Road Trip

I'm worried.  I think His Nibs and I could be getting a bit odd in our old age.  I've heard about this happening, people who live alone or in small groups (and our group consists of two) getting a bit insular and set in their ways and strange.

As usual, His Nibs was up with the lark this morning.  And just as expectedly, I was sound asleep.  Until nine o'clock.  At which point he marched into our bedroom, thumped a cup of coffee on the bedside locker, and said loudly "Are you busy?"

Not really.  Busy snoring, maybe, or possibly even drooling slightly, but not busy as such.  I didn't like his question, once I'd woken up enough to think about it. 
It seemed a little formal, I was half expecting him to suggest that since we had a day off on our hands, we might like to spend it splitting up, sawing the sofa in half, and so on.

As regular readers will know, I have a love for the dramatic.  As I pulled myself into a sitting position, I considered my options.  I'd like to think I'd go for the cold and calm approach, as though I'd been waiting for years for him to suggest a divorce.

But I knew I'd end up throwing the cup of coffee across the room, and crying with temper.

I always cry with temper.  Once I get angry enough, tears are inevitable.  This is a cross to bear. Just when I'm getting worked up to a complete whirlwind of screaming and threats, I burst into loud snotty tears.  And instead of frightening His Nibs into submission, the point of most of my tempers, he sighs, and rolls his eyes, and I know he's thinking "Here we go, the waterworks". 
It's almost impossible to be taken seriously when you can't catch your breath to shout between sobs.

For once in my life I decided to keep my big flappy jaws shut, and wait and see what he wanted to talk about, before I started shouting that he could take my pride/dignity/heart but he'd never get the dog, or the kettle or the laptop.

"Not particularly busy, no" I said calmly.  "Good morning, love."

"Do you want to go to Killaloe for lunch?"

I'm absolutely hopeless at geography, another little cross I bravely bear, and assumed I was just confused.

"Sorry, love, I thought Killaloe was in Clare.  Where is it?"

"In Clare."

We're in the height of the GAA season.  Every Sunday, except last week, for months now, His Nibs has refused to go as far as the shop, never mind out for lunch.

We live in Laois.

It's a hundred and twenty five kilometres to Killaloe.  I assumed it was the sort of place we would only ever go for a weekend away.  And to be honest, even at that, I wasn't sure there was enough to attract me there.
I'm not a person who can look at views for long.  I can see a mountain, or a lake, or in fairness even Petra in Jordan or the temples in Cambodia, and within five minutes I'll be saying something like
"Right, I've seen it, it's lovely.  Now what will we do?"

I know there's parts of the world where people drive hundreds of kilometres to work every day, and in fairness we have a reasonable commute ourselves, for Irish people. 
But it's 2013.  There's absolutely loads of places for lazy folk like ourselves to go for Sunday lunch.  It seems a bit mad to go to Clare.

I actually had a few things I could be getting on with today.  Our beloved cleaning lady hasn't been here for a while, she's not been very well.  We're hoping she'll be back next week, but there's only so far even the likes of myself will let the house go, before I have to make an effort.

And there's still a little suitcase on the landing since last weekend's adventures.  The laundry was taken out, but all the other things I can't travel without were still in there, my earring box, a book, a notebook.  Things I can live without but am getting sick of falling over on the landing. 

And I have some friends I haven't seen for a while, who I wouldn't mind having a coffee with.

Most of all, there's a writing competition I want to enter, and my entry has to be posted tomorrow.  Sad to say, I know what happens in the first 500 words of my story, and the last 500 words.  The two thousand words in the middle remain a mystery.

I knew I should wish him a happy journey, and get on with my work.  But I am, like my father used to say, like a sheepdog.  You know the way, if a farmer has a sheepdog, the dog goes everywhere with him?  You often see these dogs, with their heads out the windows of passing cars, or sitting proudly looking out the windscreen of a tractor.  I can't bear to watch someone else going off to have fun while I stay at home. I love a road trip.  There's always the promise of ice cream, and coffee in lovely places.

"Feck it, why not?"

As I got ready, His Nibs had a quick look on the internet to find somewhere for lunch in Killaloe.  And at ten fifteen this morning, we went out for lunch.
We were back by four thirty.

This is mainly because as we drove into the little village, the heavens opened and it absolutely poured rain, as we parked, as we walked around looking for the  specific place His Nibs wanted to go, as we ate, and eventually as we made our way back to the car. 

We decided that since it's no fun wandering around frozen to the bone, and wet to the skin, we'd just come straight home.

Also, I was in a difficult situation.  I had thought I was reasonably presentable today.  I was wearing a black and white sort of tunic affair, with leggings and red shoes.  It probably sounds manky to most people, but it's a better effort than usual for me.

Anyway, as I sat picking at the end of my salad, I noticed something about my leggings.

"Are these leggings navy or black?" I demanded  of His Nibs. 

"Navy."

Feck.  I looked as if I had tried to master colour blocking, and made a complete hames of it.  I looked like a complete gobshite.  So I wanted to get in the car.

His Nibs had a breakfast.  I had a goat's cheese salad.  It was nice.  Not two hundred and fifty kilometres nice, but nice.

The trip was a bit ruined by the guilt.  When His Nibs was getting the 99's, I made a To-Do list on my phone.
When we got home, I walked the dogs, did the laundry, cleaned off the bloody coffee table that I never should have bought, because we're just too messy to handle it, emptied the bins, cleaned the kitchen and dealt with the laundry and ironing pile.

His Nibs shouted at the television, for about four hours, because he'd taped the GAA.

It doesn't matter a feck what we tell ourselves, or where we go for our lunch.  Some things will never change.

Wedded Bliss

We’ve had great romance in our house lately.  Last Thursday, the 18^th, His Nis and I had our tenth wedding anniversary.

It’s funny how many people have mentioned that they can’t believe it’s ten years already, it doesn’t seem that long ago. 
Maybe it’s because we were a pair for almost eleven years before we actually got married, but we’re just looking at each other, confused.  It feels to us like we’ve been married forever.

I don’t suppose that’s a good thing.

The anniversary itself was as per expectations.  His Nibs forgot it, and I waited until he was in the height of a moan before sighing dramatically and wishing him a Happy Anniversary in the saddest voice ever.

I made him bring me out for a nice lunch to make up for his foolishness.  It was a lovely hot day and His Nibs wanted to go into a dark corner for a roast beef sandwich.  I wanted to eat tapas in the sun.

I won, but the satisfaction was short lived.  His poor unprotected scalp started to burn almost as soon as we sat down.  And he spent half the lunchtime running around the corner to the shade for a little relief, and back to the table.  And even tapas in the sun on a Thursday can be ruined by a sweaty man obsessing over how pink the tips of his ears are.

Anyway, a few months ago His Nibs had gone on a few mysterious Sunday drives.

On his own, and at peculiar hours of the morning.  Usually, the dog would wake me some time between 8:30 and 9 on a Sunday morning, and I’d shout for His Nibs to take over care and custody of the hounds. There would be no reply, and after dealing with the dog’s demands, I would phone him on his mobile. 
He would only ever tell me what county he was in.  It was Roscommon once, Cork, and Galway.  And he would never tell me what his business in these seemingly random places might be.

I thought for a while that he might be having an affair with some sort of wandering woman. 

Eventually I realised that no woman in her right mind could put up with His Nibs on a Sunday morning.  By about 6 a.m. he’s already trying to start completely random conversations, about who might win a hurling match that day or some documentary he'd seen the night before.

It turns out he was planning an anniversary treat.  I was astounded when I heard.  I’d had no idea he even knew we were ten years married, never mind planning to do something about it, and four months in advance.

Anyway, this was the big weekend.  We had a great time.  We stayed in Ballinacourty House in the Glen of Aherlow, which I highly recommend.  His Nibs had turned up on their doorstep one Sunday morning in March, apparently looking for directions.  He was actually on a recce mission, looking for the perfect place for us to go.  The woman there was lovely, and he was attracted by the lovely 18^th century building complete with courtyard, and booked us in a few days later.  He couldn’t do it at the time, as to do so would blow his cover.  He loves a bit of espionage.

We went to Doolin on Sunday.  We had a whale of a time watching the poor mystified tourists being thrown off buses  at the tourist information centre, about two miles from the actual village, and being left to wander around aimlessly. 
We went to Lahinch, and the Burren, and other lovely places. 

On the Monday we went to one of my favourite places on earth, the Donkey Sanctuary in Cork.    His Nibs thought that since we were so close, it would save me a big drive later in the summer.  I had a great time talking to Lorcan, my foster donkey with the bendy ears.  His Nibs has no interest in or love for donkeys at all, but I think they’re great.  They’re my favourite animals actually, other than our Oscar and Marley.  I always get very excited when I see dozens of them on the hill as we approach the gate of the sanctuary.

His Nibs has only been there once before, he refused all further invitations on the basis that our marriage might not survive if he witnessed my being so annoying again. 

I only spent a few minutes there, a bit of a chat with some of my favourite donkeys, a quick stop in the gift shop to update my fostering, buy ever more donkey notebooks and keyrings, and we were off again.

I was delighted.  Usually, when I’ve made the long drive down, I sort of feel obliged to make it worth it, by wandering up hill and down dale and having to see every animal in the place.  Then I start reading the sad tales of donkey rescues, abuse, and what have you.  So I might be feeling a bit blue by the time I get back to the car.

Either that or I have to buy the placemats and umbrellas and foster more and more donkeys to make up for all the misery, and come home bankrupt.

All in all, the whole thing was great fun, and we somehow managed not to have a single row from the Saturday morning to the Monday afternoon, surely a record.

But all these things only last a limited time, and once that time is over everything goes back to normal, doesn’t it?

Last night he came in from watering the garden, and I heard him say in loving tones

“Are you all right there pet, would you like a drink or something?”

I was about to suggest I might be a divil and have a glass of wine despite its being Monday, when I realised he was talking to the dog.

And my attempt at domestic bliss was wrecked today when I hung out the washing, and within ten minutes the weather had finally broken, and the rain was bouncing off the windows.

I was like a divil over it.  I only took today off because I was so sure the sun would still be shining, and I’d get to spend the day in the garden, catching the last of the sun. 

At least we got our weekend away in before the rain returned.  I wonder whether that's it?  Is the summer over now?

And who knew?  Behind all our bickering and fighting over my reluctance to get up in the mornings, and giving out, and the great EastEnders v. War Documentaries debate, it turns out that His Nibs and I might be engaged in wedded bliss after all.

Which is good to know.

Dear His Nibs

My dearly beloved husband.  I have something to tell you. 
No, I haven’t bought anything, I haven’t been kissing a stranger, (chance would be a fine thing) and I haven’t been horrible to your mother.

What I have to tell you is nothing to do with my shortcomings.  It is more, I’m afraid, to do with yours.

I met a very interesting man, about a month ago now.

He is from Iraq, is married to a Tralee woman and living happily in Kerry.  He is a hero, in many ways, more details of which will follow.  But what should worry you more, my darling, is that he is Ireland’s reigning Husband of the Year.

Now, to be fair, he won this title in 1995.  The competition hasn’t been run since.  This is possibly because they know that they won’t find someone worthy of taking his title from him.

Why, I hear you ask, if he’s that great, have I held my whisht about him for a month?  Not one of my strong points, in usual circumstances.

I’ll tell you why.  Because, my darling, I am a fair and just person.  I did not think it would be fair to arrive home from my few days away, find the house in its inevitable uproar, and start comparing you to him.  So I thought I’d keep him in mind for a month, and only start comparing when it was fair to do so.

I did tell you about this man when I arrived home, you probably don’t remember.  You really didn’t look like you were listening. 

I admit I didn’t place a huge amount of emphasis on his spousal achievements, but what little emphasis  I did put on it, you chose to ignore.

This new friend of mine met his Irish wife when she was nursing his elderly mother during the war in Iraq in the early nineties.  He was a member of Saddam Hussein’s army, and wasn’t allowed to consort with foreigners in any way.

Cupid, however, had shot his little arrow, and the pair found themselves falling in love.  But they had to do so in secret. 
This is, I think, a romantic notion in theory, but not in real life.

There was one horrible occasion when his lady love was under serious threat from the Iraqi army.  She had been found in his jeep, where she had no business, the army felt, being.  A grim situation. 

This man actually placed himself between her and their enemies, convinced them that she, with her medical training, had been helping the victim of an accident and that he was just taking her home.  He told me outright that had they tried to take her, they would have had to take him too.

Not quite like that time someone was giving me cheek.  I looked to you, expecting you to strip to the waist and suggest the Queensbury rules for the hand to hand combat that would surely follow. 
But you advised me to carry on with my own argument, that my tormentors were probably more afraid of me than they were of you.  Not a compliment, by anyone’s standards.

Although the couple did their best to keep their private lives private, there’s always some unromantic sod to throw a spanner in the works, and eventually they were reported.

She had to leave Iraq, having been kept in a “hostage area” – a nice name for a prison, which didn’t upset the international press as much as throwing her in jail would have, for some time.

He, being Iraqi, and to add insult to injury, one of Saddam’s own soldiers, was not treated with any mercy and was flung into prison.

Although she had to leave Iraq, she literally went next door to Jordan, to wait for her love.

Eventually he was able to join her, and they came back to Ireland, where she works in a hospital, and he runs a rather lovely café.  Where he actually cooks.

They have two children, who seem to be both lovely and over achieving, their son has been Young Entrepreneur of the Year on more than one occasion, their daughter is carving a career for herself in the theatre, which is pretty impressive.

Now.

I do not expect you to transmogrify yourself into a war hero.  No, I’m not an unreasonable woman. 

But this morning, when I told you that there was no sugar, and you did all the sighing and moaning and acting as if the shop was ten miles away, and you’d have to walk, I thought of my Iraqi friend.

We are the lucky owners of two cars, neither of which should be used to go to the shop, which is less than a quarter of a mile away.
I have met a man who went to jail for love.  Centra shouldn’t be beyond you.

When I was asking this man how he got involved in the Husband of the Year competition, almost twenty years ago, he told me that a nurse colleague of his wife’s had originally nominated him.

His wife had arrived home from a night shift with her uniform and spare in a bag.  Both had been destroyed during her shift, which I think implies a difficult night for a nurse.

When she got home, she was naturally exhausted and went to bed for a few hours.  She slept longer than she meant to, and woke up panicking because she didn’t have a uniform to wear that night.  Her husband had washed, dried and ironed both uniforms and they were hanging in the wardrobe waiting for her.  Also, her dinner was ready.

While I was being told this story, you were in our house suffering from washing machine amnesia, and hadn’t even gotten as far as bringing the laundry basket down the stairs.

And need I remind you of your mini-fit last Monday evening when I refused to iron you a work shirt?  Your own shirt?

When his wife arrives into the café to visit her husband on her way home from her hospital work, she is provided with a comfortable seat and refreshments.  Then, if she decides that maybe she has a few ideas on how the place could be run more efficiently, or where things should be kept, he smiles and indulges her and puts everything back where he wants it when she’s gone. 

He does not raise his voice and insist that the watering can should be kept in the kitchen, rather than the glasshouse because “it would be handy for me.”

And I very much doubt that he keeps putting her lovely fruit bowl in the dog food bin to keep the bag closed and keep the dog food fresh.

He just doesn’t strike me as that kind of husband.

I know for a fact that this couple are always going out for lovely dinners.  Where, I assume, she is allowed to have dessert if she chooses, and allowed to eat her own.  I can’t even put a Cadbury’s Tiffin in our fridge without it disappearing within minutes.

I’m told that there’s someone for everyone.  And I suppose we’ll have to accept that you’re the one for me, and I’m the one for you.

We are lucky.  We haven’t had to escape a war, or travel over three thousand miles to settle in a town that must have been a bit of a culture shock after Baghdad.

But if you’re expecting any kind of “World’s Best Husband” card for an occasion in the future, I’m afraid you’ll have to feck off for yourself.