when you bring out the bomb squad and the police to evacuate a civic building, under false pretences.

What an utter pair of gobshites.  Not just him, but her.

Maybe this sounds sexist, and maybe it's just me (though I doubt it), but seriously. 
Who would accept a proposal, put the groom in charge of ALL the paperwork and booking the actual wedding, and then proceed to arrange dresses, the reception, flowers, music and all the rest of it, secure in the belief that the boyfriend has completed all tasks in the correct and legal manner?

If I’d told His Nibs that he was in charge of this aspect of our wedding, I’d still be a spinster today. 

When we had an appointment with a strange little priest in Dublin to get his Pre Nuptial Inquiry Form, His, now, not mine, he tried to pretend he had flu and send me in his place.

When we went to visit the priest who was actually marrying us, His Nibs didn’t feel comfortable with how well we were all getting along, and started giving him cheek, much to my horror.  This was the parish priest where I'm from.   My mother would have had a fit if she'd heard him, the little pup.

There was absolutely no question of my assuming all was well and spending the run up to the wedding comparing fabric samples, and leaving my much loved His Nibs in charge of the official bits.

I don’t know enough about this story to decide if I feel sorry for the bride or not. 

Maybe she questioned the groom at appropriate intervals about the bookings he was supposed to have made, and he lied into her face and left her to turn up to a bomb disposal outing.

Or maybe she’s such a fecking eejit that she never asked him.  In which case I feel no sympathy whatsoever for her.

I think it’s interesting, though, that although they haven’t married, the couple are still very much together.  Hmmm.

Dear Winter

You nearly had us foxed this time.  Usually, when we’re all wandering around in our flip flops and t-shirts, you arrive about the middle of August, and ruin all our fun.

I must admit, it was pretty clever to wait until the night of 30^th September to show your bold face. 

I bet I know what happened. I bet Mother Nature rang Father Time yesterday evening.

“Shite” she would have said “we forgot to send winter to the Irish.  They must be in a heap with confusion, the poor eejits, I’ll sort it out now.”

“Ah don’t worry about them” Father Time might have responded.  “They’ll be grand, it’s nearly knocking off time, we’ll leave it till the morning.”

And I bet Mother Nature went along with it, probably tempted by Father Time’s invitation to come out for a post work vodka on a Monday evening.

Or maybe it's just me who likes to think of the forces of nature fraternising in this way.

One way or the other,  the poor harmless Irish all got up for work this morning, to discover that winter had arrived, literally, overnight.

It took His Nibs and I almost two hours to get to work.  It usually takes an hour and a quarter at most.
There was water sitting on the surface of the N7.  Maybe the traffic jams were caused by this, with everyone being very careful of aqua planing and other frightening possibilities.

But I think it was because we were all so confused.  I think the weather has been so nice for a couple of months that we all became confused and bewildered, and forgot how to behave in the weather conditions that prevail in our fair land for about 363 days a year. 

Nobody could handle the water being sprayed up on windscreens from the lorries driving ahead of us.  Nobody could cope with the poor visibility, or the need for lights on cars in the middle of the day.

Or maybe everyone was just so depressed at being plunged unceremoniously back into our usual weather that all the motorists just stopped on the N7 to cry their fecking eyes out before they got to work.

I suppose we’ll never know.

All I know is that you’re back with a vengeance today.  I can hear the wind whipping around the house, and the rain slapping off the windows.  It’s a sound I haven’t missed, to be honest.

I suppose you think you’re clever, Winter, don’t you?  I suppose you think you had us all on the edge of our seats, hoping and praying you’d forgotten about us this year, did you?

I’m afraid I have news for you.  We’re Irish.  We may have all been a bit crestfallen when we came out our front doors this morning.  But actually, ever since the sun put his hat on last May, we’ve been looking at the blue skies, and daring to go out without a coat, while all the time muttering under our breath “This won’t last, it can’t do” and “We’ll pay for this, once the winter comes”.

You’ll have to try some other nation.  We knew, deep in our hearts, that this was coming.  The Irish are just too cynical for your trickery.
But if you want to feck off again and send the sun back, feel free.

Guess Who's coming to Dinner?

 

It’s highly unusual, in our house, for His Nibs to walk into the kitchen and find me up to my elbows in hot soapy water, washing the teapot and sugar bowl and jug.  And, of course, the cups and saucers.  He knew there was something going on as soon as he saw me. 

“Is someone coming?”

No, I lied.  Nobody was coming.  I told him that I was just being an excellent housewife and dusting and cleaning my Saturday afternoon away. 

He decided to make coffee and watch.  Fair enough, I suppose, as my Granny used to say, what's rare is wonderful. 
When he opened the fridge to get the milk, though, and saw the enormous raw chicken, and the bag of baby potatoes, my dishonesty was revealed.

“Cop on now” he told me.  “You must think I’m a fool.  You’re washing the teapot, and there’s actual food in the fridge.  Someone’s coming, who is it?”

Happily, our Saturday night visitor was someone we’re both very fond of.  There was no reason for me to lie. 
But when I make the effort to dust and polish, I don’t want him immediately assuming it’s because there’s someone coming to our house.  Even though that’s invariably the reason.

I assume that every kitchen is like ours?  By that I mean dotted with lovely things that never ever get used, unless there’s a visitor.

We’re the type of people that make cups of tea by flinging a teabag in a mug and then leaving the teabags in a damp pyramid until they threaten to topple over.  In our defence, we do have the special little teabag dish for the purpose, we don’t just throw them on the counter top.

It’s a shame, really, because we have at least three nice teapots.  But most of the time they sit unmolested, free to get dusty and manky looking, until a kind friend agrees to come and chance eating with us, giving the pottery a little moment in the sun, all shiny and posh, for just one evening.

There’s also the linen placemats.  Last Saturday could be the first time they were used, actually, even though I’ve owned them for at least five years.  They're an effort to wash and iron, so I don’t usually bother.  Please don’t ask why I ever bought them, because honestly, I have no clue.

The napkin holder was also dusted off and given a moment of glory.  It had to be, once we discovered that although I have bought napkin rings in the past, I haven’t gotten around to getting actual proper napkins yet, so the paper ones had to do.

And I remembered to put the only three matching plates we own on top of the pile, so that when I took them out it looked like we eat off matching crockery all the time.  And I used the grown up, matching cutlery, that doesn’t bend when you look at it, as if Uri Gellar was the dinner guest.

I forgot to whip out the carving cutlery, though.  A lovely Newbridge carving knife and fork set we got as a wedding present.  It has its own little wooden box, which must have been opened at least four times by now.

Happily, I remembered to do the pre-visitor check list.

Have I hidden the ironing basket?

Have I closed the doors of all messy rooms, and possibly locked them if things are particularly bad in there?

Have I done the spot check in the bathrooms, even though I'd just cleaned them an hour before, just to be sure?

Had I threatened His Nibs and the dogs to be good and sociable at al costs, even though the payback is to let him have full control of the telly for hours of GAA the following day?  There was no need for this one, actually.  Not when his Nibs likes the visitor.  Still, it's better to be safe.

The last time my friend came to eat with us, she was unceremoniously handed a Chinese takeaway menu at the front door, and told to make her decision fast, as His Nibs wanted to go and collect the food and be back in time for some film that was about to start.

She must have been surprised and, I like to think, impressed, when she saw a large chicken, roasted and ready to be served.  I’d say she nearly took a weakness when she saw me putting potatoes on to cook.

The fact that I had cooked chicken and potatoes was enough, I thought.

The vegetables were pre-washed, pre-peeled, and pre-sliced.  All I had to do was fling them in the oven to roast.  They even came with a little yoke of dressing to be put on once they were cooked.  Dressing for cooked vegetables, what the hell happened to us?

I decided not to make stuffing.  Mainly because I have absolutely no idea how.  Apparently it’s very easy.  All you need, I’m told, is breadcrumbs, onion, sage and something else.  Butter maybe? 

By the time I bought all those things and learned how to put them together to make them edible, it wouldn’t be worth it.  Especially when you can buy it ready made in Marks & Spencers and fling it in the oven.  And while I was putting the stuffing on anyway, sure I might as well throw in a little box of those roast potatoes M&S also do.

So basically, all I cooked was chicken and baby potatoes, and the rest was ready made.  And yet it looked (I hope) like I made a dinner.

Needless to say, dessert was very much along the same lines.  And our generous friend brought a supply of fancy desserts as well.

We had a lovely time. I was very grateful to my friend for coming, as it goes.  It takes a certain amount of courage to come to dinner in Chez His Nibs and me.  You never know what you’re going to get to eat.  Or, in fact, if you’re going to get anything. 

On Sunday morning, standing in my clean kitchen, I was pleased to note that there was more than enough leftovers to feed us Sunday lunch as well.

For a moment I considered embracing cooking as a possible future habit.  But feck it, it wasn't that nice.

 

Dear Car

I’ve had just about enough of your nonsense for now, thank you.  Kindly stop causing trouble and expense, and do what you’re supposed to do.  Just take me where I want to go, cost me a fortune in petrol and road tax and insurance as agreed, and behave yourself.

I don’t know why I’m so attached to you, you little fecker.  Maybe it’s the same sort of mental hiccup that causes people to stay together for years, well after they’ve lost their looks and become cranky and shouty and difficult. 
I’m assuming, for example, that when His Nibs looks at me, he sees me as I was at nineteen, when he first met me.  I hope he doesn’t notice the stones of extra weight, the grey hair, the lines and wrinkles that now adorn me.

In the same way, when I look at you, car, I don’t see the scrapes and bumps and I don’t hear your rather persistent cough when I drive you.  In my head, you’re still the same sleek and shiny model you were when I bought you, when you were just a year and a half old.

You’re making it difficult now though.  It hasn’t been a great few months for you, has it?  First of all, at the end of May, we had that bit of trouble that resulted in your whole back door having to be replaced.  The less said about that, the better.

When you went to have your NCT, still with your back door in flitters, we discovered that you needed a new pigging steering rack.  I was not impressed with that little development.  Especially not at the same time as the door had to be replaced.

When His Nibs was kind enough to go out last week to change the oil filter and plugs, I expected no trouble.  I wasn’t pleased to hear that your bonnet no longer opened.  What the feck would cause such a thing?  I’ve never even heard of that happening to a car before.

Once again I took you to the very nice and reasonable, (and quite attractive) mechanic that His Nibs uses.  If this caper doesn’t stop he’s going to think I fancy him, I’m at his gate so often.  (This possibility is only scary because it’s true, I kind of do fancy him.)

You’re a pain in the arse, you really are. 

His Nibs, having more common sense than me, had suggested that I get the plugs and oil filter and so on sorted out while you were in the garage anyway, and I agreed.

It was just another disappointment, when I collected you this evening, when you started jumping around the road after a mile or so, and a new and unknown yellow light presented itself on the dashboard.

I had to U-turn, and go back to the mechanic again. And not in an approved u-turn space, as it happens.  His Nibs would have had a fit. 

I didn’t want to do it, at seven in the evening, the man has a life and a family, and probably wanted to go inside and stop having to deal with gobshites.

And that’s mostly my problem with you.  That you make me feel and sound like such a complete gom.

When I’d collected the car, I’d done so in more or less silence. Or at least what passes for silence for me.

“Hiya.  I’m here for the Nissan.  Is everything ok with it?”

“Yeah, it’s all sorted out, I fixed the bonnet, and changed the oil, and the filter and the plugs, it’s ready to go.”
“Thanks a million, here’s your money.  Bye now.”

All very simple.  Even though it’s no secret that I’m a person who likes to talk, I try not to blather incessantly in situations where I won’t know what I’m talking about.  Because I always end up sounding like a complete twit.  So our transaction was completed in a dignified and swift manner.

But when the light came on, and stayed on (I could have ignored just an odd flashing light) and the car started sounding like it had emphysema, I got a bit panicky.

I don’t like those dashboard lights.  I always assume that their illumination in the first in a two step process.  And that the second step is the engine blowing up.

So back I went.

“Hiya.  Sorry for coming back.  (Why was I sorry?  Why?  The light wasn’t there when I gave him the car, surely it was his problem to sort out?)  There’s a light on the dashboard.”

“All right.  Which light?”

“The yellow one.”

“But which one?  What does it look like?”

“The one above the oil light.  The yellow one.”

Now this is what I mean.  I own you, and have done so for years.  Being asked what light has come on and only being able to respond “the yellow one” makes me look like a fool.

The mechanic sighed, and stopped what he was doing, and fetched a little machine yoke, and came over to the car.

“Has this light been on before?”

“No.  I’m sure it hasn’t.  Because I would have gotten panicky if it had, so I’d remember.”

More of it.  I was trying to conduct myself as though I can run a life and a job and a household, and now I sounded like I shouldn’t be left in charge of a cat.

Apparently, one of the plugs, supplied by me, was damaged.  He asked me whether there was any chance it had been dropped.

“No.  Not really.   Sure where could it be dropped from?  It’s been on the floor of the car for weeks.”

He looked at me.

“On the floor where it could have been kicked, or stepped on, or some other damage could have happened to it?”

“Oh God yes.  I’ve been stepping on the bag and everything.”

It seems that the plugs used in cars should be handled in the same way as light bulbs.  And our mechanic has quite strong feelings about it. 
It seems to bother him hugely that people don’t take this seriously, and then blame him when he puts the plugs in cars and the cars won’t work properly.

So I got into a small amount of trouble with him.  I had to promise never to mistreat a plug again.

He had to put one of the old ones back in.  So I have to go back to the auto factors next Saturday and buy another plug and torment His Nibs to change it again.

Will you please control yourself?  I have enough to be doing with a job and a house and a husband and two dogs and the rest of my life without throwing money and time at you.  That’s quite enough nonsense for this year.  Cop on.

Or I’ll sell you to a farmer to use as a henhouse.