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.