An Cion Go Dtí Seo

I left a vase of roses to rot on my kitchen table last Tuesday. I should have thrown them out once their petals drooped, but I was drooping with them and I hadn't the heart. Or the stomach. I hate the smell of dank water and my skin crawls at the thought of touching their slimy stems. I sat for a few minutes, looking at them, wondering how I might fold them so that their stalks wouldn't tear the bin liner. I didn't want to touch them. I thought I might smother them with a paper bag.

I didn't realise that I was crying until a tear tickled the side of my nose, making it itch.

I wasn't crying about the flowers. I'm not sure what I was crying about. I left them there and went for a walk. I stole a cigarette from his sock drawer and stuck it behind my ear, then spent ten teary-eyed minutes searching for it before leaving the flat.

I had calmed down by the time I reached the Rathmines Road, but I smoked it anyway. When I got home, I made tea and took it to bed with me. He called and said that he was sorry not to be there, sorry that I was alone and feeling so low. But I was glad. He shouldn't have to hoosh me arse-first out of every ditch.

He was home and elbow-deep in dishes when I got in from work on Wednesday. The flowers were still there, looking like a prop of Miss Havisham's. He hadn't wanted to throw them out without my say-so. I wondered, for the 385th time, what I have done to deserve a man so considerate. I worried, briefly, if I deserve him at all.

On Thursday evening I sat staring through the snot-smeared windows of the 128, taking in the misery of the North Strand road and a city clogged with taxis. I'd finished my book. I'd forgotten my headphones. I was running late for Fat Fighters and edging closer to that dangerous deadline whereby you have to wait til the meeting's finished for your pat-on-the-back weigh-in. The bus driver dumped us on Hanover Quay. It had taken us twenty minutes to cross the bridge. "But I need to get to the far side of Rathmines!" I hissed as he hurried us off his bus. He didn't give a fuck. His day had been long enough.

I had blisters biting at my heels by the time I reached Camden St. I stopped at a stall to pick up some strawberries for tea. She was finishing up for the evening, plastic packing crates and slim black buckets filled with flowers. I thought of the roses, and asked her for four sunflower stems. And for the first time that day, I smiled from the soles of my shoes.

"How did she get them already?" he wondered, seeing the yellow bloom against my red coat as I came down the cast-iron stairs to the front door. Inside, on the kitchen table, he'd laid a bouquet of lus na gréine.

From The Archives #1

I've been rummaging around the knicker drawer of my drafts folder, looking to see how much of it still fits. I'm not sure if this one's grannypants or thong.

I Am Uspet

Because my i-pox has died and I am becoming a chattering shambles without music. Because I have failed one of my college assignments and don't know if I can compensate. Because The Happening was the worst film I have ever seen, and I've seen The Notebook and Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot! Because I don't know if there should be a full stop after that last exclamation mark. And because my brother is upset and I sometimes feel like Elliot to his E.T.
17 Meitheamh 2008

Too Many Tuesday Mornings

Níor chodail mé go rómhaith arú aréir - i mo dhúiseacht roimh bhreacadh an lae agus cantal orm faoin am gur mhúscail mo leannán. Ní raibh oíche rómhaith aige féin agus bhí sé le mbraistint ina bharróg, corp lán teannais agus é ag déanamh ceann croí liom. Ní fheadar cén bhrionglóidí a bhagair orainn bheirt i rith na hoíche.

Cith breá the leis an ruaig a chur ar an gcolg, ach níor éirigh liom an coimhthíos a ní dom' chraiceann. Thug mé bricfeasta dó, an coimhthíos seo; shuíomar chun bord lena chéile agus bhriseamar cornflakes, mé ag súil le teacht ar chomhréiteach eadrainn.

Shuigh mé liom féin ag an tórramh. Ag seasamh is ag suí leis an slua, lámha i mo phócaí. Níor chur mé mo shíocháin in iúl d'éinne. Beannaithe idir strainséirí.

Chaitheas an tráthnóna ag fútamáil go mífhoighneach. Bhí aiféala orm go dtáinig mé ar ais chun na hoibre ar chor ar bith, b'fhearr i bhfad go mbeadh leithscéal déanta agam. Tinneas cinn, b'fhéidir, breoiteacht an bhróin. Ach coinním orm. Snarkleton mímhúinte, míshásta, míchompordach, mídheas. It's all me, me, me, me, me. Stompleton crosta i mbuataisí buachalla bó. Cuirim cúpla uair díom ar an gcaoi seo roimh go ngreadaim na cosa céanna i dtreo an bhaile, sála á sracadh faoin am a bhainimse Lána na Suiríoch amach.

Cinnim ar dul a luí ag a leath i ndiaidh a naoi. Táim tuirseach, agus tuirseach de. Mo dhóthain agam den droch spin seo. Leagtha amach ar an leaba, buidéal fíona agus litir chumainn. Níl na focail aige, a deir sé.

Ach tá.

So they All Rolled Over And One Fell Out

I haven't bothered to switch on the fairy lights this evening, because there's nobody here but me. The Leitrim Lady is in Leitrim and the Swede is in Sweden, but I am here because I'm not really sure where I should be.

Tonight, Love Lane feels lonely.

At home, my family will have the fairy lights on and the fire lit. Home? Home. Nowhere on earth feels more like home than my parents' house. But.

But for my bed.

For my bed; a fold-out couch in the front room. Its rich leather seats fold out into a firm foam mattress, the whole contraption rolls on casters. I have never felt such irrational antipathy for an inanimate object.

I joke about my parents' unhasty refurbishment of their home, about the loss of my room to my sister and the loss of her room to their walk-in wardrobe. To lose one was unfortunate; to lose two, well. Now, come Christmas and all that comes with her, my jibes don't seem so funny. My stubborn streak has struck me dumb and I cannot tell them that that is why I am sat here instead of curled up on their couch.

Hy A Scullyas Lyf Adhagrow

I didn't mean to slam the door behind me, but it was stiff and I was fumbling. I walked the first five minutes with tears tracking mascara down my cheeks, listening for my name, the sound of regret and running feet. Nothing. I paused and lit a cigarette with a shiver and a snivel, then walked on. I thought of walking home, leaving the cold to bite me and becoming a martyr for my cause. But my leaving was for the sake of sensible, responsible, other unpleasant ibles. So I got as far as the seafront and I hailed a taxi.

Love Lane, please. I strapped myself in. Love Lane, he repeated softly. Are you okay? I nodded, catching a glimpse of myself in his mirror. He turned the heating up, turned the country sad songs down, swung the car around and carried me home. And for his silence I was warmly, pathetically grateful.

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.

Yes, That Was Me

My emotional control has been remarked upon. Has been said to be remarkable. I am unsure if this is a good thing. When I am upset, I say so; I articulate the whys and the hows, I explain my hurt in simple words. I don't cry, except that sometimes I do. I try to protect myself - I am marshmallow soft, sticky and vulnerable. I worry sometimes that I try too hard, and that people will think I am cold. And I worry sometimes that I am cold.

But I am not. I walked to work this morning with tears streaming down my rosie cheeks and a catch in my breath. No wracking sobs, just a quiet, composed cry. A curly headed eejit with oversized headphones and a leaking face. People stared. I arrived on Leeson Street, made my excuses and smiled, whey-faced and red-eyed, for the camera. I drank tea, made my excuses and smiled, whey-faced and red-eyed, for the company.

Now I'm home and I'm safe, explaining my hurt in simple words.

Sunday Segues Into Monday

Stranded with 23 cent to my name, work in the morning and a hangover waiting for me under my bed, I sent him a message to see if maybe he might like to come fetch me. Because every ATM in Fun Laoghaire was fucked, because he's kind and I knew he wouldn't mind. When he called to see where he should pick me up from, I was sitting down to a late supper of paracetamol and milk, having realised that taxis can also be employed to drive one to a cash machine.

He turned the car around and dropped over anyway, just to kiss me goodnight. I apologised insincerely for my tipsy state and sighed into his shoulder, wishing he didn't have to leave. "You're about 40% proof alright" he laughed, and kissed me again. "40% proof but 100% honest" I mumbled, gee-eyed but trying to channel doe-eyed and winsome.

"Have you fallen for me?" he asked.

Fuck.

Because I have, just a very tiny little bit, though I have tried hard not to. The call came on Saturday morning; next Monday he leaves for London, indefinitely. And the rug is pulled out from under my feet once more.

At Least Spellcheck It

I got an email yesterday from a former lover. An ex lover? I don't know what's appropriate in this case. There was never a relationship, so it's difficult to articulate. We met through a friend two or three years ago (how time flies when you're not paying her any attention!) and spent a debauched night together, but he moved to Cork the very next day, having lived on my street for a year. A friendship of sorts evolved; we'd talk, and email, sometimes sharing confidences and sometimes just sauce. We met a couple of times but he planned on travelling, had commitments at home and had no interest in pursuing anything more with me. Not that I ever asked, but it was abundantly clear.

Of course I kept up appearances with the mutual friend, allowed her to think that it might become more than it was. I was too embarrassed not to, crawling with mortification at my spineless lack of self-esteem. She thinks the world of me. I didn't want to let her know that I thought so little of myself, and that I'd managed to make nothing more of it than a tawdry, take me for granted so long as you'll take me affair.

He stood me up one night, leaving me standing on the street for an hour because he'd blacked out just after he'd called me. Two days later he called to apologise. Two days. "If I ring from the pub, ask me how many pints I've had. If I say more than eight, hang up." He knew that it was a problem, and planned on giving up smoking and drinking once he turned 30 - revelling in the damage meanwhile. He probably will quit, and I'll probably continue to court my hangovers at weekends and call it a habit. Or a hobby.

And now, after a year abroad, he sends me a mail. One line, fishing. Saying nothing and splattering it carelessly with typos; a bored and halfhearted tap on the shoulder. Time was, I would have been thrilled at his lazy dangling of the bait. Time was? Time might be again, but right now I'm working hard to cultivate a sense of self-worth that sees me hope for more than an occasional booty call.

Tuesday's A Bastard

But it's Wednesday. And tomorrow, thank fuck, will be Thursday.

On Relationships

(and politeness)

Sometimes it's hard not to wallow in hurt and disappointment. It's hard not to take offence at what was probably meant as a consolatory pat on the head. It's hard to move the fuck on.

Sometimes it's hard to maintain a dignified silence.

I Can't Help Thinking It's Karma

D'fhág mé tearmann teolaí an árasáin anocht le siúl síos chomh fada leis an mbáisín. Le toitín a bheith agam. Le faoiseamh a lorg ón mbuairt atá do mo chrá le roinnt laethanta anuas, leis an scamall dubh, duairc a ghealadh ó m'aigne. Ach ní raibh mé i bhfad ag siúl sular tháinig an bháisteach agus ag lorg foscadh dom, chonaic mé go raibh mo las fágtha i mo dhiaidh agam. Tháinig deora i mo shúile ansin agus mé ag triall ar an mbaile arís, mé náirithe leo agus leis an bhféintrua.

Whingeing Explained

Auntie Flo' arrived last night, three months to the day since her last visit (blogs - useful for tracking your menstrual cycle). I'm so proud that I feel like calling my mam over in Kenya to tell her, so that she can be proud of me too.

And then I realise that I'm 27, not 12.

Jack over at Pandemian wrote a great post about what happens to her when she's premenstrual and doesn't know it;

There are many pleasant things about being sterile. [...] But my personal favourite is the sense of inner peace and beatific calm that settles upon you when you are able to finally let go of the constant low-level fear that is worrying about the tardy arrival of your period.

In her case she suffers from lapses in good taste while shopping. I suffer from that all the time. Mine instead seems to be heralded by crippling weltschmertz and a craving for cheese.

I Probably Should Have Just Watched Hollyoaks

I came home this evening and sat down and listened to Nuala O'Faolain's interview* with Marian Finucane, and I cried.

I've been thinking a lot about death over the last while. I haven't turned goth or emu or whatever it is the kids are into these days, I haven't started saying rosaries or lighting candles, but I have spent a lot of time thinking about what it means to lose someone, and what it might be to die. Wondering if it brought relief to Conor, feeling horrified at how his death has affected his family. Hoping that it was a release for my Crash Grandadicoot, wondering how my Nana will cope with the loneliness of losing the man she has loved for more than 55 years. I spent yesterday afternoon with her and for the first time since his death I got the feeling from her that she was feeling very lonely, crushingly low. I miss Grandad, but I have been missing Grandad for a long time now, all through the long months of his illness. Now I worry for my Nana. I think of the spirit and resolve it took her to care for him for so long and I hope that the same spirit and resolve will help her to cope with his loss. But it's hard.

Nuala's interview seems to have stopped people in their tracks. It's easy to express sympathy, to offer kind words and hopes for the best. But it's very hard to sit and just listen. "Are you sure it won't give the people despair?" she asked. No, Nuala a chroí. You've made people think about what it is to be human - to be alive - agus is cúis misnigh agus dóchais sin i gcónaí.

*Broadcast on Saturday morning, it's been all over the Irish media since. Diagnosed 6 weeks ago with terminal cancer, Nuala speaks openly and with painful honesty about how life has been for her since her diagnosis. You can listen to it here or read the transcript here.

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?

Dressing To Impress

I was feeling very blue when I got out of bed this morning. So I put on my sunshine yellow skirt and a yellow hairband to match, black top, black boots, baby pink blazer, giant red scarf and blue gloves. Then off I tottled to work.

I feel a little better.