Making It Up As I Go Along (38 page)

I had
un visit merveilleux
in France.
Much fancier this year (in the Loire Valley). Staying in chateaus (or chateaux, if we want to be
correct about it, and why not?) that have been turned into
les hôtels
and dining
like kings
chaque
evening on 28-course dinners. Despite walking up to fifteen miles a
day, it was not enough to cancel out all the grub and I am now in familiar territory where I
hate looking in the mirror, hate having to get dressed and am terrified to weigh myself. But it
was worth it!

Now, in an abrupt change of subject, I’ve
had an idea for a retro, 1970s-style sitcom. You know I said that I’d love to move into a
flat with Ema (six-year-old niece) and surround ourselves with pink? Well, Himself said one
evening in France when he had a fair bit of drink on him that if I was moving in with Ema he was
going to ‘throw his lot in’ with Luka (five) and Milinko (seventy). (Milinko is Luka
and Ema’s granddad, is father to Ljiljana, father-in-law to my brother Niall and husband
of Zaga (sixty-five).) The thing about both Luka and Milinko is that they are very good-looking.
When me and Himself were in Belgrade, we looked through old photo albums and there were loads of
Milinko looking like Errol Flynn, and even now he has a roguish twinkle in his eye.

But Himself said he’d miss me and that was
when the whole
sitcom thing arose. We said we’d live next door to
each other – and that’s the name of the crappy sitcom –
THE BOYS NEXT
DOOR
!

We spent most of our
temps
en France
detailing it. Right, in one EXTREMELY PINK flat live me, Ema and Zaga. We
have three single beds in a very pink bedroom. Zaga speaks no English (except for her
catchphrase) and does an awful lot of cleaning. Her catchphrase is ‘You STUPID boy’
accompanied by a cuff to the head of the offender. Zaga has an amazing cleaning cupboard, a bit
like a Batcave, and when she touches a special mop, a bed leaps from the wall, all made up with
lovely pink bedclothes. She sleeps in there if me or Ema have visitors. (More of which later.)

Zaga is the most popular of all the characters
and the live studio audience goes wild, clapping and cheering, whenever she comes on. Also,
‘You STUPID boy’ becomes a worldwide catchphrase, with politicians and everyone
saying it.

Right, Ema (six). Very, very pink and her
catchphrase is ‘Is it pink?’

Me (forty-three). I have no catchphrase yet.
Myself and Himself decided on one for me one night over dinner in the Château de Pray but
we’ve forgotten it. Himself had a fair bit of drink on him, but I’ve no excuse.
I’ve suggested that my temporary catchphrase be ‘One day we’ll all be dead and
none of this will matter’, as I
do
say it a lot, but Himself thinks it lacks
catchiness.

Okay, then, the boys’ flat. It is moodily
lit, with low sofas, shagpile carpets, a Scalextric race track and an actual bar, stocked only
with brandy. The brandy is Milinko’s, because when we were in Belgrade he offered it to
Himself in such a great accent that we’ve been saying it ever since. It’s impossible
to recreate on the page, but I’ll try: ‘Brrrrrrrennndy?’ Accompanied, of
course, by a roguish twinkle. That is Milinko’s catchphrase.

Luka’s catchphrase is
‘My trousers …’ Said sort of dismally. This is because he has lost them.
Again. He is standing there in his jocks, indicating his trouserless state with a fatalistic
hand gesture which implies that trousers are unpredictable beasts, faithless characters, liable
to leave you at a moment’s notice, regardless of the embarrassment and heartache their
departure causes you. This relates back to his visit to Ireland in August 2005 (he was four). He
had a long anorak, which came to mid-thigh, and his jeans were a bit too loose for him and
we’d be walking around Lahinch and every now and then he’d stop and say sadly to
Himself, ‘Himself, my trousers …’ and Himself would look down and Luka’s
anorak would still be on, protecting his modesty, but his jeans would be down around his ankles.

In
THE BOYS NEXT DOOR
, Luka will lose
his trousers every episode: he might have to leave them behind when departing from a
lady’s boudoir at short notice (her husband came home or she asked Luka when they were
getting engaged); he might get them caught on barbed wire while sneaking over a back wall; he
might lose them in a poker game; he might get mugged for them … The list is endless.

And then there’s Himself. He is the voice
of reason in the boys’ flat. His catchphrase is, ‘Ah lads, have sense.’ To
which Luka usually replies, ‘You’re not mines daddy!’ (As happened, in actual
real life, on his last visit to Ireland), then they leap up and have a Darth Vader/Luke
Skywalker battle recreation.

We have put together a synopsis of the first six
episodes, to pitch to TV companies:

Episode one. Himself gets locked out of his
flat and the other two boys are too ‘busy’ within to hear him knocking, so he has
to come and spend the night in the girls’ flat, sleeping in Zaga’s bed
(Zaga stays in the mop-cave). Unfortunately for Himself, Ema and I are
doing (pink, of course) face masks and other 1970s-style girlish things, and Himself is obliged
to do them too. Much laughter.

Episode two. Exactly the same as episode one,
except it is Milinko who is locked out and has to do the pink face masks.

Episode three. Luka has to go to ground for a
while as he has had a paternity suit slapped on him. While everyone else is out and about, he
has to spend the day cleaning with Zaga. She says ‘You STUPID boy’ a lot because he
is not a dab hand with the dusters.

Episode four. New pink strawberry-flavoured
cigarettes have been introduced to the marketplace, aimed at children (not so unlikely). Ema,
who up until then had been vehemently anti-smoking, is charmed and immediately develops a
forty-a-day habit. (‘How can they be bad if they’re pink?’)Worse, she falls
into roguish company as Zaga and I insist she does her smoking on the balcony, which we share
with THE BOYS NEXT DOOR, and she spends a lot of time with Milinko, who offers her
‘Brrrrrrreeendy?’ which she declines as it is not pink.

Episode five. Zaga, who is very protective of
my non-drinking status, goes bananas when Milinko offers me a ‘Brrrrrrreeendy’. She
rants on and on and on in Serbian for a least five minutes and I get Ema to listen and
translate. She nods and says ‘Uh-huh’ and ‘Hmmm’ and
‘O-kaay’ and when Zaga finally finishes I say to Ema, ‘What did she
say?’ And Ema thinks hard and says, very slowly, ‘She said – “You
STUPID BOY!”’ Uproarious laughter.

Episode six. We did have
an episode six, but neither of us can remember, now that we’re home. I know we thrashed
it out over dinner in the Château de Noizay. In fairness, Himself can’t be held
accountable because he had a fair bit to drink, but once again, I have no excuse.

So what do you think? Is it a runner? We also
have great ideas for guest appearances from other family members, including Caitríona, who
will ring from New York every time she sees Spiderman. Her catchphrase is: ‘A hot meal at
a fair price.’ (From a terrible weekend we spend in Tijuana. Well, I say weekend, we were
meant to stay the weekend, but we went on Friday night and came back to LA on Saturday morning
because it was so awful, where I was nearly thrown in the slammer at the border by accidentally
trying to bring a Mexican apple back into the US of A, and I wouldn’t mind but it
wasn’t actually a Mexican apple, it was an American one which I’d brought along but
hadn’t eaten.)

We came back from France on the car ferry and the
weather was so terrifying that I was genuinely worried that I might be about to die. Himself
felt seasick, but then again he’d had a fair amount to drink. In fact, usually that
journey is very pleasant. You get on, have your dinner, take a turn around the souvenir shop
(much leprechaun merchandise), then retire to bed.

My birthday passed without incident. I moved from
forty-two to forty-three without drama. Good presents. A BEAUTIFUL powder-blue casserole dish
from John and Shirley, a juicer from Himself, also products from Bliss and Sisley anti-age gear
from Rita-Anne and Jimmy.

Best present of all was a painting by Tadhg.
Tadhg is an immensely talented artist but has the low self-esteem that I have and is afraid to
engage with his talent. It was shark-subduingly
uplifting to get a painting
that he had done and it is really brilliant.

Now I’m back from France and keen to get on
with the book, which was going vair, vair well before leaving, but I’ve been asked to do
all kinds of publicity things and I would rather poke myself in the eye with a rusty compass
than do any of them, but I am obliged because of favours owed, or a sense of guilt, or because
the person will end up in penury, or the well-grounded expectation that the journalist will
shaft me further down the line if I don’t.

I would just like to live a quiet life, writing
my books and my newsletter and meeting people who read my books and cooking nice dinners in my
powder-blue casserole dish (indeed, cooking nice dinners FOR the people who read my books).

It feels like nearly every interview I do,
I’m misquoted badly enough to sound like a half-wit and I’m finding it wearing.
Perhaps if I faked my own death …

Anyway, changing the subject to backs. Mine is
better, and also my computer is fixed, thanks be to Christ! Himself, however, has come a
cropper. A day or so after we got back, he did his back in – brace yourself, you simply
will not BELEEEEEVE this –
while cutting his fingernails
!

Honest to God! Is no pursuit safe! There are
traps every which way we turn! He is in bad pain and I’m begging him to see a back person
but he keeps repeating, like a robot, ‘Nothing you can do for a bad back.’ Surely
that can’t be so? What are osteopaths? Are they not back experts? At least we should go
and see one and pay an extortionate sum of money to be told that bed rest is all that will fix
him. At least then, protocol will have been observed.

Yes, then my mother went deaf. The thing is that
she’s always had a ‘bad ear’. In fact, so have I. And Caitríona. And
Tadhg.
Mam is pretty much deaf in her ‘bad ear’ and has to have
a hearing aid in it. Me, Caitríona and Tadhg aren’t deaf in our ‘bad
ears’, we just get lots of infections in them, but I’d say we’ll go deaf at
some stage, if Mam is our template. But anyway, didn’t she get an infection and go deaf IN
HER GOOD EAR!!! Isn’t that terrible? How unfair is that? She’s had two
‘goes’ of antibiotics and still isn’t right. She will have to go and see an
‘ear man’.

I have been to see an ‘ear man’. Oh
yes. Three years ago, or it might have been two, when I had several very bad ears in a row and
had three ‘goes’ of antibiotics without it making a difference. It took ages before
I got to see my ‘ear man’ because he was so in demand, and the minute I walked
through his door he took one look at me and said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with your
ear. It’s your jaw. You need to see a “jaw man”!’ (So I did and he
diagnosed TMJ and as a result I have to wear an attractive rugby-player-style jaw guard to
bed.)

So anyway, yes, poor Mam. And God knows I was
impatient enough with her before, what with having to repeat everything to her twice, but
I’m ten times worse now.

Example of one of our conversations:

‘Mam, do you remember the night of your
birthday?’

‘What?’

‘OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE!!! I SAID, DO YOU
REMEMBER THE NIGHT OF YOUR BIRTHDAY?’

‘No.’

‘No? You don’t? That great
night?’

‘What?’

‘CHRIST ALIVE, NOT ONLY ARE YOU DEAF BUT
YOU ARE SENILE TOO!!’

‘What?’

Poor Mam. I am horrible. And it’s all ahead
of me.

Also, Rita-Anne has had an
eye infection necessitating a trip to the Eye and Ear Hospital. And Susan has injured her neck,
but details are sketchy because she’s in Spain. Some sources say it happened on a surfing
lesson. Others say it occurred in the gym. Truly we are the sickest family in the entire
province of Leinster.

Meanwhile I’ve started Pilates. Yes, myself
and Himself have started getting lessons. It looks easy, it looks like you’re doing nearly
nothing, but in fact is as tricky as bejaysus, but we are looking forward to having
‘strong cores’. So on that happier note, so ends September. Much occurring in
October. Kicking off with a visit to London, Himself’s birthday, Rita-Anne’s hen
weekend and a promotional trip to Madrid and Barcelona, where we are assured that we will be
mugged for our shoes. Perhaps we could set an episode of
THE BOYS NEXT DOOR
there and
Luka could be mugged for his trousers.

Previously unpublished.

Arrangements concerning R-A’s wedding are
taking up much of my time, in particular trying to find my mammy a make-up artist who would come
to her house the morning of the wedding and do top-notch make-up for a pittance.

I found her a lovely woman who has
‘done’ me on occasion, but she (my mammy) baulked at the cost, chastising me for my
extravagance, saying that when she got her make-up done at a saloon for my wedding, it was
nothing like as expensive. I reminded her that my wedding was a) eleven years ago, and b) in a
different currency, and that c) this woman was coming to her house to do it so that Mam
didn’t have to travel to Dún Laoghaire for it and get the 46A home wearing her
wedding face.

But she was not to be persuaded and I had to
suffer the embarrassment of cancelling the lovely woman and I stomped around the house for a
while, complaining that as far as my mammy was concerned I could do ‘nothing fucking
right’.

October also saw us celebrate Himself’s
birthday. Also, I went to the cinema three times in October. Normally I’m lucky if I go
three times a year, and I don’t know why the sudden spate.

Also, television and the return of
Strictly
Come Dancing
! God, I love that programme. The return of
SCD
means that I’ve
moved from my summer crush on Davina McCall to my autumn crush on Claudia Winkleman.

Yes, so then, off to Spain for the book tour.
I’d never been to
Barcelona before and everyone said, ‘Jesus,
don’t go there! You’ll be mugged!’ Like,
everyone
said it! My friend
Judy said her husband Fergal was ‘nearly’ pickpocketed on the Ramblas. My
hairdresser said I’d be mugged for my shoes and handbag. Even Mam had her take on the
matter. I said to her, ‘Mam, I’m going to Spain on a book tour.’ Normally,
whenever I tell her I’m going away on a book tour, she affects a total lack of interest,
in case I might think I’m getting ‘above myself’.

I could say to her, ‘Mam, I’m going
to Mars on a book tour,’ and she’d say, ‘So does that mean you won’t be
here for your dinner on Thursday?’

But when I said, ‘Mam, I’m going to
Spain on a book tour,’ she visibly started and said, ‘Where in Spain?’ And I
said, ‘Madrid and Barcelona,’ and she said, ‘Barcelona? What are you going
there for?’ And I said, ‘I just shagging told you! A book tour.’ (Relations
were still slightly strained after the make-up artist fiasco.) And she said, ‘A book tour?
In Barcelona? But you’ll be mugged. People at bridge went to Barcelona and they were
mugged!’

But we had the most AMAZING time in Barcelona
– have you been? It’s beautiful and interesting and full of charm and history and
character and fabliss inexpensive handbags. We stayed at the Hotel Arts, which is glamorous and
beautiful and efficient. We had a room overlooking the sea and woke up every morning to glorious
sunny light, which was so cheering as it’s already wintery in Irlanda.

I’m not saying I didn’t love Madrid
too, because I did and do, it’s just that I’ve already been to Madrid and this was
my first time in Barcelona and I spent all my time in Madrid working and only had to do one
interview in Barcelona, then the rest of the time was mine, and apart from a mild but
unshakeable dread that I’d be mugged for my jeans and have to make my way back to the
hotel in my knickers I had a great time.

Yes, Gaudí! Why
aren’t all buildings like his? They’re fun and magical and exquisite. Also,
Barcelona – I couldn’t help noticing – has more chemists per square inch than
anywhere else I’ve ever been. My kind of town, without a doubt. (Recently I met a woman
who, like me, likes to browse in chemists. I think I might set up a club for ‘our
kind’.)

I was very glad about the many hours I’d
spent watching
Dora the Explorer
, because all the Spanish I know has come from that.
Hola
.
Adiós
.
Gracias
.
De nada
. It is an excellent
programme and I’m so sad that Ema and Luka have outgrown it and now scorn it.

We went to the football in Barcelona; they were
playing some poor crowd called Recreativo. And one of my favourite footballers, Ronaldinho, was
playing. He is always skipping about and kicking up his heels and chatting to the grass and
grinning from ear to ear. No matter what happens, he smiles away like a happy, happy person,
even if someone kicks him in the head, which must happen from time to time in his line of work.
I find such positivity mucho charming.
Muy bueno
.

As we took our seats in the stadium, Himself and
myself really wanted Barcelona to win but we were afraid that if we supported them, even
secretly, we’d ruin their chances. We feel we are the kiss of death on any team we
support. (Watford, Ireland.) So we decided to have a little competition to see which of us is
the most ‘kiss of death’; he supported Barcelona while I was ‘up’ for
Recreativo. Within moments it was clear that I was the runaway winner – Himself has
started addressing me as Beso de Muerto (sort of Spanish for ‘Kiss of Death’) as
Barcelona were ‘all over’ Recreativo and beat them 3–0 and I’d say they
were not a happy bunch of lads on the bus back.

Previously unpublished.