Waiting

In the early days of my diagnosis with Multiple Sclerosis in 2011, everything about my neurology appointments in Beaumont Hospital caused me anxiety – from getting lost en-route and then kicking myself for driving through the city, instead of the motorway, out of fear of accidentally driving into the Dublin Port Tunnel and orientating myself within the hospital, to the cost of the car-parking.

Now, the MRI and follow up appointments are just another date in the diary.  Until the day arrives.  It’s here.  I’m early.  Without thought, I make my way to Clinic B.  Neurology and the Fracture Clinic share a registration desk.  It seems like an odd match, brains and broken bones.  Still, it’s a people-watchers dream.  The logistics of it all is like an awkward choreography, as patients hobble, or are wheeled about with various strappings and supports, making their way to somewhere else.   Despite the busyness of the place, there is a comforting sense of calm.  The linoleum on the floor is remarkably shiny and the space is bright and airy.

There is a lot to focus on, to distract myself about why I’m here.  I’m experiencing a period of really good health and the appointment almost seems unnecessary.  I don’t have time for this and I don’t have time to be sick.

I am called before my scheduled time.  I abandon the blog post that I had started to tap into my phone.  I am greeted by a neurologist whom I haven’t met previously.  No student doctors shadowing this time.  Like all of the neurology team that I have encountered to date, this woman is warm and friendly, compassionate.  She is thorough in her physical examination of me, testing my strength and reflexes.  It feels like I am as strong as I ever was.  She is concerned that I haven’t had any recent blood tests and I feel silly saying that I forgotten to organise these in advance of our meeting - it is in my best interest after all.  An award for ‘Patient Taking Charge’, I will not win.  The neurologist talks me tells through the results of my recent MRI scan.  No new significant lesions, but some minor ones.  ‘How minor is minor’?, I ask.  She excuses herself and says that she will speak with the senior neurologist.

The minutes seem long now.  My head spins.  ‘Is there something she doesn’t want to tell me? News that she would prefer her senior delivered'?  I think of My Lovely Friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer very recently.  She’s the same age as me, also with a young family and largely managing on her own.   She’s a stunner.  The type of girl who turned the heads of the handsome guys in college.  I recall our phone call when she tells me her news and the plans for the next few months.  Chemotherapy, surgery and radiation.  She tells me that she has bought a wig.  I can’t remember what I said to her, but I know that I cursed a lot.  I think about her children and I think of mine.  The uncomfortable 'what if'? questions they ask that I'd prefer not answer.  I worry about how we will cope if I could no longer work to financially support them.  I have thoughts of people I know with advanced MS and what an unforgiving disease this can be.  I wonder if I could still feel feminine if I looked, moved, or sounded differently.  I think about My Lovely Friend’s upcoming surgery and how invasive it will be on her womanliness.  A strong willed lady, she has a plan, will roll her sleeves up and get through this.  I wish I lived closer, so I could offer her more practical support.

The neurologist returns and the news is good.  Really good.  The minor lesions on my scan are old, in the sense that they were visible on last year’s scan.  There are no new lesions.  Those that are there have shrunk.  The drugs are doing what they are intended to do, although it's not the case for other people.  It's as good as it can be.   I can feel the relief in my body as she completes the paperwork and refers me to haematology for blood tests.  My needle aversion hasn’t lessened and I need to lie down.  The blood flows easily.  The sun shines.  Today is a good day.

Holding Hands in the Country Side: Mother's Day

I wake on Mother’s Day, in true Irish Mammy style – wrecked with guilt.  I am missing out on a family mass and gathering of my mother's clan.  I know that she would have liked me there, but the 9.30am service in Co Louth would require a 7am start, on the morning after the clocks had moved forward.  Besides, it is Mr Private’s birthday.  It would have been unfair to ask him to make the trek - This particular baptism of fire is a step too far for any Birthday Boy.  

It was also my first Mother’s Day without my children, as it wasn’t ‘my weekend’.   I was fine about it until the actual day and woke feeling a terrible a pang, missing the little critters terribly.  

In the build up to Mr Private’s birthday, I get myself in a heap about a gift for him.  He’s been very generous to me, so I want to get him something special.  Option A is to buy something expensive.  Option B, something thoughtful.  I decide on Option B, something I make, inspired by an earlier conversation we had.  I know that he will appreciate the effort.  Besides, Option A brings me out in a sweat – Let’s face it, men are hard to buy for at the best of times.  When you don’t know someone that well, it’s trickier.  I'm still in the process of finding out important stuff, like what kind of chocolate he likes (no nuts, but yes to rock salt).  I consider going through his wardrobe to get ideas for a gift of clothes, but I’m afraid of being caught in the act by him and appearing like a Bunny Boiler.  Yes, the handmade is easier in a sense, albeit 10 hours of work late at night.  Before I present it, the familiar feeling of self-doubt creeps in – there was no gift receipt with this one.

My son was with me when I buy a birthday card for Mr Private days previously.  I don’t think he notices me browsing, as I am also buying a Mother’s Day card for my Mam, but he does.  My children know about Mr Private, but haven’t met him.  My boy directs me to the cards intended for male ‘friends’ – you know the ones - insipid watercolour paintings of golfers, or a sail boat.  He says, ‘these would be good Mam, because he is JUST your friend’.   I agree.  I purchase the blandest blue checkered ‘On Your Birthday’ card in the shop and the child looks satisfied.

For Mr Private’s birthday, he wants to go to see Kerry V Cavan in Breffni Park, in Cavan Town.  He had flagged this before we discovered that the clash of dates.  I joke that there is nowhere else that a Meath woman want to be on Mother’s Day?  The only thing comfortable about this encounter is the green and gold strip of the Kerry team, mirroring the colours of the Royal County.  For the first time ever, I shout for Cavan, as the underdog and Mr Private, for his home county of Kerry.  Throughout the match, memories of GAA matches with my father run through my mind.  Hill 16, amid a sea of Dubs.  Brian Stafford, cool as anything stepping back to take a free.  David Beggy, running like lightening.  Big lumps of men like Joe Cassells and Liam Hayes.  Tanks of lads like Mick Lyons.  ‘The physical Meath team’, as Pat Spillane called them.  What would Da have thought of me standing here today?  'Be the hokey'.  I watch children now, in their county colours, too wee to be able to see the match properly, only interested in going to the tuck shop, and yet becoming alert every time the crowd cheers. 

Like the family wedding I attended with Mr Private, it probably seems ‘too soon’ to introduce him to my mother.  But I had a longing to see her on Mother’s Day, so we make a detour to home farm on our return journey.  He slags me about really being from Cavan, given the proximity to the border, but as everyone knows, borders are more important, the closer you get to them.  I tell him if I was a Cavan woman, that I wouldn't have splashed out on a e3 bet with him, on which team would win.

Mr Private changes his mind about not wanting birthday cake when he sees my mother’s rather impressive home baking, complete with an impromptu candle.  On our route back to Kildare, I point out house after house where my relations live, where I went to school and I tell stories about people who influenced my life, special teachers who helped shape the person that I have become. 

I pick my children up at 8pm.  They have Mother’s Day cards for me that they made at their child minders on Thursday and manage to keep a secret until then.  I’m impressed as much by the secret-keeping as I am with the hand crafted cards.  When I had dropped off my children’s weekend bags at their school the previous Friday afternoon, I had spotted another card in my daughter’s hand, but she hid it from me.  I remind her now, asking if she made me a card at school.  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, the penny drops.  The card isn’t for me at all, it’s for her father’s girlfriend.  I want to kick myself.  She over explains that she had already made one for me and I reassure her, telling her that she is a sweet girl and what a kind thought that was.  More pangs of guilt for things being as they are for my precious babies.

Their body clocks are confused with the change of time, but I let them stay up late for extra special Mother’s Day cuddles on the couch.  My Mam texts me later and gives Mr Private the seal of approval.  Feck, I may hold onto him so, for another while anyway. Oh, and he loved his birthday present, genuinely.  Good result all around (apart from the GAA match, which ended in a draw).

Holding Hands in the Countryside: The Wedding

Quite a number of individuals who could collectively be called CCWLLL (Citizens Concerned With Lucina’s Love Life) have made contact with me, asking how ‘the wedding went’. For those of you who didn’t read my blog-before-the-previous-one, I wrote about a family wedding reception that I attended with Mr Private, my first time to meet any of his family.  The jist of the blog was that I hoped my very un-me flowery dress would act as camouflage and that I would disappear into floral wallpaper that one would expect to find in a hotel.

My trip to the wedding involved 4, yes, 4, train changes.  There were no problems with missed connections and the traipsing between trains wasn’t as bad as it sounded.  I sat beside a lovely woman on the train destined for Cork.  She was stuck on a crossword clue in the Farmer’s Journal magazine.  She was surprised that I was familiar with the Journal.  I told her that my mother still bought it even after my father died.  Before long, we had exchanged stories about all things country, including road frontage, in-laws, marriage break-ups, grandchildren and wills.  I confined in her about how nervous I was about the wedding and she does her best to reassure me, like a surrogate Irish Mammy, before I left her to board my fourth train for the day. 

It was amusing to consider my journey, from the 7am commuter train to Dublin, packed with The Suits, doing an hour’s work before they hit the city, to the increasingly gradual slow-down of pace, over a number of hours, the  closer I came to Kerry.   It seemed like everyone was in holiday spirit, but it was mid-term after all.  I felt a pang of guilt that I wasn’t with my own children on their mid-term.  I put my ‘selfish bitch’ thoughts on the shelf for future perusal. 

My pre-booked taxi driver knew my work counterpart in Kerry and I was happy to speak to him about Kildare’s 1916 programme – a grasp at something familiar.  The unfamiliar view of misty mountains from the hotel was calming and beautiful all the same.  The guna felt deas when I put it on and the make-do hair and make-up was decent enough.   Meanwhile, Mr Private sent some photos that confirmed that the bride had indeed said ‘I do’ and was on his way.  

The saxophone player’s tunes wafted across the hotel reception and loud enough to drown any inner scream of ‘what the hell am I doing here’, while I sipped a cup of coffee that I couldn’t taste. Mr Private arrives and I’m aware that I’ve never seen him in a suit before.  He is looking dapper and as radiant as the beautiful bride.  He’s smiling at me and the trip seems worthwhile now.

Time is short and the bell rings to call us for the meal.  I feel a cold sweat develop as I realise that I have yet to meet the bride and groom and that I have no idea who I will sit with for dinner, while Mr Private sits at the top table.  He has it all sorted and it’s all good.  After the meal, I meet various relations and Mr Private introduces me as his ‘girlfriend’.  They smile and nod, but otherwise don’t bat an eyelid.  I expect an interrogation, but it doesn’t come.  Maybe it’s a down-South thing, or perhaps they just aren’t as nosey as my family (myself included), who would put any new suitor through a Quick Fire Round of questions on first sight.  The younger relations though, belie this, with the teenagers blushing, without making eye contact, mortified that Mr Private is holding my hand while the younger ones look at me, their eyes on sticks, the unknown creature in the flowery dress with the thick Meath accent.  I’m introduced to Mr Private’s male friends, with warm, soft handshakes.  It’s my turn to blush now, wondering what, if anything, he has told them about me.

Mr Private brings me out to dance and he’s beaming.  Is he as mindful as I am that we have never danced together before?  Thankfully, he doesn’t copy my dance moves, as that is a sack able offence. He sits down to chat to his friends, while one of the cousins pulls me back out on the dance floor, to the circle of girls.

I feel like I belong.

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Our First Tiff

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Myself and Mr Private had our first tiff, although it was far from a door-slamming/raised voices/finger pointing affair.

I, and eleven others were invited to speak at 'Strictly Speaking', a fund-raising event by Athy Toastmasters, where we were each given two random topics to speak about for 2-3 minutes.  The contestants were to be scored in 'Strictly Come Dancing' style, by a panel of four judges.  As the event got closer, I got more and more nervous.  I really wanted a bit of support, especially after one of the event organisers, Maggie, sends an email encouraging us to bring friends and family.  None of my family live locally and most of my friends in Athy have young children, with all of the logistics of childcare, so I didn't ask any of them to come along. Of course, I would know lots of people there, but it's not the same as having someone special, clapping that bit louder for you.

I thought that Mr Private was elsewhere that weekend, but when I found out that he would be 'around' after all, I sent him a text message the night before and asked him to come along.  He sent back a vague text not committing to anything.

The following morning, the 'Day Of', I text him again.  His reply was a firm 'no', with an excuse, equivalent to 'I'm washing my hair'.  My text in return said 'fine', but of course I wasn't fine.  If I was standing in front of him, he would have gathered that I was raging and disappointed, in equal measures.  Maybe if I had put a string of emojis with angry and sad faces in the message, he would have better understood. That's the thing about text messages though, it can be difficult to read 'tone'.

I recalled how out of place I felt at Mr Private's family wedding a few weeks previously, hoping my flowery dress would camouflage me into the background. 'You fecker', I thought to myself, 'I did that for you'.  Aside from that, I thought that he would been curious to see a whole other side of me, the Public Lucina.  I was out of sorts all afternoon, upset, with the nerves building in my belly, but busying myself with children and Saturday chores.

Mr Private sent me another message, asking how I was.  I text back saying that I was still 'fine', but that 'I am tired of going to events on my own'.  He asked me to call him, but I said I was busy, and I was. Truth is, though, there would have been tears, and I felt a bit silly about that.

In the meantime, a fellow contestant in the Strictly Speaking, the lovely Trish, called me to see if I wanted a lift to the event, she being as nervous as I, bless her wee socks.

As I got ready for the evening, I called Mr Private.  He told me that he was just out of the shower, getting ready to come with me.  Words tumbled out of his mouth, saying how sorry he was, that he didn't realise that the night was such a big deal to me.  I explained that I was now going with someone and I didn't want to let her down.  Mr Private stayed home and watched rubbish TV. The nerves eased after I did my first speech and we had a great night.  Throughout the night, Mr Private sent me lovely messages encouraging me along.

The following week, we meet for lunch and Mr Private listens to what I have to say, I mean, actually listens. He gets it.  I like him all the more now.   We are officially doing 'fine'.

Holding Hands in the Countryside : A Wisteria Wedding

It may seen a little 'soon', but Mr Private likes me enough to invite me to a family wedding, an important one that requires him to be on duty all day and sit at the top table, while I'll arrive, mid proceedings and wing it amid a sea of guests who already know each other. I haven't met any of his family yet, but sure, there's nothing like getting stuck in, right?

It seems like a great idea a week ago, but as the day drew close, a sick feeling that started in my belly has crept up my throat, the fear of being exposed, a la, The Emperor's New Clothes.

I'm on my way there now, via a complicated train route, that involves no less than 3 changeovers. That in inself is enough to stress me out.

Then there was the matter of the guna. As is typical of other shopping expeditions for clothes, I gave myself an hour to find something, in my old reliable, Buy Design ,still a relatively hidden gem in Crookstown, Co Kildare. Almost everything I admired on the hangers, I didn't like on myself. As Larry Gogan might say on the 2FM Just A Minute Quiz, 'they didn't suit ya'.

Then I broke the rules for the gal who 'doesn't do floral' and tried on a dress weighed down with a wisteria pattern. I smiled. 'Wisteria Drive' was the address for the "Desperate House wives' TV show. Scientific evidence that this was the frock for me.

I brought my mother shopping yesterday and made the fatal error of looking in the wedding worthy ensemble rails. The floral option seemed less and less of a good idea. But given that all of the acqutraments were already in place, I thought best to stick with Plan A.

I'm hoping that the hotel is one of those decorated with layers if textured pattern, so my guna will camouflage me into the background. Right now, 'wallflower' is sounding like an attractive option, provided at Mr Private can find me.

Wish me luck peeps

MineVention

Being a bigger child than my children, I couldn’t wait to tell them that I had tickets for MineVention in the RDS last weekend. Although they didn’t really know what they were going to, there was salty tears of joys, especially when they found out that they would also get to hang out with their niece Sienna.

According to their Facebook page, the event was 'An afternoon of Minecrafters and Gaming Fans to come together and show off their game skills while meeting and greeting their favourite Youtubers.'
A disclaimer stated that 'This is not an official Minecraft Event and is not approved or associated with Mojang.' Neither myself nor my children cared about its’ lack of official ness. This was where it was at.

To explain to you non-gaming people out there, at this event, you get the opportunity to meet people who are well-known (not sure I would go as far as say that they are actually famous) for making videos of themselves playing games online. I know, it sounds as bizarre as a Fine Gael WhatsApp group.

Thanks to lovely step-daughter, Zara Kelly who more festival-fit when it comes to events like this than I, we had VIP tickets. This allowed us an earlier entry time, before The Great Unwashed arrived. The children boasted to themselves about being VIP's although they had no clue what this meant. In adult terms, the golden ticket provided that glorious ideal of 'less queueing'.

The thing-to-do at these events is to meet the Youtubers, who sign their names beside their avatar photos, mounted on a canvas we purchased and to get photos taken. In reality, my children didn't know who all of the Youtubers were, but they were star struck anyway. It was lovely to watch these usually shy little people walk up to strangers and ask for autographs and to receive such a warm reception.

It was one of those coming-of-age days when I had a pain in my heart watching them, getting braver as the day went on. They collected 17 signatures in the end, including some from 'FutureTubers', up and coming whipper snappers. I resisted making a total show of my children and being a total-auld-wan by asking the Youtubers 'do you make any money out of this'. I'm just so fascinated by this other world and by people who get off their bums (or in this case, sit on their bums) and make something out of nothing. Fair bloody play to them.

I brought my boy to the toilets, where it seemed that he needed to spill more than he needed to take a leak. In fact, he had himself in a heap. ‘Mam, how come I have only 8 subscribers on Youtube when Solly the Kid has LOADS? He’s sooo young (said the child who was born in 2007).

I had watched Solly on stage earlier that day - he is a beautiful kid, around 8 years old, who MC'd a stage and totally rocked the mic. 'A future in TV', I thought.

It was then, in the cubicle, that myself and my boy had a moment – I confided in him that I knew how he felt. I told him how I thought my blog would never reach the lovely rounded figure of 20,000 views. I lamented to the 9 year old that I can't capture statistics from Facebook to capture my readership. My boy, who can often be hard on me, looked into my eyes, with, what I can only describe as empathy.

Later that night I showed him the stats of my readership in Google Analytics. 'That many people in Russia read your blog Mam?' 'Yes', I said, and didn't bother to mention that they may be clicking onto my page by accident.

Online gaming will never be my thing, but the MineVention event was a total eyeopener for me. I noticed that a lot of children there were those that might be described elsewhere as geeks or nerds. There were a large proportion of young ones with sensory issues and disabilities. They all fitted in here, all connected.

I can see that I have passed on the I Just Want People To Like Me Gene to my son. It's a burden that he will carry throughout his life. If you would like to boost both my ever diminishing street cred and a little boy's ego, you can check out and subscribe to Leon's YouTube channel (and all 3 videos- get the finger out there son) 

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=acgH7wGdQMI

Thanks a thousand

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Valentine's Day

All these years later, I still have, in almost perfect condition, my first Valentine's Day card, received it in my first year in secondary school at the ripe old age of twelve, from First Kiss. I met him the previous summer on the 'swimming bus'.  There was a teenaged middle-man involved - my neighbour and First Kiss's cousin, dodging between the rows of seats, excitedly passing on information like a spy.

'He likes ya. Do you like him?'

There I am, slightly stunned and feeling totally out of my depth, but also very giddy with excitement, that a boy, any boy, this boy, would look at me that way.  I was speechless and responded with a series of shy nods of scarlet cheeks.

The middle-man negotiated that I sat beside First Kiss.  At some stage, he earned his pseudonym and kissed me. It was as harmless as a peck that you might administer on a newborn baby cousin, but it was electric all the same.

Meanwhile, one of the chaperones on the bus complained about the song wafting out of the bus radio, 'You're My Favourite Waste of Time', by mullet haired Owen Paul. He wore tight jeans, boot runners and a white off cut t-shirt.  I thought he was 100% gorgeous.  The chaperone ranted and raved about what she would do if her husband called her a 'waste of time', an angle I hadn't considered til then.  Maybe you'd call it my first introduction to feminism.

The promising start with First Kiss didn't go very far.  He lived two towns away from me and attended boarding school. It was 'in the olden days', pre mobile phone.  His out-of-the-blue Valentine's Day card months later made my cheeks burned when my mother handed it to me.  It was lovely, after all these years, that First Kiss sent me a birthday wishes this year. He seems to have made a full recovery from our short lived encounter.  It's probably fair to say that verrucas from the swimming pool would have lasted longer than our romance.

Until fairly recently, I wasn't holding out much hope of a Valentine's Day card this year.  I was preparing to mothball my Love Boots when Mr Private came along.  Given the chaotic time that I have had of late, there is a certain irony in the fact that I am seeing a therapist - I kid you not.  I tell him that I'll looking for a companion, not a counsellor.  He smiles at me and reassures me in his gentle lilting tones that I couldn't afford him anyway.  

There's the delicate matter of Valentine's Day.  It's all VERY SOON for laying all our aspirational cards on the table, with the actual cards that we chose. Mindful of my lectures from friends telling me to slow down and not wanting to sound too keen/desperate, I opt for humour, a card with a photograph of a husband and wife taken in 1930's Ireland, looking less than happy, entitled 'Happy Couple'.  Having embraced feminism (while to this day defending Owen Paul's 1986 tune), I also present him with a bunch of flowers.

There is no such faffing around with Mr Private's card to me though.  It declares, in red glitter, 'For my girlfriend'.  All that's missing is sound effects.

'Is that what I am then', I ask, 'your GIRLFRIEND ?'.  

He's saying nothing, but he's smiling again.  I think he wants to keep me.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGDuOw64R9M

Man of the Year 2016

It seems like it’s a bit late in the day/New Year to make an announcement about 2016.  Please forgive me dear reader.  I have had the plague and therefore, have been incapable of most important things in life, including writing.  However, my confinement did give me time to reflect, and in turn, to produce a robust shortlist and declare an overall winner of my Man of the Year 2016. 

My Dad

It’s 15 months now since you left us suddenly Da.  It was a great relief to get over that first horrible year of ‘firsts’ and the second Christmas without you was easier.  I even managed to extract Mam from the family farm in Meath for Christmas for the first time in over 40 years and come to Kildare.  What do you think of that? 

You will probably think it’s a pile of shite, but the reason for the nomination, is for the inner strength that I have developed this year and I’m 100% convinced that you sent it to me, regardless of what you say.  There have been strange happenings and lovely things that are beyond explanation that I can only attribute to you.  So suck it up Da and accept it. 

My Son

Darling Boy, I’m sorry.  Separation isn’t easy on children of any age and within that, some children hurt more deeply.  I wish I could take back every tear that you have shed – I’d take them in lashes if I could.  For every time you rested your head on my chest, the hugs and kind words.  For taking my hand (even in public).  Thank you for coming back to me.

The Date

For restoring my faith.   Sorry about the broken leg, not that I am taking responsibility for that.  Between the two of us, a lot of healing took place.  And fun.  Lots of fun. Just bad timing babe. 

Feckin’ Fecker

There are many that will raise an eyebrow about you making the MOTY16 list, because let’s face it, Feckin’ Fecker, you weren’t that nice to me.  But I have taken on board everything that you said to me, about me.  You had me pretty well sussed, which I didn’t give you credit for at the time.  Still, a Christmas or New Year text message wouldn’t have killed you, would it?  

Man in Uniform

For the pep talk.  For encouraging me to stand up for myself, when the words wouldn’t come.  For the reassuring nod when words weren’t an option.  For giving me my life back.

The Foot Soldiers

Too many soldiers to refer to individually.  For all of the random acts of kindness.  The friendships. You know who you are.

Ernest Shackleton

Ernest, you were sort of foisted on me within my work portfolio about 18 months ago and from the start, you were trouble.   Every element of the sculpture commission– the eTenders procurement process, the opposition to the sculpture from a small, but vocal group (they called you a British mountaineer, amongst other things, you know), the tight time frame, the location for the sculpture - was tedious and stressful.   You brought tears and sleepless nights and nightmares.  Had it not been for the good humour and amazing skill of sculptor Mark Richards, I may have gone insane in the run up to the installation.  To keep an element of surprise for the formal unveiling, I was hoping that you would be, quite literally, under wraps, during installation.  That wasn't to be.  En route to oversee the installation, my phone beeped with photos and videos of the sculpture arriving in Emily Square in Athy.  The reaction was an overall ‘wow’.  When your granddaughter was given a preview of the sculpture, she walked away.  I panicked that she didn’t like the representation, when in fact, she was overcome with emotion.  Your official unveiling on 30^th August last, received worldwide media attention worldwide.  I often visit you at weekends and without declaring my association, I enjoy the reaction to you from visitors.   You really are a fine fella.  

Your unveiling, in the presence of the Irish Naval Service was not only one of last year’s highlights, but also of my modest career.   Like your Antarctic expeditions, to me, it was 'epic'.  So for that Ernest, congratulations, you are my Man of the Year 2016.

Holding Hands in the Countryside Part IV : Jesus Loves Me

With all my talk about dating, you'd think that I would have been inundated with Christmas presents from admirers, wouldn't you?  Well, dear reader, I regret to advise that I didn't get as much as a battered Christmas card, cheap perfume from LidlDaLDI, or even a bloody Toblerone.

But I don't want you to feel sorry for me.  I'm in great form, it's Christmas and good stuff is going down.  In the week when Bob Geldof 'liked' a blog post I wrote (sorry, I just had to throw that in there), an email alert from a dating website tells me that I am Jesus's 'favourite'.  Given that it is his birthday week, I wouldn't have thought he'd have time for a web trawl and to find me, a non-believer, among his many, many admirers.  I click on the link.  As expected, Jesus is a fine looking lad, but just, different than what I expected - paler, more clean shaven, a sharper dresser.  He's got a look about him that says 'eternal youth'.  But Jesus lives a continent away and I don't expect him to part seas, or to walk on water to see me.  So sorry Jesus, you may be loved by millions, but I ain't the gal for you.

I collect a parcel from a distribution centre.  Logistics Guy recognises my address and describes where I live with Sat-Nav precision and also, describes who lives in my house, or rather once live'd' in my house. Without really meaning to, I blurt out the current make up of my household and quick as a flash, he offers to take me out on a date.  Just like that.  My package contains a blood-red lipstick, a gift sent from a friend.  I wonder if Logistics Guy has scanned the package, seen the contents and summed me as a femme fatale.  Or perhaps, there's an offer on packages, a buy-one, get-a-date-free type scenario.  Either way, I decline his offer and leg it with my lippy.

By chance, I see Feckin' Fecker parked in the car park of a filling station and my heart skips a beat.  I don't know if he has seen me as I walk out of the shop.  I'm suddenly self conscious about how I look and what I'm wearing.  I hesitate as I leave.  I sit into my car, hoping that he will knock on the window of my car, just to say hello.  But there's no knock and I drive off, feeling slightly bruised. There's no Christmas text message either.  For closure, it would have been nice to get a 'Happy Christmas', but I think I know him well enough to know that he hasn't contacted me because he doesn't want to get my hopes up of us ever being an item. But FF, I get it, swear.

Although we speak regularly, I have no idea what Vital Statistics thinks of me.  He has the loveliest of smiles. I like the way he runs his hands through his hair when he is animated, although I'd much prefer him to run them through mine.  I demonstrate great restraint and do not share this sentiment (and you won't tell him, will you?).  Vital Statistics is an expert on risk assessment and seems to have applied the same methodology to himself and myself.  He can't predict our long term forecast due to the unknown outcome of predicted life happenings for him.  I understand his hesitancy, but reassure him that although I MAY be high maintenance, that I am low risk and being financially independent, a low cost option. 

I wonder if he's too polite to say that he's not that interested in me, so I ask him out straight.  He is puzzled by the question.  He replies, 'sure I'm here', which is true, he is indeed, here, sitting right across from me and there isn't a gun to his head.  But still I want more.  I consider presenting him with a questionnaire that produces facts and figures that could prompt him.   

For example, 
(A) 
On a scale of 1-10, where 1=Total Minger and 10= Hot Momma, how would you rate the woman sitting across the table?  

(B) 
Please create a pie-chart indicting percentages of how you consider your date, using the headings below
1. Bessie Mate
2. Would like to bring her breakfast in bed
3. Want to grow old with her
4. Thinking of blocking her number on my phone
5. Undecided

I think it's best that I embrace the advice of my two older male friends, who recently insisted on giving stone-cold-sober me a drunken pep talk on my loveless life and 'slow the fuck down'.  So I won't ask Vital Statistics any more probing questions.  I'll just remind him now and then that I'm a woman in demand, I mean, how many girls can say that Jesus winked at them?

Christmas Tunes and The Power of Love

 It’s 1984 and the Christmas no. 1 song is Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’, the song written by Bob Geldof and Midge Ure to raise awareness and funding for the people living, or dying, in the Ethiopian famine.  The great and the good in the British and Irish music scene belt out the tune and white Europeans slap themselves on the back for making a difference.

It’s years later, St Stephen’s Night and I’m in a night club, known locally as 'The Shed', one of 7,000 people.  It’s near the end of the night and the place is full of sweaty men.  Everyone seems pissed.  Arm in arm, they sway, roaring ‘Feed The Woooooo –R-R-L-DDD .....’ and it’s a world away from the starving black children with bloated bellies, vacant eyes, with flies on their beautiful faces that stared out from the TV.  The sweaty men buy chips on the way home and puke them up on the bus, the tune long forgotten. 

It’s 1984 again, New Year’s Day.  I’m in my second cousin Ailbhe’s house, the house where I first experienced a birthday cake made out of raspberry ripple ice-cream blocks, decorated with Smartie’s.  I’m there to play with Ailbhe, accompanying my Granny Russell, invited, in acknowledgment of our strong family ties.  There are other guests there too, in the other room.  I think they are all at least 100 years old.  Ailbhe’s older brothers discuss Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s song ‘The Power of Love’, when the video comes on TV.  I’m pretty sure that it’s MTUSA.  The brothers speak with confidence and enthusiasm about this song that isn’t really a Christmas song, but yet it is.  They are unaware that I am listening.  I don’t understand what they are saying, but it awakens a new curiosity in me.  I examine the singer Holly Johnson later, in the same way that I have already considered Boy George.

I’m driving and East 17's ‘Stay Now’ comes on the radio.  I’m transported back to Christmas Eve 1994 where i am standing in the clothes shop in Kingscourt where I have worked at weekends and holidays throughout college.  Now on my twelfth pairs of trousers to be altered that day, men come into the shop on their way to the pub, on their way home from the pub, or on their way to midnight mass, requesting bespoke alterations.  None of them seeing the lateness of the day, and the day that it was, as a reason why their trousers shouldn’t be stitched, while other customers needed serving.  As we sew, myself and the owner chat.  She tells me about her niece in England who is dating one of the guys from East 17.  I’ve seen them on TV, London hipsters.  Street.  Wide-boys from Lun-Dan, real life East Enders.  Parka jackets and baseball caps.  Oozing confidence.  Dressed in white. So frigging cool. I’ve seen photos of my bosses niece.  She looks so beautiful and sophisticated, not much older that me.  I can see why yer man fancies her.  I feel every inch of the chubby country girl that I am.  In hindsight now, I surprise myself that even after two years in art college, how my self-esteem then was so low.  I’m a dab hand at the hem-stitch all the same, I’ll give myself that.

The Cheesy-Song-Christmas-Amnesty allows me to hum along to the likes of Cliff Richard’s ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ and Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, while ‘A Space Man Came Travelling’ allows me to admit that Chris De Burgh isn’t all bad.

David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s version of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ was recorded in 1977, when I was 3 years old.  I’m not sure when this song first comes to my attention, but it must be years later.  I do not know who either of these men is as I have never once heard their names mentioned at home or seen their faces.  It is the song that catches my attention first - one of my favourites at school- but it is the Bowie/Crosbie duet that has me captivated and I decide that they must be famous.  Last night, my children hear this rendition on TV, and turn to watch the tune so familiar to them. They too recognise the other worldliness of this and we share a moment.

The pair ‘shush’ me when Picture This’s new tune ‘This Christmas’ comes on the radio now.  They are the band’s no 1&2 fans since I brought them to a free concert by the band in their home town of Athy the summer just gone.  It is their first proper outdoor gig.  In time, I hope they will look back and remember the fear in their throats and the exhilaration in their bellies from that day and all the stuff that music has the power to unleash.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyoTvgPn0rU

Holding Hands in the Countryside Part III

Before we actually meet, messages from The European draw me in.  He is eloquent and poetic and seems to have a good sense of me.   We meet in an expensive restaurant, of his choosing, for an early evening dinner date.  He has impeccable manners and helps me to take off my coat.  As he does so, I can feel his eyes linger on my back through the loose drape of my top.

He is handsome, tall, well- dressed and well-heeled, smart and funny.  His job is high tech and demanding and he explains it in a way that I can understand.  I’m fascinated with his upbringing and his family, his experiences in a country that rebuilt itself after war.   He tells me about his family vineyard and olive grove, that he hopes to retire to.  He attributes his beautiful skin to moisturising with olive oil.  In the bar later on, a guy with a guitar plays Crowded House songs and myself and The European try to out-do each other with memories that the tunes conjure up.  He is interested in me and what I do.  I point out all of the things about myself that make me a Love Liability, but The European just shrugs and announces that it’s ‘not a problem’. 

It’s after midnight when I leave.  I’ve had the loveliest of times.  But as he lingers in the car park, I resign myself to the fact that, despite my best efforts, there is no spark there for me and I know that we won’t meet again.  I’m disappointed.  I think of the Mrs Merton interview with Debbie Mc Gee. She asks 'what first, Debbie, attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?'. I wonder what it would take to channel my inner Debbie.

The following afternoon, one of those Saturdays where there is soccer and rugby on TV, I meet friends in a pub in a neighbouring town.  It’s packed with lads, in for the double header.  I barely get to sit down when Sport Star makes a bee line for me.  He’s drunk.  He takes my left hand, raises it and loudly asks ‘How can someone like you have no ring on your finger?’.  People have turned to look at me now and I feel my face redden.  Sports Star lingers and I try to change the subject, as he notices a stain on my shirt and rubs it gently, causing me to feel even more self-conscious.   I can see that he is a gentle soul, his features creased by years of alcohol abuse, but his good looks still there.  When he eventually leaves, my friends lament Sports Star’s wasted talent and I can’t but think about him later.

I’m at an event, when The Snapper approaches me.  I reach to greet him, with a peck on the cheek, but he plonks a kiss on my lips.  He tells me that he loves me.  We have had this conversation before and I give him all of the reasons again why we couldn’t be together.  He disses my lukewarm rationale.  Truth is, I don’t know why.   

All I know is that the human heart is as complex as be damned.

Debbie McGee on Mrs Merton

Caroline Aherne asks the classic question... From the new DVD.

YOUTUBE.COM

Dear Scumbag

Dear Scumbag, I’m sorry to resort to name calling.  It seems so juvenile.  Given that we have been so intimate in such a short space of time, you would think that I would at least know your name. 

You have a good idea of what I wear, my taste in jewellery, the make up of my family, what I keep in my fridge.  You will have seen that we had a double birthday celebration here recently, and a while ago, a bereavement.   Did you take the time to read the cards before you scattered them across my bedroom?  Did you look at my photgraphs?  Did you feel as much as a pang of guilt?  A rush of adrenaline maybe.  Or perhaps, indifference.  Do you know – you are the only person, apart from me, who knows where my children’s baby teeth are stored?  Does that make you feel special, Scumbag?  

You were only one of a handful of people that knew I wasn’t home that night – a very rare midweek get together, with my ‘MS & Me’ blogger friends, a glorious night away in a hotel.   How ironic that I cleaned the house that day before I left, thinking how nice it was to come home to a clean gaff. I came home the following day, on a high, with an award that the blogger team collectively received from the MS Society for ‘Volunteer of the Year’.  I knew straight away that you had visited.  I could see that a window box had been moved and was on a garden bench.  You will laugh when I tell you this Scumbag – my first thought was that someone had left me a gift and had put the window box on it to stop it blowing away.   I know, ha flippin’ ha.  The silent scream that I had walking around the house, wondering if you were still there.  Trying to establish what was taken amid the ransacked mess.  The children’s school bus arriving minutes later and the pair of them walking in on top of it.  No time to gather myself or hide what had happened.

A sleepless night in a friend’s house comforting a child, who wakes every time I move in the bed. ‘Lie facing me Mammy, rub my tummy’.  I wouldn’t have slept anyway, worrying that you and your friends might come back.  Nights of restlessness follow and I am prone to outbursts of tears at inappropriate times.  All the necessary tasks to follow up - forensics, insurance, glaziers - exhaust me. I launch an art exhibition three days later and panic at the thought of speaking in public, something I have done almost weekly for years. 

Have you any idea how distraught a little boy can be when he finds his farm set wrecked?  The boy who goes ballistic if I accidentally disturb one of his carefully arranged animals when I go into his room to open the curtains?  Did you admire his meticulousness before you ripped the fireplace apart in his room?  You should have heard him howl when he first seen what you did and again, on the evening he tidied it all up.  He cried and shouted obscenities at you that only a 9 year old could conjure up.  I told him that the nice Garda he met said that we were to forget about it.  He is taking that as Gospel and it helps.  The house is back in order now (It's amazing how well I can clean when I am pure thick), but there’s the daily reminder of a damaged window to look at in him room - You made a right job of that Scumbag.  Would I make you blush if I called you an old pro?

No doubt your greasy hands quickly passed my lovely jewellery to your friend, Scumbag 2, who like you, know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.  Do you ever think about the story behind your acquisitions Scumbag?  The special moment when someone gives a gift for life?  The person that did a decent days work to make a purchase?  It's not something you can appreciate really, is it?

You probably think I’m being over dramatic.  Of course, I am thankful that no one got hurt and that you have little to remember your visit to Poppy Cottage.  I’m not angry, I’m just tired and hopeful, dear Scumbag, that Karma will someday bite your greasy ass.  Happy Christmas, Lucina xx

JFK and a Mahogany Table

It’s just as well that my furniture restorer guy isn’t there when I see the mahogany table that he has restored for me. He has left it in a safe place for me, lovingly wrapped in a wool blanket. I remove the blanket and the efforts of his work are revealed. The table looks more beautiful than I ever remember it.  I lay my head on it, inhale the glorious smell of varnish and wood, hug this inanimate object and have a little sob.

As a child, my memories of this table are all from the underside and I can’t say that I ever remember sitting at it. The table was in the sitting room and not really used, maybe because the table leaves were always unsteady, as one of the support hinges was missing. The table was in our sitting room. Weekends and rainy afternoons were spent sitting under the table, making dens. The table was draped with heavy wool blankets, creating a dark, but not scary environment. The weight of the drapes dulled the sounds of The Duke of Hazzard on TV and smells of my mother’s baking in the kitchen. Caution was required when crawling out of the the den, as there was usually a scattering of Lego on the carpet.

Looking at it now, I wonder if my memory has deceived me about the number of children that could actually fit underneath this modest table, that really only seats four people. When I picture myself there, I’m on my own, with my baby doll, Susie. I’m wearing my wine velvet trousers and cream fair isle legwarmers, sitting crossed legged there, my long hair clipped back with purple hair slides. I like playing with the drawers underneath the table. The wood is thinner than the rest of the table.  Not varnished. The drawers make a hollow rattle as I slide them in and out. In one drawer is a newspaper, with a photograph of John F Kennedy, with his wife Jackie. As I remember it, it is a commemorative paper, in honour of his visit to Ireland in 1963. I can’t remember what they are doing in the photograph, but I can see, the vivid inks of blues and orange of the print and smell of must that says ‘old’. 

When I was involved in making a film, relating to a JFK conspiracy all of these years later, the image that first came to my mind is that yellowing newspaper.

At some stage, the table was relegated to under the stairs and stayed there until I brought it to Kildare about 14 years ago, for the apartment I had just moved into with my husband to be. My father wasn’t that happy that I was taking the table ‘out of Milltown’, but I reassured him that it would be loved.  When I moved into Poppy Cottage, the mahogany table seemed too small and again found itself relegated, this time to my shed, replaced by a glass and chrome piece. When my father asked about 'the antique', I did

my best to change the subject.

As my marriage fell apart, I discouraged visitors from coming here and the house that was often filled with people, was reserved for myself and my children.  Anything that resembled hospitality now seemed like hard work.  Furthermore, I couldn’t manage to man oeuvre the heavy glass table on my own and it didn’t take kindly to being shifted around.

Since my father died, I was bothered about the 'antique' and was keen to live up to my promise to take care of it. My brother pulled the table out of my shed during the summer. I was horrified at the state of it. Heavy equipment had been thrown on it over the years and the frame was warped.  A tin of bitumen, or something similar, somehow made its way into the shed and was poured all over the table. One of the legs had begun to rot. The JFK newspaper, long gone.

My furniture restorer, Brian, declared it a ‘very sick table’ and scheduled it in for repair in November. The cost of repair probably cost more than it is worth, but I don’t care. The damage incurred in my shed is gone, with no sign of either the bitumen, or indeed, the ink stains that were there since I was a child. The missing hinge was replaced. The drawers now sport fancy porcelain knobs, but I’m pleased that they still make that hollow wood sound when I slide them in and out.

My children have yet to see the newly restored table. I know that my boy will rub his hand over the smooth surface and have a good sniff of the varnish. My daughter will be charmed by the pattern on the porcelain knobs.

My mother will come to Poppy Cottage for Christmas Day this year, her first Christmas away from Kilmainhamwood in over 40 years. We will have dinner at the table and we will raise a glass to my Da. I’m looking forward to that.

But if truth were told, I’m more excited about draping blankets across it and crawling underneath.

POSTSCRIPT So much for my ideas of making a den : My children arrived home and spotted the potential of the table as a clip board for a lighting rig for making a video for their Youtube channel ... 

Holding Hands in the Countryside, Part II

I’ve conceded. Feckin’ Fecker isn’t going to contact me again. I’ve stopped checking my phone in case he has sent me a message, any message at all. I’m not quite ready to delete his number from my phone and I can’t say that I’ll never pimp at his handsome face on Facebook again, but I’m getting there. But I need to give myself a chance – After all, it has only been 18 days and 10 hours since I have seen him last (not that I’m keeping track or anything). Looking back, I can see that his assistance on bringing nice wine on our date, was his premeditated way of issuing me with an alcohol soaked P60.

The fallout from writing the feature about online dating in The Irish Examiner continues. Guys joke that they would be afraid to ask me out in case they appear in my writing and I neither neither confirm nor deny that possibility. I am accused by a keyboard warrior of being a ‘man hater’. Instead of ignoring him, I reply, trying to justify myself and barely sleep that night. I try to conjure up all of the positive feedback to the forefront of my mind, but the nasty comments have caused me to question everything that I do and who I am.

I distract myself thinking nicer thoughts. I can remember what The Creative was wearing and what he was doing the first time we met. It felt like meeting an old friend. I can talk to The Creative about anything and I fill him in on my dating adventures, amongst other things. He tells me that I’m ‘a babe’ and that I shouldn’t have any trouble meeting someone. When I am in his company, random strangers mistake us for a couple, although we barely speak. I ask him if he will come back in another life and marry me. He says that he will. He thinks I’m joking, but I’m not.

As I type, a message pops up on my phone. No, it’s not Feckin’ Fecker. Sure, I knew that before I read it. It’s from I’m Starving. I haven’t heard a dickey bird from him, since he let me down on our dinner date arrangement last August, other than a sheepish text the following week to say he was sorry, siting ‘Dutch Courage’.

I’m Starving wishes me ‘sweet dreams’ and I just don’t know what’s going on …

Holding Hands in the Countryside

It’s a while now since my piece on online dating was featured in The Irish Examiner. My initial chuffed-ness at getting published soon gave way to panic about what people would think of me. I remind myself that I am doing nothing wrong, that online dating is normal in today’s society and that it’s what all the singletons (and some of the not so singles) are doing these days.

I worry what my mother will think about her darling daughter writing about online dating. I needn’t have. She is pleased that I got published, thinks that I look lovely in the photos - real Irish mammy stuff. She has been speaking with my aunt, her sister. They are claiming my writing ability for the maternal side of my family, tracing it back to our blood line that includes Brendan Behan and Peadar Kearney, who wrote the National Anthem. My aunt tells me that she laughed so much, that, in her own words, ‘the tears ran down her legs’. Yes, there is a boldness in my family.

Commentators compare me to the character Carrie Bradshaw in ‘Sex and The City’, writing about her relationship dramas and cried out for more. Obviously there’s many difference between myself and Carrie. Carrie is a TV character, as are her dates. My prospective dates are real life people with feelings and I have a public profile that I need to protect. Anything I write about it will be a sanitised version of the truth. Anyway, being Irish and born Catholic, my version would be less about fornication and more ‘Holding Hands in the Country'. I covet Carrie’s wardrobe and watch her on TV, writing on a keypad, alone, steaming cuppa in hand, sitting at a window overlooking Manhattan. Meanwhile, I catch moments to write here and there, often late at night, begging the nocturnal nine year old to go to bed.

An unexpected consequence to getting the article published was that guys who read the article found me through social media and asked me out. Bright fellas who read broadsheet newspapers, including Playing Hard to Get. There’s messages to-ing and fro-ing from Playing Hard to Get, who is in touch every day, but says very little. He doesn’t make any effort to compliment or otherwise woo me. He tells me that he ’doesn’t give a fuck’ about my writing. He is dark, handsome and totally and utterly irresistible. After our date, Playing Hard to Get disappears without trace and doesn't contact me again, not even to say that he isn’t interested. I torture myself checking to see when he is online, knowing that he has read my messages. The last time I felt this hurt was in secondary school when the guy I fancied for years changed schools at short notice. I had no way of contacting him and felt like my teenaged heart was torn out, never to recover.

i decide to rename Playing Hard to Get as 'Feckin' Fecker'. I’ve broken my promise to Feckin’ Fecker that I wouldn’t write about him, but I feel that when he went AWOL, that the gloves were off.

The Banker has read the article too. I had chickened out of a date with him a few months ago. We decide to meet. He suggests somewhere close to where he lives. I get lost while driving and am in a flap by the time I get to the hotel where we are meeting. I expect him to be standing outside waiting on me, but he’s at the bar drinking and it looks like he has had a bit of Dutch Courage already. Turns out that this place is his local. After a pleasant lunch, I leave. He doesn’t walk me to the door. He’s ordered another pint. There's no kiss goodbye, like there was no kiss hello. He says that ‘next time’ we will meet closer to where I live, but we both know that there won’t be a second meeting. I realise that old fashioned chivalry is more important to me that I thought.

I chat to Super Sleuth online. After some time, he sends me a message saying that he knows that I have an illness. He feels that I have been dishonest in not telling him. Truth is, the fact that I have MS just didn’t come up in conversation. I feel so well these days that I don’t feel like I have an ‘illness’, but rather a ‘medical condition’. I feel at pains to tell him how fit, healthy and energetic I am and he says its fine. But in my heart, I wonder if it really a big deal for him, or other potential suitors, who with a quick Google search will know of my diagnosis. I curse the fact that I have MS, and the fact that I have been open about it, written about it and but also feel a sense of gloom that for some guy, it might just be a deal breaker.

The Elected Representative seems keen to meet, but doesn't confirm arrangements with me, leaving me unsure if I should make alternative plans. Eventually he texts me, inviting me to lunch. I text back saying, 'you are as interested in me as you are in potholes in Mayo'. 'I'm not from Mayo', he says. 'Exactly', sez I.

In the middle of it all, I meet ‘Maybe in Meath’, who is actually from Dublin. He is one of the nicest men I have ever met. Handsome, thoughtful, intuitive, kind, funny. Maybe in Meath soon becomes The Date. We have the loveliest of times. Maybe it's all too much too soon. In my heart though, the va-va-voom just isn’t there for me and we part company. He is so nice that he makes breaking up really easy for me. The gal who falls for The Date will be a lucky one indeed. In the meantime, I’ll keep looking.

PS Feckin' Fecker, if you accidentally read this, you still have my number

The Date

I was feeling a bit fragile in the run up to the August Bank Holiday weekend this year- My recently deceased father’s birthday and the Blessing of the Graves.  On the Saturday, as I leave to travel home for the weekend, I got an-out-of-the-blue text message from The Architect. 

‘Can we talk?’ 

I panic, assuming it’s an arts emergency, probably related to concrete foundations. 

‘Yes, what’s up?’

‘I think you're lovely’, beeps the reply.

I’m simultaneously relieved that the concrete has set and feel slightly queasy at the unexpected content of the message from someone I have known for a very long time.

A few more messages back and forth and he has asked me out on a date.  To a really nice restaurant with fabulous vegetarian food, that Bank Holiday Monday.  I’m in shock.  On mature reflection though, I think, ‘Why the hell not?’  We are two free agents; we get on well and can talk about the setting time for concrete, if nothing else.  I get excited at the idea of getting dressed up and going out somewhere, anywhere grown up, without two children in tow. 

I don’t hear from The Architect the following day, or on the Monday.  

I sit in by myself on the Bank Holiday Monday, half watching rubbish TV, nursing a very bruised ego.

The Architect sends me a sheepish message a few days later apologising, admitting that he had had ‘Dutch courage’ when he contacted me, and signs off saying, ‘I still think you're nice’.  And then nothing.

I dust myself off and hope that we don’t have an arts emergency anytime soon.

My luck doesn’t improve when I impulsively decide to try my hand at online dating.  Sure isn’t everyone at it?

Finance Guy seems keen until I try to confirm a specific time and location to meet him.  He phaffs around so much that I decide to do him a favour and call off the date.  I don’t hear from him again.

Lots of guys say an online ‘How’ya’, but don’t actually get beyond that.  I loose patience, and confidence, very quickly.

Just as I am about to give up hope with the online thing, I can see that someone, who looks half decent, is looking at my profile.  But he hasn’t actually contacted me.  I send him a message.  He tells me that he thinks I may be ‘too refined’ for him.  I relay this to my work colleagues later, who almost fall off their chairs laughing at the possibility of me being polished.  

We chat.  He is relieved to hear me curse (only for effect though, I’ll have you know).  Notions of my possible refinedness are soon dismissed.  We arrange to meet.  In Hollywood.  Sure, where else would you have a date? 

The idea of a meeting The Date gives me a pep in my step.  I have a strange urge that I haven’t felt in a long, long time.  Yes, a desire to clean my house.  Soon I am cleaning windows to beat the band. I also have the inclination to take out my sketch books and to start painting again too.

A few days before we meet, The Date falls and breaks a bone in his foot.  We postpone Hollywood and arrange a lunchtime date, somewhere convenient for a Dub with a ski boot and crutches.

In the middle of it all comes unforseen news.   My long standing American boyfriend, Brad Pitt has just announced that he single again.  I don’t know what that means for me/us long term.  I had such high hopes for Brad and I, him being so good with clatters of children and all.  My two would be a walk in the park for him.  But it may take Brad a while to extract himself from his missus, so for now I’ll focus on The Date.

The day that I am due to meet The Date is the day when Today FM Radio is encouraging their female listeners to wear their wedding dresses to work, as part of the station’s ‘Dare to Care’ fundraising project for the Irish Cancer Society.  I wonder if The Date would think I was jumping the gun if I wore mine to meet him.  I decide against. 

I’ll taking a half-day from work to meet him and I really wish I had paid more attention to those office-to-evening fashion features in the glossy magazines.  I text The Date that morning, saying that I am running late, such was the dilemma of what to wear.  He text me back saying that he was wearing a tracksuit.  I’m sitting at my office desk in my carefully accessorised baby pink Karen Millen silk dress and he is wearing flannel.  I think I might cry.  Over a piece of synthetic fabric.  Or in my mind, the message that his effort level was ‘ZERO’. 

He redeems himself, explaining, very reasonably, that the trackie bottoms are convenient for his appointment with his osteopath and that he would change his clothes before we meet.

And there he is, spruced up, sporting a protective boot that wouldn’t look out of place in Star Wars. The music in the pub is too loud.  The music in the restaurant that we go to is blaring too.  I wonder if all of the natives were deafened from shouting during the recent All Ireland final, or if it’s just me.  The waitress brings me a meaty pizza and doesn’t apologise that she got it wrong.   The Date’s Star Wars boot looks cumbersome and awkward, but he doesn’t complain.

The Date looks different in real life, more three dimensional.  Obviously.  And handsome.  We have nothing in common and everything in common.  He tells me that he likes my freckles.  I blush and suddenly feel self-aware, like I did as a child when an adult would bend down to me and ask me, in a kind voice, ‘Where did you get those big brown eyes?’ 

Four hours later and it’s gone in a flash.  I have to go. 

Later, I look in the mirror and observe that indeed, my face is scattered with little brown speckles, probably recently enhanced by a sunny weeks holiday in Wexford.  I stand there and watch this stranger in the mirror and realise that it’s been a long, long time since I really looked at myself. 

Another date?  

It would a shame to quit while I’m ahead, wouldn’t it ?