Coffee And Sandwiches

I finished the third of Stieg Larsson’s What Katy Did series recently, with a yawn and a furrowed brow at his depiction of himself his protagonist as a crusading sex machine women just can’t help sleeping with. I read a couple of Jon McGregor books for balance, and then absent-mindedly picked up a copy of Henning Mankell’s The Man Who Smiled. It turns out Kurt Wallander likes coffee and sandwiches just as much as Kalle Blomkvist, and all the other characters in Mankell's book have the same bloody names as Larsson’s creations (though, confusingly, some of the baddies are goodies and vice versa). I think my dalliance with Swedish crime fiction may, like so many dalliances of mine, have reached its dull and disappointing conclusion.

With Flawless Pause And Intonation

He's a classically trained Shakespearean actor, you know.

I've gotten too used to my morning natter and I've gotten too used to his late night chatter. My mother was mortified to hear that he reads to me in bed, and more embarrassed still that it was he (not me) who oh so casually revealed this aspect of our romance. Maybe she hadn't imagined that I'd allow such a thing.

Anyway, on the nights when he's not there and in the cold mornings that follow them, I've begun to substitute him with Timothy Dalton. We've spent two nights together now, Timothy and I, and he walked me to work this morning. He's reading some Benjamin Black to me and making a fine fist of it, except when it comes to Dolly Moran's name, which he makes a pig's ear of. Mor an, Timothy, not Mo ran. Potato potato, tomato tomato.

Duty's calling for my Jaffa Cake at 5am this Thursday morning; he's off to Madrid and I'd envy him were it not for the 56 teenagers he'll spend til Sunday with. I mention this as it has absolutely nothing to do with me pirating every audiobook in the Rathmines public library last night.

There was nothing on telly, is all.

A Buke With Me In It

Click the picture!

There are other people in it too, and they are entirely to blame for my hangover today.

I'd Love To Cook A Stew For You, But I Have No Pot*

I have spent my morning slaving over a hot stove. It is not yet lunchtime and there is dinner for a dozen bubbling on the hob. I don't have mouths to feed. There's just me here. The Swede will be home at some stage and will doubtless oblige me by eating a bowl of something, but it's beyond even him to polish off a pot of chilli and another of spiced beef stew. It will make me smile to watch him try.

I have spent my morning cooking because I had doubts to quell, and time to kill.

Now that the flat is rich with the smell of garlic and paprika, I can sit down, pour some tea and breathe again. I have done something simple, I have made something good, I have taken my time with it and poured my thoughts into it - the food will taste of heart and soul.

Well, the chilli will taste as it always does. My knee-jerk reaction to bubbling thoughts, it is my most familiar of foods. It will taste better on Tuesday than it does today, it will sit in the freezer until I need warming some evening after a wet walk home from work.

My stew will taste of home.

I might leave it til tomorrow. By then it will taste of onions, garlic and sweet red peppers, paprika, salt, tabasco and beef, mushrooms, red wine, sour cream and love.

And that goes much better with mashed potatoes.

*Title inspired by my current read, Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood. Emotional cooking inspired by an old favourite, Salman Rusdie's sprawling epic The Moor's Last Sigh.

The Feed The World School For Kids That Can't Read Good And Want To Learn To Do Other Things Good, Too

Catherine can't knit and I can't sing, so a charity hit record is out of the question. She likes bukes though, and philanthropy. Being as altruistic as she is pretty, our very own little Midge Ure has decided to ask you folk to write one for her so that we can use them to build houses for other folk who don't have any.

Her idea is simple -

I’m looking for eighty stories and twenty photos from Irish bloggers and photobloggers, all around the theme of “home”, which will be compiled into a book and published via Lulu.com. Self-publishing means that the book will be available on December 8th (just in time for Christmas!) and 75% of the profits from each book will go straight to Focus Ireland.

You'll find the details filed under Nitty Gritty over here, but it couldn't be easier. Donate a post. It need not be a story if that's not your thing; pen a poem, take a photograph, write a recipe. Whether you're a blogger, a commenter or a casual reader, your contribution will be welcomed. And put into print, for posterity. So make it a good one.

Meet David Sedaris

We sat fidgeting in our assigned seats ("sit there" growled the attendant) avoiding the glare of the furious harridan who had been keeping them for her friends. We turned to watch David Sedaris instead as he made his way along the front row, shaking hands, signing books, smiling. "I don't want to meet him" muttered my BGF, and under the circumstances I was inclined to agree. The room was too bright, we were too sober, we had no books for him to sign and no sparkling wit with which to dazzle him. So we sat and snarked affectionately at one another, and we waited for the show to begin.

And we waited.

When I looked to the front again Sedaris was halfway down the third row. Everyone else in the audience seemed to be clutching one of his books, some enthusiasticators were clutching several of the fucking things. The lonely ones were reading them. The BGF scrabbled in his pocket for his ticket, and reread it carefully. "Meet David Sedaris, it says" he pointed out, somewhat redundantly. "What if this is it? What if this is all there is?" There was a note of panic in his tone. I laughed dismissively, then paused for thought. Sedaris was now just one row from ours, and the show was billed to start a half hour ago. It's not that I feared that I might be denied some earth-shattering performance; I had, after all, paid to see a man read out loud and perhaps answer a question or two. But if I had indeed misread the €12 invitation, then this was going to be very uncomfortable.

In an effort to maintain his cool in the face of impending awkward social interaction, the BGF had produced some heavy hardback tomes from the library and was attempting to educate me on matters of science. I was feigning interest, leaning over and pretending to be absorbed in the book to such a degree that I may have even followed some of the words with my finger. I glanced upwards and noticed that Sedaris had reached our row, and seemed to be inching his way along, smiling and scrawling witticisms on the proffered books. Seeing this, the BGF snapped the book shut and slid it under his jacket, nearly taking my finger with it. "Fuck" I hissed; the sudden movement had drawn Sedaris' eye and now we looked like we were up to something. Cue eye aversion so comically exaggerated that we may as well have started to whistle as we feigned fey nonchalance. Thankfully the Waterstones gonk who'd been hanging out of Sedaris' shirt-tails suddenly decided that it was (show)time and steered the author towards the podium, saving us from making even bigger tits of ourselves.

Later, I tried to think of what I might have said to him. What I might have asked him had I been lucky enough to shake his hand before he took to the podium, or confident enough to raise my own hand when he invited questions from the floor.

Mr. Sedaris, what advice would you give to a 27 year old girl who wants to be you when she grows up?

Boats Afloat

Another tiresome meme; Andrew wants me to list six things I like. His list was full of sweet things like his comfy spot and his little friend Baxter, but I have neither a snuggly girlfriend nor a beautiful Tanzanian child to dote on. So, in order of preference (if your preference happens to be for the alphabetical):

1. Deep, dreamless sleep.
2. Eloquent turns of phrase.
3. John Banville's The Sea.
   
4. Memes.
5. My beau's freckles in the early morning sun.
6. Tingly lube.

Nah, just kidding. I fucking hate memes.

Rosie Is Tired

I've Been Dreaming Of Sleep - And Ape Men, With Metal Parts

I've had to restrict myself to reading John Connolly's The Book of Lost Things during daylight hours because the Crooked Man was crawling creepily into my dreams. Normally books do not affect my nightmares, but this one is about the fairytale creatures that populate my subconscious sneaking from the books of a young boy and leaching into his already uncomfortable reality.

The Hurler and I were discussing dreams last night (over hot chilli and bottles of Stella, lest you think we're big girl's blouses*) and he reckons he's as suggestible as I am. He followed the conversation up with a stunning example this morning - having spent a good two minutes talking about Batman before we'd eaten dinner, he then dreamt that we were Batman (that's right, both of us) and we were running around buildings in the Docklands as a fundraiser to buy some new bat gear.

For once I'd like my subconscious to suggest that I might be a steel-underpantsed superhero in my dreams, rather than a hapless anti-heroine who is about to have her face eaten by zebra-striped zombie vampires.

*Though we did later go for a stroll down to the river with the Tall One to watch the sun set over the city and eat ice creams.

Buke Worm

No longer under any obligation to spend every waking hour either studying or pretending to study, I can once again spend the majority of my (sober) free time with my nose stuck in a book. I passed my exams by the skin of my teeth... I ended up with a 2:1, which doesn't quite sound like scraping through, but I can assure you that with a 60% passing grade and a 59% mark in one of the modules, it is scraping through with bloodied knees.

And so, unfettered and free, I managed to get through no less than three novels over the course of last week's holiday. The first was Hakuri Murakami's After Dark, purchased in the airport and read on the plane. I always feel cheated when I finish one of Murakami's novels; their brevity may be key to their beauty but they leave me hungry for more. An English teacher of mine once flattered me with a similar accusation but it was years before I got the reference - he marked me down to a B- and scribbled a note saying that my story was infuriatingly like one of Mr. Wilde's cigarettes.* I thought he was just being a cunt.

I read Nicola Barker's Darkmans next, which I'd bought on a whim because it was big and heavy. It meant that I had to carry a shoulder bag rather than a handbag for the week and that I developed a squint and a hunch, but it was worth it. It was clever, confusing and very very funny. The nightmarish images of Scogin the jester seeped into my own dreams, however, and it made for an uncomfortable week's sleep. I believe Ms. Barker has penned a few others so I'll be down to Rathmines library with a list on Monday morning.

A little light reading then for the flight home; Siobhán Dowd's The London Eye Mystery. It had shades of Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time in that the narrator, Ted, shares many of Christopher's idiosyncrasies. He makes for an endearing, engaging and convincing storyteller and I found myself reading right through the safety announcements on board our Boeing 737, and all the way through the flight home (despite being a confirmed narcoleptic when it comes to public transport). The book is aimed at 9-12 year olds, and as I am all of 27 I feel I should pass it on to someone else who might enjoy it. So if anyone's got a spacky kid like me at home who'd treasure my copy, email me and I'll post it anonymously, and give them a mystery all of their own.

*A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? (The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde)

Study's Going Great, Thanks!

The kid next door is a creepy article. I was woken this morning by her screeching "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!" in faux operatic style as she swung with what could only be described as a vengeance on her garden swing. She seems possessed of a violent energy, not youthful exuberance or anything like it but a barely contained malice - like that kid in the Exorcist right before her head spins and she pukes pea soup all over the shop. (I was going to include a picture but they were all too scary). Her treehouse conveniently overlooks our patio so an otherwise pleasant morning spent reading in the garden is ruined by the uneasy suspicion that there's an evil 9 year old lurking in the foliage above your head, reading your unhip science fiction novel study notes over your shoulder.

It's not off the ground she licks it. Her dad is so annoying that my siblings and I now have Ade-Alert, an alarm system* that triggers if he's lurking when one of us goes to leave the house, or if he's passing by and peering in the sitting room window. Which he does a lot. It took me a while to put my finger on who it was he reminds me of and then this morning as his rictus grin drifted past the window again it came to me - Ted, the robotic Bluebeard from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I know - my pop culture references are impossibly cool.

It's been an sickeningly long bank holiday weekend; I've been on study leave from work since last Wednesday and am edging ever closer to panic and madness. One more hissed hellooooooo from the treehouse will tip me over and all they'll find of the child will be her shoes.

*When I say "system" I mean of course that one of us spots him and feigns panic, whispering "Ade-Alert" repeatedly until we've all ducked and run for cover. Because talking to him would result in a slow painful death, or a nasty rash at the very least. We're 27, 26 and 22.

A Little Light Reading

In the last six months or so I've ploughed my way through the following, in no particular order:

Cormac Mc Carthy's The Road (apocalypse)
Patrick Mc Cabe's Winterwood (paedophilia)
Gerard Woodward's I'll go to Bed at Noon (alcoholism)
Michael Collins' The Keepers of Truth (murder)
Anne Enright's The Gathering (suicide)
Don de Lillo's Falling Man (terrorism)
Kazuo Ishiguro's Never let me Go (organ harvesting)
Lloyd Jones' Mister Pip (genocide)
MJ Hyland's Carry me Down (unhappiness)

I've also reread Margaret Atwood's The Penelopiad (misogyny) and John Banville's Eclipse (loss) just for the craic. I have loved each and every one with the exception of Mister Pip, but though I didn't love it I did like it - it just didn't give me the same itch to reread it as the others have.

But I need a break. Can any of you recommend something that will lift my spirits?

Review: Le Scaphandre Et Le Papillon

I brought my Nana to see it last night. "Good choice, a film about a guy who has a stroke and then dies of pneumonia" muttered my brother, referring to Crash Grandadicoot's recent loss (stroke, followed by, eh... pneumonia). On paper it looked like an abominably insensitive choice of film to bring a grieving widow to see but my repeated readings of the book* over the years reassured me that she would find something in it to lift her spirits.

And she did, very much. I know this because once we got home, she called everyone she knows to let them know just how much she had enjoyed it. "It was very good. It had subtitles though, and the young lad in front of me had such a big head that I kept missing the last word of every sentence. Still, I got the gist of it."

*I thought the same actually, and hesitated recently over lending her my copy. But it was that or Meet the Spartans, so I took a chance.

Bookworm

Nana wandered over to the bookshelf, looking for something to borrow. "I don't know" she said doubtfully "they all look a bit dark". I scanned the shelves, looking for something she might like. Murder, apocalypse, suicide, death, abuse, genocide, alcoholism, unrequited love, loss; a catalogue of violence, vice and human suffering. I have a fine collection of books of which I am very proud, but I had honestly never realised that it was so fucking grim. Searching in vain for something that wouldn't further depress an elderly and grieving widow, I lit upon the one I read myself when I need a little soul - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. And then remembered that Bauby wrote it after he'd suffered a massive stroke and then died very shortly after it was published. So maybe not.

She left with Roddy Doyle's The Deportees in the end, a harmless little book of funny vignettes about, em, racism.

Sex And The City

He had an idea for a book; something with popular appeal, cheeky, topical and with a sense of humour. The kind of book that would be labelled sassy were he a woman. All about dating, relationships, sex; men, women and the internet (to give it that "modern" twist). He mentioned it because were he to write it, there'd be a chapter in it on me.

He seemed genuinely surprised by my less than enthusiastic response.

I am constantly appalled at people's total and utter lack of cop-on when it comes to affairs of the head, heart and/or the bits in between. Surely he should know that I would never be okay with being a chapter in a book? No matter how brief the affair I will always want to be Erato, not Carrie fucking Bradshaw.

Run Wild, Run Free

I hate Tuesday night telly. Come hell or high water, the Leitrim Lady makes it home in time for Prison Break (which is admittedly chock full of ridey tattooed men, but is so risible and convoluted plot-wise that it could star Adrien Brody and I wouldn't watch it*). How can something with so many "plot" "twists" be so fucking dull?

I watch Hollyoaks. I'm not hard to please.

Then it's followed by Desperate Horseshit, with that abomination Teri Hatcher doing a very convincing impression of someone I'd have to kick in the shins if I ever met her in real life. The only character in it that I felt any modicum of affection for (Lynette) got cancer.

So what to do instead? I decided I'd tire myself out so that I could retire early to bed and not feel that I was missing anything by... going for a run. Well, a jog. Jog #3 of my secret (not anymore) New Year's Resolution To Start Running Jogging. I think my curves are very attractive but it seems that many would beg to differ, so motivated by that and by FatMammyCat's making it sound so bloody easy, I decided I'd give it a go. Besides, I'd given my little bedroom telly to Crash Grandadicoot when he started failing a while back and my room is a complete fucking tip at the moment, so were I to retire there to, I dunno, read a book or something, I'd feel I had to make some effort to tidy it. Going for a jog just seemed easier. It would have been too, had I not the lung capacity of an asthmatic midget smoker. Runs #1 and #2 were miserable, snotty, cold affairs. Run #3 was, well, more of the same.

I'm back in my room now, burrowing into the mess with my laptop and my book (Michael Collins' The Keepers of Truth) and if I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth slowly for the next few hours I'm hoping that my face might return to some semblance of a normal colour by morning.

*Lie

Sick As Two Small Hospitals

This morning's appearance in work should be sponsored by at least 3 of the major pharmaceutical manufacturers. I'm smothered with a cold and as husky voiced as [something sexily husky voiced that's not Kathleen Turner]. I've already started on my should-be-patented get-well-soon regime but it has yet to take effect (except perhaps on my mood, which is decidedly upbeat for someone whose glands have swollen out as far as her ears). My colleagues are starting to fear for their own health so my hacking cough and I have been ordered home as soon as the rain eases off. "But I can't sleep" I complained croakily "and I'm bored!" "Watch a DVD, read a book. You're not getting any better in here."

I'm halfway through Graham Rawle's wonderful Woman's World so I think I just might.