Sunday Independent Diary
Monday
Post arrives. Heart leaps in hope, but it is only load of proof-reading. Trying to finish novel but have to shelve it, instead looking for spelling mistakes and superfluous apostrophes. But early afternoon, DHL arrive bearing box of Shiseido products to test for Irish Tatler beauty column! God, I love it! Best job in world. Box includes Body Creator (used it last Summer to transform porridge thighs to svelteness – miracle gear) and products for men – abdomen toner and self-tan. Tell Himself and expect Elvis-style lip sneer but he just says, “Oh really?”
Then do interview over phone with – of all things – Aga Magazine. Yes, magazine for people with Agas. Imagine that. Learn something new every day. Back to work. En route, stop to fondle Shiseido goodies, and notice that men products have disappeared. Strange…
When eyes start to cross from proof-reading, decide to cook the dinner. Until recently this would have involved sticking fork in cellophane wrapper and firing container in microwave, but there has been dramatic change in domestic circumstances. Due to gammy immune system, have had to give up sugar, including all processed meals. Never thought it would happen to me - was proud that couldn't even boil egg - and loved sweets so much, thought I'd be buried with selection box. However, went through Percy Pig cold turkey and suddenly became total gourmet-swot – had lessons, bought cookery books, learnt how to ‘drizzle.'
Summon Himself to kitchen to assist me. I am mini-tyrant and give many orders – chop this, wash that! But before get into my stride, he whips up his t-shirt, displaying naked belly and asks, all enthusiasm, “What do you think?” I say it's lovely and he admits he's been using Shiseido abdomen toner. Maxim he lives his life by is, ‘What would George Clooney do?' Clearly George would use abdomen toner.
Tuesday
Roots of hair suddenly very bad. Were fine when went to bed last night, but woke up displaying inch of grey root. Too late to go to hairdresser, so attempt to cover it with mascara. Goes sort of cloggy and sticky (hair, not mascara.) Not good. Wouldn't matter too much but Swedish journalist and photographer due at three this afternoon. At three on the dot the bell rings – vair punctual, Swedes. Journalist, lovely woman, but heart sinks when see photographer: young man, aged between twenty-five and twenty-six and a half (approx) with complicated hair, iPod and Sanskrit tattoo. Know his type. Worst nightmare. Not so much interested in taking my picture as creating art. Arse, more like. Sure enough, he roams my home, picking things up and discarding them, then orders me to stand on one leg on kitchen windowsill, holding lit match. There was time when would have complied – afraid that if I didn't he'd think I was diva. But not any more. Couldn't care less if he thinks I'm diva, so tell him to shag off and reel off list of ‘won't do's – ‘No wacky poses, no acrobatic shots, nothing outdoors.'
He gets all snippy and says I'm obstructing him doing job. Beam at him and repeat, ‘No wacky poses, no acrobatic shots, nothing outdoors.' Eventually he makes do with me sitting back-to-front on kitchen chair in Christine Keeler pose. “Original,” I say, not even bothering to hide sniggers. Swear to God, if I had penny for every time I've been photographed in that pose – indeed, in that chair - I'd have awful lot of pennies. (But they'd be feck all use to me, seeing as deadline for changing pennies into euro is long gone.)
Once photo is out of way, interview goes swimmingly. They're lovely, these Swedes and I have great time horrifying journalist with how atrocious Irish child-care facilities are. Then it's time for them to leave for airport, but as usual, cannot get a taxi. Dun Laoghaire: twinned with Mogadishu. Himself rings taxi firm after taxi firm while I sit with Swedes and smile anxiously. Am keen to get rid of them. Am expected at parents' house for Telly Bingo any minute. In the end, drive Swedes to the Dart, hustling them from still moving vehicle and calling complicated instructions regarding Howth Junction, airport bus and exact change. In great screeching of brakes, get to parents house just as Declan starts. Almost get a ‘four corners' but don't. Still and all, it's bit of fun.
Dinner, sausages (nice ones, not stinky floorsweepings ones) with lentils in red wine reduction. Later, friend rings and when tell her what I made (she asked), she says, “Christ, you can't do anything by halves, can you?” Don't think it was meant as compliment.
Himself has taken to standing side-on to mirror, studying and stroking his naked tummy, like woman in first trimester of pregnancy.
Wednesday
Can't take hair any longer. Grey roots grew another six inches during night, look like Gandalf. Lovely Leonard at Toni and Guy gets me appointment. While getting ready, switch on Trisha for a second, but a second is all it takes. Am hooked, mesmerised. More addictive than heroin. Episode called, ‘Son, Don't Marry That Gold-Digger.' It is good, vair good, don't get me wrong, but am a Trisha purist and feel that no episode is complete without a DNA test.
Should have done proof-reading at hairdressers but lovely Holly who does my colour is handbag enthusiast and Footballers Wives fan. Too much to discuss. Emerge with covered roots and pink streaks. Am new person, ready for anything.
Friends, Judy and Fergal, come over for dinner. In past, without shame, have fed them microwaved M&S stuff. Tonight, though, make red Thai curry from scratch. They proclaim it's delicious, then Judy sort of falls into slump. “Don't get me wrong,” she says. “It's very nice, but I sort of miss the old you.” Am I becoming gourmet-pain-in-arse?
Notice that Himself is looking particularly well. When pressed he admits that he's been using ‘the face-oranger.'
Thursday
Dinner at my mother's house. Time was, this was the one home-cooked meal we'd get a week. One Thursday we'd get spag bol, the next, chicken casserole, the next, spag bol, the next, chicken casserole. Even when went away, the Thursdays would click away, until we returned, when we'd slot back in neatly into routine. Fixed point in uncertain world. This week it's spag bol. My mother says that Himself is looking ‘healthy.' Home for Footballers Wives. After disappointing third season, it's right BACK UP THERE!! Vair, vair exciting episode indeed, with Bruno burning his bird's vintage Halston on home barbeque and Amber causing mayhem at Troy's christening by alleging that it was Tania's baby who'd been suffocated when Krishna the pug sat on his face. Marvellous.
Friday
Out to Weston airfield with Himself to learn how to fly. When was asked to write this column and remembered I'd be having flying lesson, thought, ‘Thanks be to Christ.' At least would have one interesting thing to write about. But annoyingly, it's not that interesting. Had hoped would be really, really nervous so could knock a few laughs out of it. But actually, am not nervous - was more nervous at Alton Towers, waiting to get on Nemesis ride. Not terribly excited either. In all honesty, am more excited at thought of going to Liffey Valley on way home. To try to get self revved up, visualise crashing plane into side of mountain a la James Bond and disappearing in fireball and yes, feel little tickle of something in bottom of stomach.
For some reason instructor seems to think am nervous despite telling him am really, really not and is reluctant to let me have proper go of controls. However, make lunge for them and turn the plane on its side, which enjoy tremendously. But all too soon, he gets control back and turns it right way up again. Funny. Spend most of my life being afraid of just about everything, but appears am not afraid of heights, speed, or flying sideways.
And so to Liffey Valley. Since given up the sugar, have had to find a new addiction. At moment it's socks and jocks, so am vair happy to find lingerie shop. Himself, however, refuses to accompany me. Tell him he'll look like pervert if he hangs around outside, but says he doesn't care, that no power on earth will make him go in there among the thongs. Fair enough. In I go and buy yellow bra and knickers set – lovely, very Spring like. When get home, dance around in them and ask “Am I sexy?” “No,” he replies. “They're yellow.”
Dinner: chicken, stuffed with mozzerella and pesto, wrapped in parma hang.
Saturday
Nearly go to yoga. Instead go into town and bump into friends Aoife and Paul, who fall around street laughing when tell them I'm on way to Asian market to buy lime leaves. Apparently they've heard it all now.
Dinner: pizzas from supermarket. Don't want to be gourmet-pain-in-arse. At least not all the time.
Sunday
Famers Market in People's Park. It's all go. Buy manky-looking organic tomatoes, swotty multi-grain bread and mustard seeds, cumin seeds and saffron. Have long conversation with spice man who tells me many, many recipes. Clearly he is kind, helpful man but am anxious about impatient queue building up and jostling behind me, frenzied by their need for garam masala. On band-stand, music is provided by pan-pipe, poncho-wearing types; one or two family groups are sort of dancing to them. Am slightly uncomfortable: these are now my people.
On walk home, get lured in by siren call of Dunnes. Buy 5 pairs of knickers, 2 bras and 3 pairs of socks, all for very reasonable sum of 36 Euro. I mean, where would you be going?