Hot Pink Shoes

 

I suppose His Nibs would call them my sulking shoes.  I love them.  They’re T-bars, and shiny patent.  They’ve got the perfect little cone heel, that neither makes me look like an old lady nor like a transvestite.  They’re quite comfortable, and reasonably kind to my rather large ankles. 

But by far the best thing about them is their colour.  The hottest kind of hot pink.  Not that it’s about the colour, usually.  I’m the type of person that judges a shoe on all its features, not just one.  But in this case, the colour is the most important thing. 

I’m not a woman who can carry off hot pink usually, but these are different.  I don’t actually care whether I carry them off or not.  It’s the colour that makes them my most important shoes, my “fuck you” shoes. 

I originally bought them to go with a dress which fell out of favour as soon as it became obvious that I would never be able to wear it without looking like the prow of a ship.  Like most brightly coloured shoes I own, and all shoes bought to go with a particular dress, they were soon consigned to the back of the wardrobe.  But unusually enough, that’s not where they stayed.

Not too long after their confinement, His Nibs and I had a bit of a row, which I very much felt I lost.  I may not have been in the right (I absolutely wasn’t in the right, to be honest I was being quite the moody cow) but I wasn’t feeling too good about losing so entirely and so quickly.  I went upstairs for a sulk.

I’m from a good old family of sulkers, as it happens.  Not all of us, but most, myself included, have the knack of sulking down to a tee. 
For instance, I was once viewing a showhouse with my sister, a room of which had been kitted out as a study, with just a fancy desk and one of those green leather studded chairs. 
As soon as we opened the door, and I hummed and hawed and tried to look as if we had a hope in hell of affording this five bedroomed pile, her immediate reaction was “Oh, handy, a sulking room.”  She was thirty five.

Anyway, there I was, upstairs sulking and quietly waiting for His Nibs, who is absolutely not a sulker, to follow me. 

The usual run of it, with him not being a sulker, is that he completely forgets that I’m sulking and comes trotting up to carry on as if the row never happened, and ask about lunch or something.  Then I sigh sadly, lie down on the bed if I’m feeling particularly dramatic, huff and puff a bit and usually end up being told I’m loved even though I’m in the wrong.  It’s a great system.

His Nibs mightn’t think so, but he goes along with it.  I suppose it’s quicker and easier to apologise and pretend he means it, than to listen to my nonsense for the day.

On this unhappy day, however, His Nibs obviously decided to make the most of his win and did not follow me.  Probably something to do with me not being very grown up and him getting fed up following me around the house or something, I wouldn’t know.  So I’m sitting there, stewing in my own moodiness, getting fairly pissed off waiting for him, when I take a notion to make him suffer for this perceived neglect. 

I decided to sulk properly.  Not the sit upstairs and wait for a reaction type, but the drag my considerable ass into gear and actually storm off type.  I like a nice flounce. 

Up I got, and plugged the hair straighteners in.  I rifled through the wardrobe looking for a top that made a statement, but didn’t look like going out clothes.  It was only eleven in the morning, I didn’t want to look like I was doing the walk of shame.  I eventually decided, during the course of putting on too much makeup, on a plain t-shirt and jeans, and my hot pink shoes.   I grabbed my handbag and my laptop and started clip clopping down the stairs – I know they’re only two inch heels, but I’m a flat pump kind of gal, so I was clip clopping, I admit it.

I want to say that when I walked into the kitchen he gasped, did a double take and immediately started swearing undying love, but that would be a lie.  “Christ, where are you going?  Why are your cheeks that colour?” I’m not usually one for makeup at eleven in the morning.  I turned on my (cone) heel and left.

After a brief five minutes in the car, frantically swiping at myself with make up wipes, I was off. To the fancy dan organic restaurant where they may care about fair trade and what have you, but they have the good grace to make a decent cappuccino and lovely cherry pie.

And there I sat, for about ninety minutes or so, typing my sad tale entitled, “And then I married a selfish bastard”  (that’s the problem with being married to someone who fancies themselves as a writer, I’m told.  Everything is recorded, and only from one point of view) when a rather fabulous girl walked past and said “great shoes”.  And I realised she was right, they were great shoes.

From that day on something weird happened with the shoes.  Whether it was another row with His Nibs, or a failure to fit into last summer’s clothes, or a particularly shameful bank statement, when things go wrong I’ve often found myself stomping around in the hot pink shoes. 
So often, in fact, that I’ve had to give up on the cherry pie.  I just couldn’t continue eating it every time I put the shoes on, or sooner or later they would be the only thing left in the wardrobe that fit me. 

Obviously, the shoes aren’t that nice.  They don’t, for example, inspire the bank manager to phone me up and tell me he’s writing off my debts, and they don’t take four inches off my hips.  But I feel better for wearing them. 

For some reason those shoes made me realise something.  There may be trouble, and rows and overdrafts and bad days at work, but by a lot of people’s standards I’m one of the lucky ones.  I know that, in my heart. 

And come what may, divorce, bankruptcy, writer’s block, there will always be great shoes.

 

Star Gazing

Heroes are a funny thing. 
I think that some of the heroes you’ll have as an adult are set in stone from your childhood.

For instance, if you were ten years old (which I wasn't, I was a tiny bit more) staring at Live Aid on 13 July 1985, loving all the action yet worrying about the children caught up in the famine, it’s quite possible that Bob Geldof would be a bit of a hero, were you to meet him today.

In the same way, if you happen to come from a long line of Republicans, Bobby Sands will probably always be a hero in your family.

In our house, the Dubliners were kind of heroes.  Both my parents loved them, and us children had no problem with them , at least they were scruffy looking and drinky and not eejits like that Foster and Allen pair, or the show bands who were squeezing the last wear out of their suits in the eighties. 
Obviously, being teenagers, we thought they were right goms.

When the Dubliners paired up with the Pogues, and went on Top of the Pops with the Irish Rover, with their shouting and tin whistles, and Ronnie Drew standing with his hands in his pockets, looking like he honestly didn’t give a shite whether he was there or not, a band of heroes were born.

All the Murphys love the Dubliners, none more so that my sister Mary.

So when we arrived at Listowel Writer’s Week, and saw John Sheehan casually sitting in a corner, drinking coffee, she came over a bit star struck.

I was in Listowel last year and had seen Mr. Sheehan before.   So I was all cool and casual about it.  Not that I’d spoken to him or anything.

He is the last surviving member of the original Dubliners, formed in 1963/4 –before they had even been christened The Dubliners . 

He is also a classically trained musician, a composer, an extremely established fiddle player, tin whistle player and all round gifted person.

My sister was dying to meet him.  We were on one of our “Listowel nights” – when, apparently, it’s okay to drink either pints or vodkas for as long as the residents bar will serve us. 

This is all new, of course, this being the first year we went together.  But I have a funny feeling we have established a firm tradition.

Anyway, after a couple of drinks, I decided that there was nothing that John Sheehan would like better than to be introduced to two Wexford ladies.

Mary wasn’t so sure.  I had to threaten her, actually.  I turned to her in the lobby and hissed “Look, I’m going over to him now, to tell him my sister wants to meet him.  And if you’re not behind me when I turn around, I’ll break your legs, ok?”

She agreed.  That’s when I knew just how much she wanted to do this.  My sister doesn’t take kindly to threats.  Especially from a person who wouldn't have the first idea how to go about breaking a leg.  But she just nodded.

He was absolutely lovely, stood up, shook hands, chatted away, offered to introduce us to Colm Toibín, and offered us a drink.  He even got into a photo with Mary.

Mary coped with it all very well, told him how we’d been reared on his music, and how we’d spent a whole winter watching the video of the Dubliners 25^th anniversary show with our parents, who didn’t care whether we wanted to see it again or not.  They had a chat about the Festival, and how great it is.

Then she talked to him about where we were from, and a documentary she’d recently watched about him. 

If only I’d been so dignified.

When he offered us a drink, in the middle of a perfectly pleasant conversation I blurted out a rude refusal

“No thanks, we know we’re annoying the heart out of you, really”

He looked surprised, but turned back to Mary.  I think he probably thought I was accusing him of being a two faced pig.  He certainly hadn’t given us the impression we were annoying him. 

I’m not usually so humble.

Then, when I was worried there was going to be a dip in the conversation I shouted

“She’s been dying to meet you.  That’s the only reason we’re here, we had been up in John B’s.  We’ve been following you around town.  Meet your stalker”

That would have caused quite the dip, I suspect, except for the fact that Mary had the wit to carry on as if I hadn’t spoken.

Finally, when Mary and John were enjoying a conversation about the Literary Pub Crawl the night before, and how much fun it had been, I started shouting again.

“Come on Mary, move on.  Leave the man alone, he’s trying to talk to his friend.”

I think maybe I was feeling shy.

My father was the same, he insisted all his life that he was actually quite shy.  Nobody ever believed him, except me.  To cover up our awkwardness, we talk and talk when feeling shy.

Or maybe I'm just not fit to be let out.

Thank God this meeting took place in a busy hotel bar.  I’m hoping that the gifted Mr. Sheehan couldn’t really hear me, or thought I had Tourette’s or something. 
If he knows that I’m just a bit of a lunatic, first approaching him uninvited and then shouting at him, he certainly handled it very well.

Like a true hero should.

They say you should never meet your heroes, in case you’re disappointed.  It turns out I shouldn’t meet people I even vaguely admire, in case I start shouting gibberish at them.

Here Comes the Sun

 

 Isn’t the weather fabulous?  Two days in a row I’ve gone to work without even a summery jacket.  Coming out to wander the streets at lunch time, in the sun, with everyone in good moods, should be a joy.

But there’s always someone to ruin everything, isn’t there?

I love the fact that in Ireland, you can’t tell, just from looking out a window, whether it’s sunny and warm or sunny and cold.  Once it’s sunny at all, we all start looking like we’re ready for a heatwave.

It’s traditional, we all know, for Irish people to start stripping off as soon as it stops raining.  But as with everything, someone goes too far.

I was out wandering about and struggling not to spend any money yesterday, when it occurred to me that we need rules.  We can’t have people parading around as they see fit every time the sun shines.

I’ve made up a few to get us started:-

Gentlemen, regardless of your size or shape, going completely bare chested is for the beach, or your own back garden.  Spreading your sweaty selves around Henry Street and across the merchandise in Debenhams while stripped to the waist in inappropriate.  If you’re not a cage fighter, there’s no need to disrobe in an urban setting.

Ladies, I’m not a small woman.  In fact, by any standards, I’m quite large.  This is why my wardrobe contains absolutely no boob tubes, no belly tops and no hotpants.  Larger ladies need to dress with dignity for these sunny times.  Nobody wants to see your burned belly, or your freckled and peeling  shoulders. I think it’s okay for me to say it, since I’m big myself. 

Let’s make it simple.  If they stock your size in Evans (and God knows, they do mine) you should never buy a boob tube, a belly top or a pair of hotpants.

I’m no longer in the first bloom of my youth.  So let me go a step further.  If you are one of those ladies of a certain vintage who fling themselves into a boob tube at the first sign of sun, it is often a sign that you’re a sun worshipper, and always have been.  There is a direct correlation between this and the wrinkled, leathery look of your décolletage.  Once the bust area develops this look, it’s there for life.  So hang up your boob tube.  Your day is over.

Now one for both sexes.  It’s about short shorts.  Or, I suppose, back to hotpants.  Another golden rule.  If the pockets of your denim shorts hang down below the lower edge of them, there’s a good chance that they’re too short.  All this does is draw stranger’s eyes directly to your crotch.  Is that who you really want to be?

Boys, if you are in the habit of wearing tennis shorts, kindly stop.  Especially, for God’s sake, if you plan on doing any running or exercise of any kind.

Just because the weather is nice in Ireland, there’s no reason to wear your Santa Ponsa clothes.  There is absolutely no excuse for wearing a bikini top and sarong here.  Except on the beach, of course.

There is no need to put on forty seven layers of fake tan to facilitate your summer look.  All you’re doing is preventing yourself from getting any sort of natural golden glow, since the Irish sun is unlikely to be able to fight its way through the layers of chemicals on your person to give you a colour.

Never, ever wear your hotpants or tiny skirt, even if you’re a little nymph, with your winter shoes.  If you’re wearing a tiny skirt and Ugg boots, the average person you meet will probably not be able to stop themselves from thinking about how sweaty your feet must be.  Eugh

I won’t insult any of you by reminding you boys not to wear socks with sandals, or work type shoes with your shorts.  That would be going a step too far.

Before you adorn yourself in your flip flops, please have a quick look at your feet.  There’s no need for a full French pedicure, but a quick trim, and a bit of moisturiser around the heels would be appreciated.   Feet are repulsive enough, without making them worse through neglect and idleness.   You’re not Father Jack, don’t look like it.

If you haven’t had time to do your plucking, waxing or shaving, obviously do not put on your sleeveless top.  There is nothing as repulsive as a furry ladies underarm in your face when you lean over the beauty counter to review their new lip gloss.

Just because the sun is out, there is no need for you teenagers to go even further down the path of Californian accents.  You’re still in Dublin, just because it’s not pissing rain doesn’t mean you should start  speaking like something from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  “Dude” is not Irish enough for us.  Neither is “babe”.  “Hey babe" or just "Dude" as a greeting is annoying.  “Well, girl / boy/ lad” or "How's it going?" is fine.

I'd be delighted to hear of any rules you might like to make up yourselves.  For example, you might think it's a good idea for big ole cranky people to stop spending their summer making up rules for the rest of us to live by.  Please feel free to say so. 

 

Car Trouble



Sweet Mother of Mercy.

Ever since I got back from my little holiday in Kerry earlier this week, things appear to be getting more and more difficult.

In the first place, I’d been able to ignore the fact, in Kerry, that substantial damage had been done to my car on the first night I was there.  It’s purely cosmetic, but will require quite some cash to repair.  In Kerry, I’d decided not to worry about it until after the weekend, lest the worrying spoil my fun.

But the closer I got to home on Monday, the more anxious I became about it.  Now that the holiday was over, the matter had to be dealt with, in a grown up fashion, either by myself or the insurance company.  Sigh.

I had contracted the plague on my journey.  Well, possibly not the plague, but a sneezy sniffle that continues to mither me, and make me moany and miserable. 

His Nibs is not pleased.  I am, apparently, a very difficult patient.

But things weren't too bad.  The sun has been shining and I haven't been to work for a  week.  Things were all right.  Until today. 

Today took the biscuit completely.    I had the car’s NCT test booked for this morning. 

I hate the NCT.  For any non Irish readers, it’s the National Car Test, basically a confirmation of roadworthiness that lasts for two years if the car is between four and ten years old, and that has to be done every year after that.

My car is six years old.  I expect a six year old car to be roadworthy, to be honest.  It’s not like cars are cheap, if they only lasted six years I think we’d all have to go back to driving horses and carts.

The car failed its test two years ago, when it was four years old.  Apparently, one of its lights wasn’t working, which wasn’t a big problem.

His Nibs and I spent a fair few minutes out in the garden last night, checking the oil levels, the anti freeze levels (I don’t know, he said it was important) and all the bulbs.

I’ll admit, I thought that if the damage to the door of the car didn’t bother the test man, that it would probably soar through the test.

I’m a deluded moron.

You’re not going to believe this.  It failed, obviously.

Because some seal (which sounded like “plinkety plonkety” to me, but that couldn’t be right, surely?) is leaking oil on the left and the right.

A leaky seal.  Feck.  It’s one of those things you can’t prepare for, isn’t it?  The car isn’t visibly leaking any oil.  I thought that it was a bit of a pain to have to re-do the test within 21 days, but at least it’s only a seal, no big banana.

We have a friend who used to be a mechanic for years, and now runs his own business selling tyres and things, though he doesn’t do car repairs.  I made my way directly to his garage for more information.

To be honest, I thought that since he does tyres and lights and wipers and all those small jobs, that he might be able to sort out a couple of seals at short notice, and I could start looking for a re-test date straight away.

He’s a lovely man, this mechanic.  His Nibs knows him better than I do, but we’re neighbours and acquaintances.  He saw me get a bit upset in his garage once, when he told me that I needed to change all my tyres, not just two of them.  I started to thrash myself about a bit and point at the sky, and accusing God of hating me.  He knows that I’ve a tendency to the dramatic.

He looked at me, looked at the NCT fail document, scratched his beard, looked at me again.

He made some slightly doctor-y noises like “hmmmm” and “riiiiight” that were making me start to feel anxious. Then he asked me whether I had His Nibs with me.

Very doctor-y indeed now.  It obviously wasn’t good news.

The fecking fecking fecking steering rack has to be replaced.

Because cars have become so ridiculous and complicated and nonsense-y, the seals cannot be replaced on the car, the whole steering rack has to be changed.

I bit my inner cheeks, quite hard, in an attempt not to start crying up in his face.  I spent all my money, like the Wild Rover of the song, on whiskey and beer, and books and earrings and a lovely mug, in Kerry last week.

I have no money for replacement steering racks.

But what can I do?  If I don’t get the NCT passed soon, the next one will be due, and the Gardaí will not be happy.

Of course in the old days I would have remained completely ignorant of the problem, and would have merrily driven until the steering rack keeled over completely, replacing it then.  At least I might have had the chance to recover from my Listowel based financial embarassment.

Does NCT stand for Nonsense Car Trouble?