Episode two. Exactly the same as episode one, except it is Milinko who is locked out and has to do the pink face masks.
Episode three. Luka has to go to ground for a while as he has had a paternity suit slapped on him. While everyone else is out and about, he has to spend the day cleaning with Zaga. She says ‘You STUPID boy’ a lot because he is not a dab hand with the dusters.
Episode four. New pink strawberry-flavoured cigarettes have been introduced to the marketplace, aimed at children (not so unlikely). Ema, who up until then had been vehemently anti-smoking, is charmed and immediately develops a forty-a-day habit. (‘How can they be bad if they’re pink?’)Worse, she falls into roguish company as Zaga and I insist she does her smoking on the balcony, which we share with THE BOYS NEXT DOOR, and she spends a lot of time with Milinko, who offers her ‘Brrrrrrreeendy?’ which she declines as it is not pink.
Episode five. Zaga, who is very protective of my non-drinking status, goes bananas when Milinko offers me a ‘Brrrrrrreeendy’. She rants on and on and on in Serbian for a least five minutes and I get Ema to listen and translate. She nods and says ‘Uh-huh’ and ‘Hmmm’ and ‘O-kaay’ and when Zaga finally finishes I say to Ema, ‘What did she say?’ And Ema thinks hard and says, very slowly, ‘She said – “You STUPID BOY!”’ Uproarious laughter.
Episode six. We did have an episode six, but neither of us can remember, now that we’re home. I know we thrashed it out over dinner in the Château de Noizay. In fairness, Himself can’t be held accountable because he had a fair bit to drink, but once again, I have no excuse.
So what do you think? Is it a runner? We also have great ideas for guest appearances from other family members, including Caitríona, who will ring from New York every time she sees Spiderman. Her catchphrase is: ‘A hot meal at a fair price.’ (From a terrible weekend we spend in Tijuana. Well, I say weekend, we were meant to stay the weekend, but we went on Friday night and came back to LA on Saturday morning because it was so awful, where I was nearly thrown in the slammer at the border by accidentally trying to bring a Mexican apple back into the US of A, and I wouldn’t mind but it wasn’t actually a Mexican apple, it was an American one which I’d brought along but hadn’t eaten.)
We came back from France on the car ferry and the weather was so terrifying that I was genuinely worried that I might be about to die. Himself felt seasick, but then again he’d had a fair amount to drink. In fact, usually that journey is very pleasant. You get on, have your dinner, take a turn around the souvenir shop (much leprechaun merchandise), then retire to bed.
My birthday passed without incident. I moved from forty-two to forty-three without drama. Good presents. A BEAUTIFUL powder-blue casserole dish from John and Shirley, a juicer from Himself, also products from Bliss and Sisley anti-age gear from Rita-Anne and Jimmy.
Best present of all was a painting by Tadhg. Tadhg is an immensely talented artist but has the low self-esteem that I have and is afraid to engage with his talent. It was shark-subduingly uplifting to get a painting that he had done and it is really brilliant.
Now I’m back from France and keen to get on with the book, which was going vair, vair well before leaving, but I’ve been asked to do all kinds of publicity things and I would rather poke myself in the eye with a rusty compass than do any of them, but I am obliged because of favours owed, or a sense of guilt, or because the person will end up in penury, or the well-grounded expectation that the journalist will shaft me further down the line if I don’t.
I would just like to live a quiet life, writing my books and my newsletter and meeting people who read my books and cooking nice dinners in my powder-blue casserole dish (indeed, cooking nice dinners FOR the people who read my books).
It feels like nearly every interview I do, I’m misquoted badly enough to sound like a half-wit and I’m finding it wearing. Perhaps if I faked my own death …
Anyway, changing the subject to backs. Mine is better, and also my computer is fixed, thanks be to Christ! Himself, however, has come a cropper. A day or so after we got back, he did his back in – brace yourself, you simply will not BELEEEEEVE this – while cutting his fingernails!
Honest to God! Is no pursuit safe! There are traps every which way we turn! He is in bad pain and I’m begging him to see a back person but he keeps repeating, like a robot, ‘Nothing you can do for a bad back.’ Surely that can’t be so? What are osteopaths? Are they not back experts? At least we should go and see one and pay an extortionate sum of money to be told that bed rest is all that will fix him. At least then, protocol will have been observed.
Yes, then my mother went deaf. The thing is that she’s always had a ‘bad ear’. In fact, so have I. And Caitríona. And Tadhg. Mam is pretty much deaf in her ‘bad ear’ and has to have a hearing aid in it. Me, Caitríona and Tadhg aren’t deaf in our ‘bad ears’, we just get lots of infections in them, but I’d say we’ll go deaf at some stage, if Mam is our template. But anyway, didn’t she get an infection and go deaf IN HER GOOD EAR!!! Isn’t that terrible? How unfair is that? She’s had two ‘goes’ of antibiotics and still isn’t right. She will have to go and see an ‘ear man’.
I have been to see an ‘ear man’. Oh yes. Three years ago, or it might have been two, when I had several very bad ears in a row and had three ‘goes’ of antibiotics without it making a difference. It took ages before I got to see my ‘ear man’ because he was so in demand, and the minute I walked through his door he took one look at me and said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with your ear. It’s your jaw. You need to see a “jaw man”!’ (So I did and he diagnosed TMJ and as a result I have to wear an attractive rugby-player-style jaw guard to bed.)
So anyway, yes, poor Mam. And God knows I was impatient enough with her before, what with having to repeat everything to her twice, but I’m ten times worse now.
Example of one of our conversations:
‘Mam, do you remember the night of your birthday?’
‘What?’
‘OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE!!! I SAID, DO YOU REMEMBER THE NIGHT OF YOUR BIRTHDAY?’
‘No.’
‘No? You don’t? That great night?’
‘What?’
‘CHRIST ALIVE, NOT ONLY ARE YOU DEAF BUT YOU ARE SENILE TOO!!’
‘What?’
Poor Mam. I am horrible. And it’s all ahead of me.
Also, Rita-Anne has had an eye infection necessitating a trip to the Eye and Ear Hospital. And Susan has injured her neck, but details are sketchy because she’s in Spain. Some sources say it happened on a surfing lesson. Others say it occurred in the gym. Truly we are the sickest family in the entire province of Leinster.
Meanwhile I’ve started Pilates. Yes, myself and Himself have started getting lessons. It looks easy, it looks like you’re doing nearly nothing, but in fact is as tricky as bejaysus, but we are looking forward to having ‘strong cores’. So on that happier note, so ends September. Much occurring in October. Kicking off with a visit to London, Himself’s birthday, Rita-Anne’s hen weekend and a promotional trip to Madrid and Barcelona, where we are assured that we will be mugged for our shoes. Perhaps we could set an episode of THE BOYS NEXT DOOR there and Luka could be mugged for his trousers.
Previously unpublished.
October
Wedding plans
Arrangements concerning R-A’s wedding are taking up much of my time, in particular trying to find my mammy a make-up artist who would come to her house the morning of the wedding and do top-notch make-up for a pittance.
I found her a lovely woman who has ‘done’ me on occ
asion, but she (my mammy) baulked at the cost, chastising me for my extravagance, saying that when she got her make-up done at a saloon for my wedding, it was nothing like as expensive. I reminded her that my wedding was a) eleven years ago, and b) in a different currency, and that c) this woman was coming to her house to do it so that Mam didn’t have to travel to Dún Laoghaire for it and get the 46A home wearing her wedding face.
But she was not to be persuaded and I had to suffer the embarrassment of cancelling the lovely woman and I stomped around the house for a while, complaining that as far as my mammy was concerned I could do ‘nothing fucking right’.
October also saw us celebrate Himself’s birthday. Also, I went to the cinema three times in October. Normally I’m lucky if I go three times a year, and I don’t know why the sudden spate.
Also, television and the return of Strictly Come Dancing! God, I love that programme. The return of SCD means that I’ve moved from my summer crush on Davina McCall to my autumn crush on Claudia Winkleman.
Yes, so then, off to Spain for the book tour. I’d never been to Barcelona before and everyone said, ‘Jesus, don’t go there! You’ll be mugged!’ Like, everyone said it! My friend Judy said her husband Fergal was ‘nearly’ pickpocketed on the Ramblas. My hairdresser said I’d be mugged for my shoes and handbag. Even Mam had her take on the matter. I said to her, ‘Mam, I’m going to Spain on a book tour.’ Normally, whenever I tell her I’m going away on a book tour, she affects a total lack of interest, in case I might think I’m getting ‘above myself’.
I could say to her, ‘Mam, I’m going to Mars on a book tour,’ and she’d say, ‘So does that mean you won’t be here for your dinner on Thursday?’
But when I said, ‘Mam, I’m going to Spain on a book tour,’ she visibly started and said, ‘Where in Spain?’ And I said, ‘Madrid and Barcelona,’ and she said, ‘Barcelona? What are you going there for?’ And I said, ‘I just shagging told you! A book tour.’ (Relations were still slightly strained after the make-up artist fiasco.) And she said, ‘A book tour? In Barcelona? But you’ll be mugged. People at bridge went to Barcelona and they were mugged!’
But we had the most AMAZING time in Barcelona – have you been? It’s beautiful and interesting and full of charm and history and character and fabliss inexpensive handbags. We stayed at the Hotel Arts, which is glamorous and beautiful and efficient. We had a room overlooking the sea and woke up every morning to glorious sunny light, which was so cheering as it’s already wintery in Irlanda.
I’m not saying I didn’t love Madrid too, because I did and do, it’s just that I’ve already been to Madrid and this was my first time in Barcelona and I spent all my time in Madrid working and only had to do one interview in Barcelona, then the rest of the time was mine, and apart from a mild but unshakeable dread that I’d be mugged for my jeans and have to make my way back to the hotel in my knickers I had a great time.
Yes, Gaudí! Why aren’t all buildings like his? They’re fun and magical and exquisite. Also, Barcelona – I couldn’t help noticing – has more chemists per square inch than anywhere else I’ve ever been. My kind of town, without a doubt. (Recently I met a woman who, like me, likes to browse in chemists. I think I might set up a club for ‘our kind’.)
I was very glad about the many hours I’d spent watching Dora the Explorer, because all the Spanish I know has come from that. Hola. Adiós. Gracias. De nada. It is an excellent programme and I’m so sad that Ema and Luka have outgrown it and now scorn it.
We went to the football in Barcelona; they were playing some poor crowd called Recreativo. And one of my favourite footballers, Ronaldinho, was playing. He is always skipping about and kicking up his heels and chatting to the grass and grinning from ear to ear. No matter what happens, he smiles away like a happy, happy person, even if someone kicks him in the head, which must happen from time to time in his line of work. I find such positivity mucho charming. Muy bueno.
As we took our seats in the stadium, Himself and myself really wanted Barcelona to win but we were afraid that if we supported them, even secretly, we’d ruin their chances. We feel we are the kiss of death on any team we support. (Watford, Ireland.) So we decided to have a little competition to see which of us is the most ‘kiss of death’; he supported Barcelona while I was ‘up’ for Recreativo. Within moments it was clear that I was the runaway winner – Himself has started addressing me as Beso de Muerto (sort of Spanish for ‘Kiss of Death’) as Barcelona were ‘all over’ Recreativo and beat them 3–0 and I’d say they were not a happy bunch of lads on the bus back.
Previously unpublished.
November
Wedding!
Cat cake!
Yes, it finally happened, on 11 Nov the little sister got married. Lovely so it was, yes, lovely. And by then of course the worst was over, as I had survived the hen night – they made me go to a nightclub, at my age! I ask you! It was Lillie’s Bordello and they were extremely nice to us, so very nice, and it made Rita-Anne very happy.
Then everyone went on to a casino as Rita-Anne is lucky at that sort of thing (cards, winning money) but I scarpered.
I should also mention the cat cake. Or The Cat Cake, to give it its proper title. Rita-Anne had been insistent that she didn’t want anything vulgar for her hen night – no policemen getting their lad out, no chocolate mickeys, etc. – so, because she loves cats, I got a special cake for her, made in the shape of a cat. It was a chocolate biscuit cake. Remember this because it becomes important later.
So yes, hen night survived, the last week was counting down, family members were arriving from far-flung parts, then a) Seán Ferguson got a bout of bad sinuses; b) Rita-Anne complained of feeling ‘fluey’; c) Caitríona got an ear infection necessitating a trip to Dr Murphy for antibiotics; d) the minute Luka set foot from Prague into my parents’ house, he too started bellyaching with a terrible sore ear; e) Ljiljana puked the night before the wedding; and f) Heather, the mother of the groom, got so sick at the actual wedding that a doctor had to be called (sadly not Dr Murphy as the wedding was in Wicklow and Dr Murphy lives many miles away in Blackrock).
(At the wedding I was sitting beside poor Heather and we bonded very strongly over bad health. I commiserated on her bad stomach and she said sadly that she often became ill on big occasions and I, sensing a kindred spirit, cried out, ‘So do I!’
‘Do you?’ she asked hopefully, also (I’d say) sensing a kindred spirit.
‘And I bet you feel really guilty?’ I said.
‘Yes!’
‘And you feel that no one understands!’
‘Yes!’
‘And you suspect that half the time they think you’re faking it!’
‘Yes! And I’m not!’
‘I know you’re not! It’s exactly the same for me.’
Beautiful, so it was.)
So yes, rehearsals, dinners, airport trips, purchase of fizzy vitamin C, the week went by in a blur. And at one stage I found myself in my parents’ dining room, where the remains of the cat cake had been deposited and all of a sudden, mes amies, it was like being possessed. Before I knew what I was doing, I was ‘at’ the cat cake, shovelling it into my clob, a chocolate biscuit frenzy, with pieces of cake flying around the room and on my face and in my hair and on the walls and me supposed to be off the sugar, but obviously the high emotion of the week was getting to me and it was better to eat cat cake than to drink.
I ate LOADS. I am very ashamed, also frightened. I have tentatively, with trembling limbs, climbed back up on to the sugar-free horse and hope I manage to stay there, but Christ al
mighty, I am such an addict.
Then the morning of the actual wedding arrived and it was weird because we’ve talked about it and prepared for it for so long and there it was – upon us! It was a very girly morning. Rita-Anne, Caitríona, Ema and Mam came to my house to have their hair and make-up done, then Rita-Anne got into her dress and she looked so beautiful, and her dress was utterly amazing, then we had pink champagne, except for me and Ema, who shared a modest bottle of raspberry smoothie (pink – oh, but of course – in fact the pink champagne was her idea. Himself had gone out fully intending to buy non-pink champagne, but Ema rang him and gently talked him round. Please bear in mind she is six).
Then we went to the church, and Himself was the chauffeur for Rita-Anne and Dad, and he’d bought a special chauffeur’s hat off eBay which made him look disconcertingly like a male stripper.
All went well in the church, Luka (the ring-bearer) didn’t drop the rings, and him and Ema walked very slowly up the aisle, just like they were told to, they are such good children. Me and Caitríona, walking behind them, weren’t half as slow and were nearly passing them out by the time we got to the altar.
Meanwhile, Dad, who has been a nervous wreck for the past month and who had been pacing, actually pacing, like a caged lion for the week before the wedding, nearly trampled us all into the ground, racing up the aisle, dragging Rita-Anne with him. (Sad but true story about Dad. He was so nervous about who he had to collect from the airport and when he had to do it and when he had to deposit them back there that he woke in the middle of the night shouting, ‘What time do I have to be at the airport at?’ It would take a heart of stone not to laugh … The Airport Bus was an alternative to Dad providing a taxi service – but the Airport Bus is only handy if you’ve about a week to spare. Very long route, the 746. Very, very long, but it’ll get you there in the end. However, bring sandwiches. Also water, it wouldn’t do to get dehydrated. Also perhaps one of those neck-cushion yokes. And a book of crosswords. And, to be on safe side, malaria tablets – probably no need really, it’s just that the route does enter hyperspace for a while and God knows what you might pick up in there. Hyperspace is riddled with germs.)