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.

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.