Through The Doors Of That Rented Room

The curtains were already pulled when I got to my room in the hotel in Cork. The better to hide a grim view of the carpark, I thought, lifting them to open the window and breathe. But the room overlooked Shandon cemetery, with its shattered tombstones scattered like broken teeth across the field. I pulled the drapes tight again, suddenly remembering a night I spent camping by the sea in Conamara, years ago. We had pitched our tent by the ruins of an old church where the graves were slowly spilling into the sand. I'd only just met him. We spent two days kissing and smoking grass, and I saw shadows dance on the tent canvas in the dark light of morning. They'd frightened me, and it felt like that fear had followed me back to this dreary budget hotel room in Cork.

When I returned to the room after dinner I switched all the lights on, put the chain on the door and stripped off and stepped into the shower. The water was freezing, the dial turned so tightly that I had to stand under the stinging spray and use both hands to turn up the heat. I couldn't think why anyone would have had it so cold. To sober up, I supposed. I imagined myself stringy-haired and shivering, sitting on the floor of the bath, and it felt so real that I shuddered with half-remembered fright again, crouching under the warm water. I stayed there, turning the dial til the scalding hot water flushed my skin and scoured the day's worries off my back.

I got a start when I pulled the shower curtain back. Someone had scrawled CUNT across the bathroom mirror and drawn a crude cartoon cock alongside it. The steam from the shower had filled the room and given new life to their graffiti. I left it there. They always scrub it off in horror movies. I turned on the television instead, and fell into bed and a fretful sleep.

Review: N.E.DS

From little acorns, Edward Scissorhands grows.

This Is England meets Hannibal Rising. In a good way.

Review: Black Swan

Natalie Portman, looking well.

A cautionary tale for prima donnas and pushy mammies, with split nails, pulled quicks and stabby bits.

You Were Real Surreal, Man

We'd just finished dinner when the doorbell rang. George got up to answer it, and Andrew and I earwigged from the dining room. It was Kevin, from two doors down, dropping by to politely decline the invitation to the parish panto, pleading illness of some kind on his wife’s behalf. “What a BASTARD!” we muttered, though Kevin is patently not. He’s just smarter than we are.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the night. George’s warm, sharp and sprightly company and an “adequate” dinner (his word, not mine). A bizarre, surreal theatrical experience in the parish hall. My words, not theirs.

I’d say that it started well enough, but really it was rum from the get-go. Halfway through the third act, a troupe of little boys dressed as dancing bears appeared on stage and began a bizarre meerkattish routine to the sound of some chundering pop music. “What’s happening here now? What are those fellows, do you think?” asked George. “I honestly have no idea” I said, completely bewildered “I thought this was about pirates”. “I’d have them as penguins” he said. I didn’t really know what to do with that, so I stayed quiet til the interval.

The interval was perhaps the most uncomfortable part of the show. The Reverend, who should by rights be playing the baddie said George (and who am I to question church pantomime etiquette?) was instead playing the keyboard. I wondered if he got it as a Christmas present. He certainly hadn’t been playing it long. He launched into a version of Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody with a ska backbeat, presumably provided by of the “demo” buttons on his Casio. George was nodding along, or maybe just nodding to friends and neighbours in the audience. I sat stock still, smiling in terror, hoping to fuck nobody would try to talk to me. “I’m going to the loo” Andrew said. “Fuck you, don’t leave me!” I hissed through gritted teeth. The Reverend segued with some effort and not a little irony into The Police’s Sending Out An SOS. George introduced me to a parishioner or two and complimented them on their children’s performances before filling me in on who they were and what they were about. “She married this fellow” he said, pointing to the warm and happy-looking blonde he’d just introduced me to “and almost a year to the day later he sent her a fax to say that he wouldn’t be coming home anymore”. Quite the cautionary tale for the modern married woman. I scanned the crowd in search of my husband and checked my text messages for news of his absconding.

He came back, though the people sitting behind us didn’t. “What BASTARDS!” we muttered. I don’t know if they really are or not. Perhaps I should have asked George. The second half resumed and we were once again immersed in a world of fantasy so fantastic that it felt like hallucination. Some squaws danced for a crone to a techno remix of Whigfield’s Saturday Night and Andrew said “I think I’ve gone mad, Ted”. A large man dressed head to toe in a lurid green velour crocodile suit bantered with a rat and George leaned over again and asked “who’s this fellow, now?” I riffled through the programme to find his name before realising that George was trying to identify his species rather than his bloodline. Zoological confusion must run in the family, I think, remembering a walk in the Phoenix Park with Andrew some months back. “Look at the bunnies!” he’d said, pointing to some Yorkshire Terriers.

The performance finished with a singalong, as I assume all pantomimes must. Andrew sang along, the promise of sweets for the winning side swelling his vocal cords. We didn’t win, but the pirates did a grushy anyway and the night ended in a terrifying hail of applause and Cadbury’s Roses. “Silly entertainment!” said George on the way home, and we agreed. We dropped him off, stuck on Sedaris’ Front Row Center With Thaddeus Bristol and laughed all the way home.

Le Bláth Úr, Faoi Ghrian Nua

My overindulgences often leave me with a headache. I think of them as overenthusiasms. Too much wine, cheese, chocolate, fucking. Too long spent with my nose stuck in a book. Happy pursuits all, though I apply myself to them with a little too much gusto on occasion. But on Saturday night I drank too many margaritas and almost poisoned myself. I could make excuses and say it was the sugar, the salt, the special offers, but really it was my obnoxious overconfidence and complete lack of common sense and self control that saw me in such a state. I don't get sloppy or obnoxious when I drink, and I confuse this with thinking that I am impervious to alcohol. Turns out I'm as pervious as the next arrogant prick.

And so I had a Very Bad Day on Monday.

Sunday, of course, was awful. I spent it paying for Saturday's sin with pieces of my soul. In vomit, and hot salty tears. Andrew looked after me, got me to drink glass after glass of water and patiently reassured me that I'd be okay. And by Sunday night I was, more or less. We watched Run, Fat Boy, Run and I laughed a little bit. I ate a bowl of rice pudding. We went to bed and he read to me. He said that my hangover put his in perspective.

It certainly put me in perspective. Gone was the tequila gleam from my eyes, replaced by a soggy, saggy blear. I thought a good night’s sleep would fix me, but when Monday morning rolled around I rolled over and covered my face in horror. Dread was standing at the foot of the bed, nudging Despair with his elbow and daring him to pull back my covers. They followed me into the shower, knocked the soap from my hands and watched me scrabble for it on the floor. They sat in the back seat of the car as I drove to work, pulling faces each time I checked the rearview mirror. They crawled in under my desk at work and took it in turns to pinch my feet and sour the milk in my tea.

Shame showed up to join them after lunch. I was feeling moderately better, or at least reassured to have made it through the morning, when he said his quiet hello. I hung my head, my customary greeting, and started on my act of contrition. "Do you still love me? Do you still want me?" I whispered, and the whole world sighed and said “I do”. I don’t think it was meant, but I took heart to hear it said so and then got the fuck on with my day.

Dread and Despair insisted on a lift home. They wanted to listen to Matt Cooper, but I stuck on Sedaris’ The Santaland Diaries instead. My rictus grin held til I got home. Andrew looked after me, got me to drink glass after glass of water and patiently reassured me that I'd be okay. He’d had Gloom snapping at his heels all day. We walked down the banks of the black-dark canal to Ranelagh for some pasta, and on the way home I tried to explain to him how I was feeling. Not violently suicidal, I said, but like I’d like to lie down, and for everything to stop. It’s very frightening, and I don’t have the energy to be frightened of it. He understood, and was frightened for me. We talked some more, and when we got back home he held me softly and stroked my skin til I slept.

I woke on Tuesday morning to the smell of clean sheets and a better day. Surf Small and Mighty smells of optimism.

When Haters say they dislike something they mean "DIS I LIKE"

Andrew's grandfather called this evening to invite us to see a panto with him on Friday. Andrew covered the phone, asked me if we'd anything on that night. "He wants us to go to a panto!" he hissed, wild panic in his eyes. I told him that I had made plans to see a film with some friends, but that he should go anyway. And then I stuffed my fist into my mouth to stifle the giggles. He threw me a filthy look and then told George that we were very sorry, but we wouldn't be free on Friday. "How's Thursday?" asked George.

I love the idea of him bringing us, his grandchilder (in-law) to a pantomime in the parish hall. I imagine we'll be the only almost-30-year-olds there, or at least the only almost-30-year-olds there without children of their own in tow. We'll look like paedophiles. I'll bring some boiled sweets.

Yes, I love the idea of him bringing us, but I suspect the grim reality of it will dawn on me when I'm stuck in traffic on the N4 on Thursday evening.

Review: The King's Speech

Here's a picture of Geoffrey Rush. I think he's much sexier than Colin Firth. Nobody else seems to.

Kinda like Mrs. Brown. Or any other film in which commoner befriends a Royal and teaches them to be human. Or humble. Or something.

Taisetsu Na Mono Protect My Balls

We never fight. I'm told that that's not normal and that when we do eventually have one, it'll be only fucking massive and our heads will explode and all the bile and venom we've been storing up will come spilling out and fuck up the carpets. But I don't think so.

When we went for pre-marriage counselling, we had to fill out His&Hers questionnaires about all sorts of squirmy personal things. Am I happy to initiate sex? "Yes!" I wrote on the form, with an exclamation mark for unnecessary emphasis. "Sure look at him! He's gorgeous!" I said when she repeated the question during the session. And I added two exclamation marks and squeezed his thigh affectionately, because he really is gorgeous. She repeated all of the questions during the session, by the way, it's not just that she didn't buy my answer on that one. It was a "here's what she said, now let's see what you said..." kinda deal, which is a great way to introduce some tension to a sunny Saturday morning. How do you feel about living with your parents, or having them come live with you? "Umm..." we said in unison. How may children would you like to have, if any? "2 or 3" we'd both written, and we confirmed it with smugly satisfied nods. Some of the questions were that easy. And then some weren't. Write about a time when you were hurt by your partner. How did you deal with it?

I was stumped. Andrew's never hurt me. Not on purpose, anyway. He didn't wash the dishes for a few days once even though it was his turn, so I ate cereal from a tupperware bowl instead of washing one as a kitchen-sink passive-aggressive dirty protest. He caught my hair once when he was pouncing onto the couch for a cuddle and I squealed "OW! MY HAIR!" and he said sorry and kissed it better. He...

Nah. I had nothing for her. Nothing of substance that would hold up to scrutiny in a counselling session, anyway. The same question was asked of him and I braced myself for his answer, remembering a hundred and one thoughtless moments of mine where I let him down and hurt him. But he hadn't been able to think of any to write down either.

I know. We're freaks. There are others like us, but they appear to be few and far between and mostly confined to my family. My sister-in-law confided in me once that she and my brother never fight either. They, like us, hadn't really thought about it all that much until they were prompted to by a pre-marriage course. The only incident they could recall was when one of them dropped a rasher and the other one made a smart remark. They both really really love their rashers. The only incident I could recall was when Andrew beeped at a caravan we were stuck behind for ages even though I'd said "don't beep at the caravan". The caravan pulled in, we passed, and I sulked tearfully all the way to Enniskillen. Mostly because I was hungry.

My friend Roo overheard the conversation between my sister-in-law and I and laughed at us for a full five minutes. He thought it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Rashers! Caravans! "Youse are freaks" he said. He and his wife like a good scrap. She walked down the aisle to meet him at the altar to the theme from Last of the Mohicans. I haven't the same appetite for theatrics, though I admire it in them. Sometimes I get cross with Andrew, sure. For making a mess or sleeping in late or not making a dental appointment and then breaking a tooth and then threatening to gross me out by showing it to me. Sometimes he gets cross with me for stressing myself out or being too nice to people who aren't very nice to me or pretending that I know best about everything in the kitchen (and given that the kitchen accounts for 50% of our living space, I pretend that I know best about a lot of shit). But I just say it to him, or he says it to me, and that's alright. He still makes a mess and sleeps in late and has snaggleteeth and I'm still a bundle of anxiety and a bit of a doormat and a dickhead in the kitchen, but that's alright too. It's the little things that try us, said the man of the pygmy judge.

No Need To Be Super-Duper Or Great

I'll start out with the usual good intentions. To eat better. Drink less. Write more. Smile wider. Work harder. Sleep sounder. Jog further. Jog even just a little bit. Drive slower. Play fairer. Watch less television. Listen. Get the bus to work sometimes. Not eat sandwiches every day. Tell better stories. Stop worrying. Write more.

I am a woman of modest ambition. I'll let you know how I'm getting on.

Review: Of Gods and Men (Des hommes et des dieux)

Brother Christian - doesn't he look a bit like that fella from Thunderbirds?

A film full of tender and devastating moments. When Brother Luc poured wine and pressed play on the tape deck, the cinema stirred to the sound of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake and I snuffled up a sad, snotty tear.