Meet Me At The Wrecking Ball

The receptionist smiled blandly at me when we arrived, and there was a moment of awkward silence. I had expected Andrew to speak. "We have an appointment with the Registrar" I said, making sure to pronounce the capital R. "Rosie and Andrew". I don't know why I didn't give our surnames. I'm still trying to decide if I'll take his when we marry, and it somehow seemed important to introduce ourselves as a couple. She asked for them anyway, and I saw her finger trace the syllables in mine as she memorised the pronunciation, ticking us off in her appointments diary. She directed us through the hall, to an office down at the back.

I marveled at the seats. Fixed to the floor and bus station blue, there seemed to be so many of them. I wondered if our thirteen guests will fill the front row. I wasn't quick enough to count them. The Registrar's chair was down front, behind a desk and flanked by four more leatherette office chairs. We'll sit there, I thought, with our mammies. Behind them on the wall hung a reproduction of a romantic painting. I asked Andrew about it in the car on the way home. I wondered if it was Aoife and Strongbow. I was never very good at art history. Neither was he; he thought they had married for love. By chance, I saw later that the National Gallery have chosen the same image for the cover of their 2010 diary. There's a photo of it in one of the small advertisements hidden amongst the Irish Times' telly listings. So I look it up. The Meeting on the Turret Stairs depicts Hellelil and Hildebrand, who were indeed lovers. They died for it, though. There is no mention of them getting married. The painting seems an odd choice.

In the back room, we met Síle. She was pleasant. I was anxious. I kept making little jokes, though I couldn't say for sure now how many of them I made out loud. She talked us through the paperwork and had us read over the his n' hers laminated sheets that outlined legal impediments to a marriage before signing a declaration to state that we were neither related to one another nor bigamists. I'm a quick reader. She gave us plenty of time, so I spent a few minutes of it working out who'd be what on the list of persons given. A woman may not marry her...Husband’s father’s brother. Father’s sister’s husband. Daughter’s daughter’s husband. The list is 28 persons long.

There was some confusion over the jumble of names on Andrew's birth cert. Síle compromised by putting two of them in brackets, though what difference that made neither he nor I was sure of. She then gave us a quick run-through of what to expect on the day; an a-la-carte menu for our ceremony. I got a lump in my throat when she mentioned vows. She gave us a slip with a reference number to give to the receptionist, and wished us well.

We kissed on the street before climbing back into the car. "She didn't ask me if I love Pussycat!" Andrew said, sounding surprised. He calls me Pussycat, from Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat. I call him Kitty, because even before he bought the purple and turquoise jumper he reminded me of James P. Sullivan. I know, I know. People like us make me sick. Turns out he was expecting Green Card. A civil service quickfire round of Mr. & Mrs. An Interrogation. I laughed, thrilled that I am marrying this silly, sweet man who's dismayed at not being put through his paces to earn the right to marry me. He never misses an opportunity to declare his intentions. Nor, it would seem, do I.

This Little Piggy

My brother had swine 'flu some weeks back and I joked about calling down to Kildare to lick his cutlery. I fancied a few weeks off work. I had romantic notions of staying at home with Andrew, snug on the couch with the Gilmore Girls and a touch of the sniffles. Then I remembered the 'flu I caught last February, the subsequent chest and sinus infection, the antibiotics, and the subsequent yeast infection. The Gilmores are a lot less fun with fever and a dose of galloping gee-rot. So I asked my brother if there was anything I could do for him, knowing he'd say no, and then left him to rot. Or recover. Whatever. He's fine.

I wish I'd sent a fruit basket.

On Wednesday morning I tipped along to see nurse Margaret for my biannual blood tests. "Dr. Murphy!" she hollered. Not to greet me, but to alert her backup. She sighed at me, and smiled with the kind of patience I reserve for when I catch small children chewing crayons. I'm her most difficult patient. I know this because she has told me so, numerous times. I'm calm and compliant, but I have deep veins. I think Margaret thinks I've done this on purpose. Once Dr. Murphy had done Margaret's dirty work and drawn enough blood, I tried to placate her with smalltalk about H1N1, except that I called it something else and further fuelled her suspicions that I was trying to show her up as a Bad Nurse. I asked about the vaccine and she told me that I couldn't have it. "After Christmas" she said, in a placatory tone. She'd have patted me on the back but she doesn't like to touch me. Happy to have avoided further mutilation, I made a joke about laying off the swines this side of Stephen's Day. Hardy har har.

By 5pm I was burning up with a fever. I'm not saying I blame her, like. I'm just saying.

I arrived home in tears and Andrew put me to bed. He calmed me down, warmed me up, undressed me and stuffed me into some flannel pyjamas. I spent the night crying and shivering. I spent Thursday and Friday night crying and shivering too. He spent them mopping my brow, holding my hand, making me meals I pretended to eat. The fever broke on Saturday, and I celebrated with a new pair of pyjamas and a hacking cough. He blowdried and ironed my hair. On Sunday, he took me to Farmleigh and we had a cup of tea. I went back to bed again when we got home. I stayed there on Monday. He snuggled in beside me, my Nurse Ratched, visibly relieved to see me on the mend.

And he asked me to marry him.

Sleepyhead, Get Out Of Bed

I still wake at nine on Sunday mornings. I don't mean to. When he's hungover, I think he thinks I do it just to annoy him. But I don't. Sunday mornings are too good to waste. I lie in my lovely bed and think of happy things. It's a four-poster bed, an antique, wrought iron and narrow. One of the brass bedknobs is missing; I've put duct tape over the sharp edge and trailed plastic flowers from the hollow.

The bed is lovely and warm. The window's open to allow any fetid farty smells to float free. It's chill outside and my nose is cold, it thinks it can smell the autumn. I can still taste the tea I drank earlier, pressing my nose to the mug between sips to warm it. Thinking about it makes my tummy rumble for its breakfast. I'll make porridge soon. Microwaved and made with water, it sounds like prison fare. But I'll add berries and honey, and savour every spoonful before tracking it in my Fat Fighters food diary. I'm nine and a half pounds down. It doesn't seem like much to me as I survey my still muffinlike midriff, but nine and half pounds is a fine-sized baby or a fair-sized Yorkshire terrier.

Upstairs, the other Rosie's wide awake and waggling her tubby bum. She's a wet-nosed chocolate-brown labrador, and the sound of her fat and giddy skitterings across the neighbour's wooden floor is a cheerful reminder that on sunny days like today, there's a whole world waiting out there. Like her, I can't fucking wait to get out for a walk. On rainy days, Rosie snuffles under the net curtains and presses her nose to the window upstairs, doleful eyes pleading with passers-by.

My love stirs and mumbles in his sleep. "Give him half an hour more, then whip off the covers and put his shoes on" advises Annie, a braver woman than I. But my pitter patter pottering at his laptop piques his curiosity. "Are you writing a post? What's it about?" "Sunday mornings". He snuggles in closer, sandwiching my cold feet between his thighs. "Is it the longest post in the world about Sunday mornings?" It might be. I've been awake, like Rosie upstairs, for some time, luxuriating in his warmth and dreaming of a gambol on the beach. We'll go to Bull Island today. I'll bring my kite, my aeroplane one with the tail that makes a propeller sound. He'll hold my hand and tell me that I look pretty in my red coat, and my cheeks will redden to match it. I'm glad of the cold as I'll have an excuse to wear my woollen hat - it's red too, with a knitted green stalk and two leaves sprouting from the crown. Apple-cheeked and Rosie. It's going to be a good day.

On The No. 4

*ding*

"I like the sound that the new bells make!" I said to the driver.

Two glasses of wine.

"I fuckin' don't" he muttered. And the bus shuddered to a stop.

"Go on then" he sighed. "You can press it again."

*ding*

Wednesday Wears Monday's Mask

My third trip to Aldi today, and Agnetha gives me a pitying smile. Agnetha never smiles at anyone. Once, she buried her nose in a bunch of roses and smiled (to herself) before fucking them into my trolley. Two trips too many today.

I have to ask the pharmacist where the earplugs are kept. "What are they for?" she asks, because she is nosy helpful. "Snoring" I sigh, and she gives me an empathetic smile. I dislike her a little for it, and I can't help myself. "I snore like a pig. I'm keeping him awake at night". She gives me the little yellow ones that look like cigarette filters, 80 cent a pop. Instead, I spend a fiver on three coloured pairs from Paris, France, in a little box that he'll fiddle to open. I'm trying to make them look like a present.

Back on the Rathmines Road, a man in a suit lumbers awkwardly towards me, lurching this way then that, briefcase and knees grazing lampposts and pillars. He catches me watching him. I'm lumbering too, unbalanced by the messages that are hurting my hand though I've only just left the shop. His palsy is catching. I smack the shopping bag into Domino's windowledge and hear the eggs crack. "Well well!" he shouts. "Well well!"

I'm better balanced by the time I reach the canal bank. There's a guy walking towards me, brown face, red jacket, pale girl on his arm. He's laughing, and he gives me a big hello as I pass. I met him the night I first met the Jaffa Cake. I didn't think he liked me then. I wonder if he likes me now? I wondered then if it was because I'm a girl. Maybe now I get a smile because he has a girl of his own.

I step off the path onto the muddied track that leads to Leeson St. bridge, making way for a runner. He's broad-shouldered, long-legged, beautiful. I asked him out once. I knew he was heading away to Australia but he didn't use that as an excuse. He just said no, thanks. So I look to the traffic and he watches where he's going and neither of us nod. There's a sweet tang of his sweat in the air, trailing like cartoon perfume.

My bag of breakfast, lunch, dinner and tea is making my shoulder ache. I walk from bench to bench - my version of bus stop to bus stop. One bench before Kavanagh's I fade, and take a seat. My fingers have swollen with the bag, and the thick ring I can't quite get used to wearing is gnawing at me. I slide it over my knuckle and let the clammy skin breathe. There is a man I pass every day, walking his three terriers. They're old, and take it in turns to get a carry. Every time I see him I'm touched by his affection for them, but I'm scared to say hello. I don't want the responsibility of sympathy, because I'm sure that one day soon there'll be a mutt too few when they pass me.

So I sit, there, dawdling. I miss smoking at times like this, because it would give me a sense of purpose. I don't even have my notebook. My post is written in one word sentences on the back of a Rathmines Pharmacy receipt.

I gave up on this last week. I had things to do. The internet is boring. I took a gentle poke and wrapped it up in vanity, then played a solitary game of pass the parcel until all I could see in my blog was the worst excesses of my attention-seeking. I put up a post about not putting up posts, now I'm posting about why I post at all. I want to make the minutiae of my day matter, to me.

Siúcra Agus Salann

He leaves a trail in his wake. A tie, indecent on the bedroom floor. A toothpick on the bookshelf. Peanut brittle, sucked, stuck like chewing gum to the desk. A scrawled draft of weird, of wonder, on a scrap of paper. Three novels by the bed, all unread, pages marked with cocktail sticks and a clip from my hair. A faint scent on my sheets, a damp toothbrush by the sink, knots in my curls and a bloom in my cheeks.

BookEnds

I called him in the morning. Not quite first thing, as I (after some years of reprimands) realise that not all 27 year olds get up at excited o' clock on Christmas Day to see what Santa has brought. The sleep in his voice ("no, no, I was awake, it's okay") made me greedy for his warm embrace. He gives good cuddle.

He called me that night. Not quite last thing, though he is coming to realise that not all 27 year olds stay up until 3am on Christmas night, especially not those who have eaten their weight in pudding. I think the sleep in my voice ("no, no, I was awake, it's okay") made him think of my curly hair, and my cold feet. For I, I give good snuggle.

The Hills! My Eyes!

I spent Sunday afternoon in Athlone, in the recovery position. Watching The Hills on MTV. For the first ten minutes or so I complained. Loudly. Disgusted by their vacuousness and by the fact that I couldn't tell any of them apart.

Three episodes in, I got it. "Is it a hamster or a guinea pig?" Lauren asked Stephanie. "Because hamsters are, like, this big..." (makes circle with forefinger and thumb). Stephanie smiles confusedly.

"She used to be a hamster, but now she's a guinea pig".

I love her. I watched it from midday right through until 7pm.

And then I watched Run's House.

Sunday's Milk And Honey

Bíonn rianta le chuile ní a dhéanaimse na laethanta seo, fuaimeanna fileata a bheireann bua, beocht agus brí leo. Sí Jetta's Palace a bhí i mo chluasa inniu, agus blasfaidh mé milseacht meala na maidine as seo amach aon uair a chloisimse a caoince.

Safe Keeping

Sometimes I save up all of the nice things that someone has said to me so that I can savour them as I walk to work. Especially on rainy days. This morning the sun tickled the banks of the grand canal, and people smiled. As Boc Maxima flooded my ears, I peeled off my rain mac to give my freckles an airing and cracked open my safe of warm fuzzies anyway. There's no need to keep these ones for a dark, dank day.

On My Lonesome

The Leitrim Lady left me a week ago, she's off frolicking out foreign for the next eleven weeks. I'm not bitter; or at least I wasn't until the Swede fucked off to Kenya for a few weeks on Friday. Now I'm just scared. He left me with a fridge full of liquid sustenance and a plea not to burn the flat down in their absence - I'm trying hard, but to be honest I'm more concerned that I'll adopt a cat and start wiping my arse with my hair in the absence of human company of an evening.

Obviously they've left me unsupervised before, just never for this length of time. I worry that I will start talking to myself. Or become so accustomed to walking around naked that I'll turn feral. So in a desperate plea for some form of human company, I broke the washing machine. Saturday morning then was spent in the company of deliverymen and plumbers, and while none of them quite lived up to my bored housewife fantasies (I really must lay off the porn) they were affable and chatty. Also, one of them is a helicopter pilot in his spare time. None but the finest of hired help for Rosie! Sadly, he charges by the hour, and is very bloody expensive.

Having exhausted his patience for demonstrations of the spin cycle, I put on an overdue wash of dirty knickers and set forth into the sunshine in search of some convivial company. I met the SWF and the Vet for a stroll around the chocolate market in Temple Bar. The place was jammed with wild-eyed women in search of of a cocoa fix who, like me, just read "chocolate" and bolted for the square, neglecting to check times or dates - the chocolate market is in fact on today. We ditched in favour of a spot of accidental handbag shopping (a little brown leather mini-suitcase from Urban Outfitters) and a table in sunny Bloom's Quarter where we drank wine, talked shite and snarfed tapenade.

From there I headed off to dinner with a pretty lady, feeling all cosmopolitan now that I was full of wine and olives. My date had chosen our destination because the waiter is "one hot motherfucker" (and she figured we could both do with a little sexy distraction) but she proved to be more than ample distraction herself. We spent a pleasant few hours gossiping about boys and bloggers, comparing lies and statistics and solving the world's ills. A few drinks and a charming young man later I tottled home, slightly squiffy and chuffed at the idea of having the flat to myself. Why, I could do what I liked! ("Have lots of sex" counseled Annie. Which is great in theory, we agreed, but short of my stopping men on the street it is unlikely to transpire over the next three weeks).

In the end I had a cigarette on the balcony, with a cup of earl grey and two paracetamol to ward off this morning's hangover. I texted my date to tell her how lovely she is, while slathering my lips in the honey balm she'd so thoughtfully brought as a present for me. I somewhat ill-advisedly texted last week's date to see if he has indeed disappeared in a puff of smoke up his own hole. Quite probably - I didn't get an answer. Then, reasonably full of tea, affection, and philosophical thoughts, I went to bed happy. Saturdays on your Todd aren't so bad after all. My Rabbit may not cuddle but it gives good head, and I don't need to make it breakfast on a Sunday morning. What more could a girl want of a weekend?

My Life, Through A Lens

Some time ago, in a vain and vanity-fuelled effort to dicky up my blog I added a label cloud widget in the sidebar. I regret now that I never thought of using my post labels for comic effect - being new to blogs when I jumped arse-first into this one I didn't realise that such playful use of labels was possible. I lack imagination.

It wasn't until I added the cloud that I saw people begin to use them as a way to navigate the blog. They'll google "how to hide peeling skin tan" (clothes?) or "nipples that could cut glass" (which oddly leads you to the same post) and then spend a half hour seeing what else I got up to. New visitors make like former lovers and always go straight for the sex and boys tags. People who know me in all my fleshly glory go looking for themselves, interested to see what light I have painted our relationship in (or if I have chosen to picture it here at all). The truly bored check out the tick borne encephalitis and poetry tags, and the paranoid search under shitheads. My highs and more frequently my lows are conveniently tagged for all to see, my mood swings laid bare in black and a colour HTML calls faf0e6. Because moods come in black and off-white.

More recently I've added a button to the sidebar that will bring you to a random post if clicked. I like this one much better, it's like flicking through an album of photographs only this time they weren't all taken at the one party. I suspect that in polite blogging society, admitting to reading back over your old posts in such an idle, indulgent way is a bit like masturbating in public. Fun, but not very socially acceptable. Originally intended as a diplomatic substitute for a best-of selection (I know which posts I like best, but as their author I am not objective enough to recognise quality from crap) I have found that the only one to make any use of it is me. I read over posts written when nobody but me read the blog and like a photograph, they conjure up the sights and smells of whatever was going on that day. Unlike my photographs, I am present in each of them. They don't allow so much for rose-tinted glasses, and they preserve moments that would otherwise have been lost to me as I wander open-mouthed through life, knocking over tables and spilling drinks.

Bliain Ar An bhFód

Your Narrator, In Her Youth
(I don't have any photos handy of me at the age of one, okay?)

And so a year has passed since my first foray into blogging - a shite post about a shite weekend, which is as boring to read as it was to write. The label on it neatly sums up my original motivation for starting the blog; I was bored. I discovered blogging in February of last year - I googled something, ended up on Twenty's blog, started reading it and when I had read it in its entirety (I mean his blog, not the post) I moved on to the others he had links to. The one that stuck was Annie Rhiannon's - having harboured notions of myself as a literary genius for as long as I remember, I read hers and thought "I could do that?". And so I did.

Nobody read it, not for ages; I found that very disheartening.

Now you do, and that makes my day.

Why I Love Dublin No. #1347

La Peniche

And just a few feet downriver (if one can say downriver when talking about the leafy with love banks of the Grand Canal)

La Peniche II