Baby, Baby Not.

I was in a waiting room this week, when I heard a fascinating conversation between two complete strangers.
I have to assume that they were strangers, because they were asking each other questions that clearly suggested they hadn't spoken before.

So, these two women had just met for the first time.  They established the basics; names, what part of Dublin they were both from.  They quickly both said something derogatory about themselves, proving that they aren't big headed.  I think it's an Irish thing.

"Don't mind my hair, it's disgusting, I can't do a thing with it"

If these women had met in one of their houses, the conversation would have gone something like:

"Don't mind the state of this place, it's a complete kip, but I'm too lazy to clean it."

As far as I know, no Irish friendship can be nurtured until the parties have insulted themselves.

And so, in time, the conversation moved on to children.  One asked the other whether she had any, and the reply was that yes, this woman has two children.

The first woman then said 
"Oh God, that's really sad for you.  Your fun is over.  What did you have children for?"

The second woman looked a bit surprised and offended and said that she had wanted them, so she had them.  And she wasn't sorry.

"Christ, that was really selfish.  Just because you wanted them you just carried on and had them, even though the planet is completely over populated."

Then this over opinionated woman announced that it was  a great wonder that this woman had managed to hold onto her man through all this, given that the average couple has around 200 rows in the 365 days after their child is born.

The second woman said that she's glad she had her children, she's happy, and that it was her choice. 

There was a short but awkward silence, when the first woman suddenly turned to the second and suggested in a bright voice

"Maybe you could give them up for adoption, or have them fostered?"

And then the second woman finally took high offence and told the first to feck off for herself and mind her own business.

And in fairness, who could blame her?  This is a most offensive way to carry on.  The woman deserved a belt in the chops for herself.

Obviously I made this entire story up. 

Nobody in their right mind would ever say such a thing to a mother, would they?

And yet His Nibs and I are involved in the flip side of this conversation on a regular basis.

People meet us, and have brief conversations, and then say

"So, do you two have any children?"

And we say that no, we don't.  Because that's the truth.

And people tend to react in a limited number of ways.  Most people look sad and miserable and say something like

"Oh,  I don't know what to say.."
Which I don't mind, actually.  People don't know whether we've been trying and failed, or there was some other tragedy, or we didn't want them, or what the situation is.

But then they look at us quizzically and wait for an explanation. Bear in mind, these people are invariably strangers.  The ones who know us already know we don't have kids.  I don't see why we have to provide an explanation.

I know that they're waiting for a long and sad story of tests and procedures and stirrups.  There is no such story.

I know couples who've gone down the road of tests and procedures and stirrups.  I'm told that it's a really difficult, heart breaking thing to go through, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

But every single couple who don't have kids haven't gone through that particular hell.

So then they say it's a shame for us that we never had children. And we say that it's not sad at all, we never wanted them, we're happy as we are.

Some people just look bewildered and possibly slightly scandalised and move on with their lives.  Some, however, choose to keep up the conversation.

They ask us why we don't want children, and we say it was a conscious decision we made together and that we're happy with it.
Some beauties have then informed us that we must be unusually selfish not to want to share our lives with children.

Perpetuating this attitude, there was an article in the Daily Mail last week, the headline of which was 'Any woman who says she's happy to be childless is a liar or a fool'

I was enraged, obviously.  I'm not a liar.  Well, not about anything important.  I won't pretend I always tell His Nibs the truth about the cost of handbags, shoes etc.  But I don't lie about the big stuff.  And I don't like being called a fool either.

When people announce that we are selfish and self absorbed, I refuse to defend His Nibs and I.  We don't have to defend ourselves.  We have made a decision and stuck with it, and as my beloved  Dad would have said "Fuck 'em all".
I've never asked anyone to defend their choice to have kids, and so I won't defend my choice not to.  All I will say is that there's a great freedom to a life without naps or buggies or baby gates or babysitters.

I usually respond to these people with something  along the lines of
"Well, you can think we're selfish if you like, but we're not changing our minds"

Then I walk away and try to find someone more interesting and less annoying to talk to.

But I think it might be worst of all when people turn brightly to us and say that maybe it would be possible to adopt a child, or even foster.

That makes my teeth hurt.
I've just explained that we don't want children.  Why ask a question if you're not going to listen to the answer?
And if it's a matter that they don't believe us and think we secretly long for the aroma of wet nappies in our house, don't they think that maybe adoption or fostering could have dawned on us already?

Let's be clear.  I'm actually very fond of children.  We're lucky enough to have a number of them in our lives.  Nieces, nephews, friends kids,  and terrifyingly enough, the next one will be a great niece or nephew.

I love them, I think they're great.  I love the way small children think they are running the house, and indeed the world.

I love that the ones who don't like me make absolutely no effort to pretend that they do. 

And I can honestly say that I'm absolutely thrilled when each of them is born, I delight in the joy of the parents, and am fascinated by their miniscule features. I just don't want one for myself.

I have a small nephew, full of fun and divilment, who I frequently ask to give me his baby brother.  Just to annoy him, of course.
He always refuses.  And so I say "But I have no babies in my house to give me hugs".
I say this in a sad voice, and make what my sister would call my "Begging Face".

My little nephew has no patience with my perceived nonsense.  He raises his voice, and speaks slowly, as if dealing with an imbecile

"That's Normal!!"

Now, if only the eejits who think there's something wrong with His Nibs and I would take on some of his wisdom. 
He's five, by the way.

Feeling Sleepy

Ongoing trouble in Chez His Nibs and me.

You may or may not have read at the weekend that I have become a martyr to insomnia.

It doesn't suit me. 

It's been going on for about ten days now.  A friend of mine offered to give me a sleeping pill on Friday, but I refused on the grounds that they're addictive and make you groggy and if I'm not able to sleep, one of my great skills in life, I may as well give up the ghost now.

It never dawned on me that she might be offering for her sake more than mine.

I think it's possible that His Nibs is finally getting a bit afraid of me.

The whole bank holiday weekend passed, with me being absolutely no fun and getting grumpier and grumpier, and His Nibs doing everything in his power to avoid me, and probably saying private novenas that I'd go to sleep for pity's sake.

I arrived in work on Tuesday morning, in even worse condition than I'd been on the Friday. A good friend took one look at me, and suggested that maybe it was time I started thinking about dropping in to the doctor, just to get one or two sleeping pills to put me back on the straight and narrow.

I was caught at all times between shouting and bursting out crying.  I was staring at my computer as though I'd never seen one before.  I suppose poor Julianne could no more face the thought of a day in my company than His Nibs could.  Or, for that matter, no more than I could face the idea of listening to myself whinging for another day.

By half past nine, I was ready to give in, and went to the walk in doctor's surgery around the corner.
The doctor in there seems to be demented, and kept me talking for thirty five minutes.  Not, as you might imagine, about the reasons for my insomnia, but about how the roads in the republic are now better than those in Northern Ireland.  And I still didn't go asleep.

In the end, he gave me the prescription and sent me on my way.

I've never taken a sleeping pill before.  The doctor suggested that half a tablet might be enough, and in fairness the pharmacist said the same thing.  He also said I should take the tablet at least an hour before I wanted to go to sleep.

At around nine o'clock last night, I took half a tablet. I was in bed by half past nine. I wanted to be ready if I suddenly conked out, I didn't want to end up sleeping on the stairs. I assumed that once the tablet kicked in, I'd lose consciousness immediately.

His Nibs, interested in the experiment, decided that he should go to bed too.  He lay there in silence, perking up every few seconds to inquire whether I felt sleepy yet.  That was no help.

I don't know why I'm telling you this, but at a quarter to twelve, I sat up in the bed and burst into tears of exhaustion and temper.

His Nibs suggested I might like to keep the noise down, so I started shouting.  About how I'd probably never get a night's sleep again, how I couldn't be expected to keep up full time work in these circumstances, and that he'd better start looking for a better paid job to make up for my wages.  Then I turned around, took a good look at him, and announced that I didn't like him anymore, and I didn't know why he was still living in our house.

Fair play to him, he didn't announce that he didn't know why he was still there either.  If it was me, I think I would have jumped out of bed and started packing my bags. 

Instead, he remained silent for a few minutes, probably trying to resist the temptation to give me a belt in the chops for myself.  Then he quietly suggested that maybe I'd like to go downstairs and have a chocolate biscuit and a glass of milk.  And maybe the other half of the sleeping tablet. 

I'm not a fool.  Hysterical and all as I was, the thought of a chocolate biscuit soon quietened me down.

Suffice to say that I took him up on the suggestion.
I was asleep a few minutes later.  Thank God.  Six full hours later, His Nibs woke me to go to work.  Again, he managed not to kill me when he shouted upstairs ten minutes after we were due to leave, and I finally woke up.

Obviously the doctor only gave me a limited number of tablets.  I hope to Christ they work, and that my brain soon realises that I'm supposed to go to sleep when I go to bed.

But scarce and all as they are, I won't be messing about with any more half tablets, I can tell you that. 

No Sleeping Beauty

Guess what my latest carry on is?

Insomnia.

I don’t mean the type I used to suffer from when I was young and had fire in my belly and needed about three hours sleep a night, and actually couldn’t go to sleep if I’d had more than five hours the night before.

I mean proper, grown up insomnia.  The kind where you go to bed and demand complete darkness and silence, and practice all sorts of mind relaxation techniques on yourself and have various oils and unguents and potions that are supposed to assist a good night’s rest stinking up your room.

The kind where you don’t drink any caffeine after five in the evening and don’t do anything stressful and go for a nice walk and then have a warm bath and get into bed and get warm and cosy and think happy thoughts, and four hours later you’re still lying in the bed wishing the stupid night would end.

The worst night was last Wednesday.  I was wide awake, His Nis was making his incredible snoring noises beside me.

Obviously I gave him a good few pucks for himself.  And said “Stop Snoring” about four million times, in ever more hysterical tones.  The last time I woke him he became a bit hysterical himself and told me to stop whinging.  When I objected to this, he told me that he saw no reason for both of us to be up all night.  I couldn’t really argue with him.

He’d been patient, I suppose.  This was at half past two on a Wednesday night.  I’d started moaning at about eleven, moved on to banging my heels on the mattress to signify my unhappiness  at being awake.  My hope was that because I was sighing but not swearing, he might wake up and be nice to me and make me a cup of tea or something.  Nothing doing. When I banged my heels so hard that the dog almost fell off the bed, and His Nibs still pretended not to notice, I gave it up.

Eventually I stormed into the spare room.  I could still hear his snoring, of course.  I’d say the couple three doors down could hear it, but that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t sleep, to be fair.  I’ve been able to nod off despite his pig noises for twenty years. 

Still, it’s nice to be able to blame him for my suffering.

It was just insomnia.  I honestly don’t believe I got more than an hours sleep on Wednesday night.

On Thursday night I went to bed at eight fifteen.  This might seem over the top, but I allowed that I had to get to sleep before he went to bed, before the dogs started jumping on and off the bed, and he started turning on the light every few seconds to find important things like his car insurance documents or the spare house key.  Just because he likes to know where they are.

I threatened His Nibs.  I told him that fire was literally the only excuse I would accept for waking me.  And I wouldn’t be accepting any excuses about how it was an accident, or it was my own fault or anything else.  I said that if I was woken up, for any reason, the party responsible would be spending the night in the kennel in the garden.  I made it crystal clear that I included my husband in this threat.

He didn’t wake me.  In fact, he and both the dogs went directly to the spare room at bedtime.  (A practice which is strictly forbidden, as it happens.  It’s the only room in the house the dogs are not allowed in.  Obviously once I’m asleep anything goes).

I sat bolt upright in the bed at eleven o’clock.  My first thought was that I might go downstairs for a cup of tea, and maybe I’d forage around to find out if there were any biscuits His Nibs hadn’t found.  But I decided against it.  I knew that if I went downstairs I’d end up turning on the television, and lighting a cigarette, and I’d have to brush my teeth again, and that I was better off just going back to sleep.  It took quite some time.

I did nod off again in time to wake at two in the morning.  At that stage I was so wide awake that I jumped straight out of bed and went to the airing cupboard, to tidy it up and sort it out at last.

One look into our airing cupboard though, would drive anyone to go to bed and pull the covers over their head, and that’s what I did.

I was awake for another while from four till sometime after five.  Needless to say, when it was time to get up for work an hour later I was absolutely worn out, there was considerable risk of tears before I even got into the car.

I’m wrecked.  I’m absolutely exhausted.  Most days I find myself walking around like a zombie, even my gait has changed.   I wasn’t graceful in the first place, these days I’m thumping around like a cross elephant.

 And I’m like a nettle.  I have had to ask people in work not to speak to me,  because I’m so contrary I’m afraid they’ll all hate me by the time I finally get some sleep again.

And strange to say, when I see my friends and loved ones they’re immediately able to sympathise about the fact I’m still not sleeping.  Even before they ask me how it’s going.

This is despite the fact that once again I have fallen for the beauty counter patter and spent eighty euro on a bottle of shite with the actual blurb that “We can’t give you a good night’s sleep, but we can make you look as if you’ve had one.”

Eighty pigging euro.  It’s no wonder I can’t sleep at night.

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.

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?