Wedding Day Blues

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

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

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

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

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

So that’s what he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I suppose we’ll never know.

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

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

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

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

Guess Who's coming to Dinner?

 

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

“Is someone coming?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have I hidden the ironing basket?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Dear Car

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So back I went.

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

“All right.  Which light?”

“The yellow one.”

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

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

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

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

“Has this light been on before?”

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

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

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

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

He looked at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've Started so I'll Finish

Did you ever start something, and then go too far, and end up sorry you ever started it?

I’ve had a couple of days off work this week, and obviously, being Irish, assumed it would be lashing rain and that I should take the opportunity to sort out our box room.

His Nibs and I live in a three bedroomed house.  Happily, so far, we still sleep in the same room (keep your fingers crossed for us).  The second biggest bedroom is the guest room, referred to, like in everyone’s house, as the spare room.

It’s odd, how it’s called the spare room.  Because to be honest, it’s anything but spare.  We couldn’t do without it.  It houses the out of season clothes, the fancy weddingy type outfits that I only ever wear once and don’t have room for in my wardrobe but keep “just in case”, and my entire shoe and handbag collection, which is a bit of a feat for any wardrobe, to be honest. 

It holds some books, the director’s chairs we drag out when we have more than four people at our kitchen table, and the empty suitcases.  Now how is that spare?  If we got a lodger into that room, we’d have to build an extension just to hold all my stuff.

Anyway, because we’re very anti-social, and the box room is actually the size of a box, we decided when we moved in not to put a bed in it.  We (I) decided it should be the “book room”.  We bought  a few bookcases, and I started making free in Waterstone’s and Chapters of Parnell Street in a way I never could have when we lived in the one bedroomed flat in Dublin.

Giving a room a name like the book room is an absolute fool’s game.  I know every box room ends up containing a load of crap, but if you actually call it the book room, and the walls aren’t entirely lined with books, it’s open season on the room.  Eventually we ended up with no floor space at all.

 

About two years ago, this room was equipped with a desk and a nice leather chair.  It was now the writing room – have you ever heard anything so pretentious?

It was one of those “if I build it they will come” moments.  I thought if I had a writing room, I’d be worn out coping with all the ideas I’d have for the Great Irish Novel. 

Putting the desk against a blank wall was a terrible idea.  Sitting down, with no ideas whatsoever, and both literally and figuratively facing a blank wall is nonsense. 

So this week I decided I’d re-arrange the room, so that the desk faced the window.  In the same way as facing a blank wall left me devoid of inspiration, I assumed that facing out into the world would lead to a world of ideas and creativity.

When I decided to sort out the book room, I decided I’d allow myself a full day to get through all the books. 

I’m such a moron.  I thought once the books were re-arranged, the work would be done.  There was to be three piles of books .  Books for the charity shop, books that would stay because I love them so much I need to have them to hand, and thirdly books I love but am not going to read again soon because I have them on the Kindle, or I’ve  just read them, and that I don’t want to part with.  These books were to be put in the attic.

His Nibs thinks this is a stupid idea.  He reckons anything that goes into the attic is really in a holding area.  That everything up there is on its way to the landfill, but I haven’t made my peace with it yet. 

I begged to differ, citing the Christmas decorations as an example, but he says that doesn’t count, because anyone with a bit of sense would put the decorations in the landfill and stop trying to turn our lives into Miracle on 34^th Street for two weeks of every year.

I also decided to put the CDs in the attic, since I only ever use the iPod.  Just so you know, CDs are ridiculously heavy and difficult to get into a tiny attic.

Now, I started off great.  I started flinging books into piles on Tuesday morning with some gusto.

The trouble is, the weather’s fabulous, and I know I won’t be getting any more days off to enjoy the sun.  So basically I’ve been running up and down the stairs and in and out of the garden caught between my conscience and my desire for a golden glow.  Usually armed with a book, allegedly so that I could decide which pile it belonged in.

So I made a bit of a production of the work.  His Nibs is an easy going soul, and doesn’t like this kind of carry on.  He just likes everything to be left alone.  Because usually, when things aren’t left alone, he’s dragged into a load of work.  Work that he doesn’t want to do, and doesn't approve of.

So he wasn’t delighted when he returned from work yesterday to find the entire floor of the spare room covered in books, bags and boxes.  And two empty bookcases on the landing.

There was a suitcase and about six bags of books in the hall, ready for their transfer to the charity shop. 

Of course it’s only when the sun goes down that I’m really able to get into the swing of the thing.  Because the garden is full of moths and loses its lustre,  and once His Nibs gets home the television moves from dreadful daytime TV to intelligent documentaries, so there’s nothing to distract me.

I got the books and the notebooks back onto their freshly dusted shelves yesterday.  I became so enthusiastic that I decided I wouldn’t be able to sleep until it was all dealt with.  At four o’clock this morning, His Nibs appeared on the landing and strongly suggested that I go to feck to bed and stop making noise.

He didn’t agree with my suggestion that now that he was up he may as well hop up into the attic there and then, to deposit the bags and boxes standing in the spare room.

I had to go into the attic myself this morning.  Well, I didn’t have to.  But sadly the enthusiasm had continued, and I was inflicted with an “I’ve started so I’ll finish” type mentality.  Anyway, I didn’t want to be tripping over the attic stuff for months while I begged (nagged) His Nibs to get on with it.

 That yellow insulation stuff is incredibly itchy and annoying.

This is exactly what I mean.  The very odd time I take a notion, I tend to throw myself into it with far too much enthusiasm. 

A quick tidy up, maybe a belt of the hoover, and a half hearted re-shuffling of the furniture would have completed the work.  But I had to go all out of course, hang new stuff on the walls, get rid of half the contents of the room, stuff ever more rubbish in the attic.
I absolutely hate the part in the middle.  You know when you think you’re doing great, then you look around and discover two rooms and the landing have been rendered unusable, and there’s absolutely no way back?  That you’ve gone too far and you have to finish the stupid dusty carry on?

I’m proud to say that I finished the job.

Fair enough, my car is currently out of bounds, there’s barely enough room for me in there.  I look forward to driving around the local towns tomorrow, looking for charity shops and deciding which is the most worthy of my fabulous donation. 

Happily, the cleaning lady is coming.  She doesn’t like working when I’m in the house.  Mainly, I suppose, because I follow her around and ask her stupid questions, and never know the answer to her more intelligent questions like “Is there any hot water?”  Also, my old trouble re-surfaces.  I can’t stop talking to her, and trying to talk her into stopping for coffee, when all she wants to do is get the whole thing over with and go home to her family.

I’ve already texted her to tell her that the impediment to cleaning the boxroom has now been removed, and to feel free to go on in and hoover and dust in there, just like every other room .  I also hinted that I’d like a bit of praise for my good work.

I’m sure she was delighted to hear from me.

For Better, For Worse

 

It’s been a very bad week for celebrity marriages.  Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones have split up, after fifteen years together.  Clint Eastwood and his wife are finished too, after seventeen years, Brian Ferry’s marriage is over after just two years, and that lovely ridey man from Miranda has split up from the woman who used to be in EastEnders, after seven years of marriage.

And yet His Nibs and I march on, despite very bad behaviour on both sides in the recent past.

Not the kind of bad behaviour that results in strangers jumping out bedroom windows in their underwear, obviously, or that means the mortgage money is gone up someone’s nose in the form of white powder, but still, not good behaviour.

There was no row or anything, not until Thursday night.  While I was smiling at His Nibs and trying to be overly nice because I was afraid he’d find out how many unpaid for beauty products were in the upstairs bathroom, little did I know that he was smiling at me and hoping I’d never find out about the mini flood.

When I say unpaid for beauty products, I haven’t started shoplifting, although maybe I should, the way I’m carrying on, but things bought on credit cards and overdrafts that have not been paid off to the bank yet, and are therefore technically unpaid for.

I am absolutely aware that overdrafts are created for emergencies like food and petrol to get to work, when you’re waiting for payday.  They are not for spending all next month’s salary before you even get it, and therefore forcing yourself back into  the position of having to live on someone else’s money again next month.

I know that in my head, but my heart doesn’t seem to understand, and seem to labour under the misapprehension that since I turn up for work when I’m supposed to I’m entitled to every treat I see during the month.  You know the type of thing

“I don’t have the money for it.  I really shouldn’t buy it.  But feck it, I work hard, I deserve a treat.”

I always use this line, even when I’ve had a treat the day before.  Or even, on some unhappy days, in the same lunchtime.

Anyway, let’s not focus on my misdeeds.  Back to the mini flood.

Very early last Wednesday morning, His Nibs put our dogs’ water bowl on the kitchen counter, beside the sink.  Despite careful questioning, he cannot explain why he didn’t put the bowl in the sink.

His Nibs hates being late in the mornings.  I hate being early, and am not fond of being on time. 
His Nibs couldn’t find his boots, and this was tormenting him.  I had not made my appearance yet, and his boots were missing, and the clock had crept past leaving the house time without any progress being made.

So he put the bowl on the counter, turned on the tap, and obviously temporarily out of his mind, went to find his boots.

Our dogs are a terrier and a sheepdog.  They are not Irish Wolfhounds. Or elephants. They are normal sized, and have a water bowl to match.  Normal sized, not a five gallon drum.  By the time His Nibs had located his boots, shouted up the stairs at me to get a move on, and wandered back to the kitchen, the bowl had filled, and the water was flowing merrily over the counter top and onto the floor.

I hate this type of messing, and His Nibs knew perfectly well that I’d take the opportunity to mop it all up and sigh and moan and be a martyr and tell him to go on without me, I’d think of something.  Which of course he couldn't do.  If he caused a flood and then left me to clean it up and went to work without me, he'd never hear the end of it. 

No, he knew I wouldn't leave the water there, and he'd have to join in the clean up , and between the jigs and the reels we'd have been lucky to be in work by lunchtime.

Rather than suffer this delay, he reasoned that the kitchen has a tiled floor, the water wouldn’t do it any harm, and he closed the kitchen door and went to shout at me from the bottom of the stairs again.

Of course while all this was going on I was upstairs moaning and whining about the little gremlins that get into my wardrobe at night and sew up all my clothes so that they’re smaller than the last time I wore them.  This involves a lot of sighing, and flinging tops into the corner of the room, and on very bad mornings, some tears.

Eventually I came down the stairs, and headed for the kitchen, to get my handbag.

“Will you please get in the fecking car?” His Nibs yelped.  “I have your bag, here, now come on, we’re late”.

This conversation is very much routine in our house on a work day morning, and so I had no reason to be suspicious.  I got in the car.

That night I commented on how wet the floor was.  I was assured that there had been a small incident with a water bowl, I assumed this meant it had been knocked over, or kicked across the floor as usual, and His Nibs immediately fetched the mop.

What he chose not to tell me, was that the three drawers in our kitchen had also been flooded that morning. I don’t have much to do with the drawers in our kitchen, to be honest.  I didn’t find out that there was water sitting in all three of them until very late on Thursday night.

I did my best to do a preliminary clean up, and spent half my Saturday emptying out the drawers, getting rid of all the soggy takeaway menus and instruction booklets that had accumulated in there over the years, washing every bit of cutlery, the linen placemats that we’re highly unlikely ever to use, and draining the manky accumulated water from the pots in the bottom drawer.

And still we’re nice to each other.  A man who doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with just closing a drawer when it becomes flooded, is capable of being perfectly nice to a woman who is in overdraft just a couple of days after her monthly pay day because she is determined to buy one of every piece of makeup in Ireland.  And she is capable of being perfectly nice to him.

In fact, they're capable of being ridiculously fond of each other.

Maybe this is why my Granny always told me to only marry a man I was good friends with. You need friendship to get through these things, chemistry just doesn't cut it when the drawers are smelly or when one party insists that the ESB and phone bills aren't as important as maintaining youthful looks.

It really makes me wonder what the feck is causing all the celebrities to break up.

Goodbye Tension, Hello Pension!

As regular readers will know, I am inclined to spend far too much time and money trying to hold back the ravages of time, which are marching merrily across my face.

It’s a full time job.  If I don’t stop adding anti-ageing lotions and wrinkle removing potions to my nightly routine, I’ll soon have to start going to bed earlier just to get it all done.

My eyebrows need more attention than ever, since I plucked the snow white hair from one of them recently.  An unhappy day, by any standards.

And where my meanderings around the beauty halls of Dublin used to be about highlighting the green in my eyes and perfecting my pout, these days it’s all about skin renewal and youth radiance.

I’m a marketer’s dream.  And, of course, a gobshite.

I know it’s all a load of nonsense really.  I know we’re born with genes and cells in place that will age as they see fit, unless we opt for the surgeon’s knife or the adding of botulism.  And I’m not even sure that works. 

Having said that,  I have to say that this latest over priced serum seems to be holding its own.

I suppose it doesn’t matter if you have the visage of a teenager, once you start to creak and limp and risk breaking a hip getting into the shower of a morning. 

But for me the big news is this.  That maybe getting older is actually not so bad.  Could it be possible that I’ve been completely over reacting to life moving on, all these years?

I met a friend of mine lately, a gentleman around the age of sixty.  He took early retirement from our office a couple of years ago, and went off to pursue the next chapter of his life.

I’ll call him Jim, though that is not his name. To protect him, more than me.

If he’d simply resigned from the job, it might have been different.  But for some reason, when I hear the word “retirement” I think “relaxation.”  A time, after you’ve done a lifetime’s toil, to kick back and slide into old age, your days punctuated by lovely lunches, pleasant walks, and drinking at inappropriate times of the day.  To be honest, I think it sounds great.

But what if it's actually about not being able to afford heating in the winter and re heated food, and all your friends being dead?

Jim is an interesting person by any standards.  He always has a story.

For instance, two days a week, he takes care of his two year old grandson.  The other day, he brought the little boy to the park, to feed the ducks.

The swans came running up to them.  I’m not fond of swans.  We all know that they can break a man’s arm, of course.  But I’m not fond of them anyway.  Attention seeking feckers.  It’s like dolphins.  When I go to buy tins of tuna, there’s a happy little badge on each tin stating that it’s “Dolphin Friendly”.  I hate that.  Just because dolphins are cuter and make weird little noises. Is it ok to eat a tuna, just because they’re ugly,  as long as no dolphin is harmed?

I’ve been told that life is easier if you’re good looking, and it must be true.
Swans too.  With their snow white feathers, and making heart shapes with their two heads, and mating for life.  They’d make you sick.

 

Anyway, these swans, thinking they’re good looking and charming no doubt, came rushing up to push the ducks out of the way.  And the little boy, being a little boy, fell a bit in love with one of the swans, and wanted to give it a kiss.

I’m fairly sure a lot of adults would have explained that swans don’t like kissing boys, and maybe moved away.  Jim thought the best way to get a quick peck from a swan was to put a decent sized piece of bread in the child’s mouth and let the swan take it from there.
He cheerfully told me that he wouldn't have dreamt of doing this years ago, but that life gets less scary when you hit retirement.

Jim told me that he was fairly casually dating a number of women.  He was widowed a few years ago, in very sad circumstances.  After a long and happy marriage, Jim has decided that he has no interest in getting into anything serious again.

He says there’s great freedom in all the dating.  Nobody takes anything too seriously, and everyone gets to enjoy themselves.

I, being a rather cynical person, asked him whether all the women knew about each other. 

He confirmed that yes, they do.

I asked him if any of them minded.

“Oh yeah” he told me.  “They’re always giving out.”

That sounds like less fun.  I didn’t really know what to say, so I stood there slightly awkwardly.

“I don’t care” he told me. 

"I don't care" is a fairly overused phrase, in my opinion.  For example, I shout it repeatedly at His Nibs when he's trying to make some (usually perfectly reasonable) point that I don't agree with.  But in this case, I really, really believed Jim.  He doesn't care that all these woman are always giving out.

Now that’s the way to slide into old age.  He’s happy on his own, and has his children and grandchildren for company.  He sees a number of women, and if one gets too moany about his seeing the others, he stops dating her, on the basis that neither of them are enjoying themselves any more.

To be honest, Jim has charisma.  I doubt that I’ll have a bevy of gentlemen callers begging to take me out and feed me when I’m in my sixties. 

Obviously, I’m very hopeful that His Nibs won’t have legged it, and the mortgage having dragged to its miserable end, we’ll be in a position to go out whenever we want, as a pair.

But if Angelina Jolie or the likes of her has come and stolen him away, its nice to think that retirement isn’t all grey cardigans and beans on toast on my own.

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.