Highlights this month
- Pure kilt with jetlag!
- Too jetlagged to come up with any other headers!
Oh mes amies, I can’t promise that this account will be in any way – God I can’t even think of the word – yes, COHERENT, that’s it. Because I am out of me head on account of having been to California and am just back. But please! No sympathy! For I have been on my holiers having a wondrous time and more than deserve to be sleep-deprived, nauseous and assailed with a vague but terrible sense of impending doom. I am guzzling Melatonins like they were Smarties (God, how I wish they were) but I still feel stunned, stupid, frightened, incapable and acknowledging that if a meteorite was to land on my house in the next 5 minutes, killing me stone dead, I wouldn’t be that upset.
So let’s backtrack to the start of the month, which I can barely remember. Oh yes! Kindness, the kindness of so many of you, who wrote in to sympathise about my car crash, also my terrible haircut. I apologise for not including photos of the awful ‘do’ but the situation has been remedied this month. Mind you, it’s grown a fair bit since then, thanks be to Christ and I look less like an off-duty nun than I did. Also further kindness, from those of you who offered to purchase the manuscript of This Charming Man and save me the shame of standing on the stage at the To Russia With Love ball while nobody bid more than a fiver. As it happens, it sold for 3500 Euro on the night. A lovely lovely woman called Anne Sherry bought it and all the funds go to help the children in Russia.
What else? I went to London to be on It Takes Two and Suzanne, AnneMarie and Himself came with me and we had so much fun. Suzanne got her photo taken with Brindan Cole (a girl in her work had requested a photo of his arse, but Suzanne lost her nerve at the final moment and made do with a photo of his face.) Afterwards Claudia took us to her dressing room to show us her shoes and we all got a bit star-struck and giddy and overwrought and I could see that one of us was going to start crying/steal a shoe/try to snog Claudia so I was obliged to bring the visit to an abrupt close. I hurried Suzanne, AM and Himself out onto the street, where I scolded them for making a show of me in front of Claudia, then we all went to Wagamama for our dinner for old time’s sake. (I used to go there 14 years ago with Suzanne and AM while I was still drinking. It was nice to remember that not everything from those days was terrible.) I have been asked back on It Takes Two, so obviously Claudia has not held the emotional display I made when I saw her shoes against me.
The next day I went to Chichester to a literary festival which is run by the very fabulous Kate Mosse. Now, for those of you who are confused, Kate Mosse is not Kate Moss, but is even more fabulous. Kate Mosse wrote Labyrinth and has a new book out which is called Sepulchre and is even more brilliant than Labyrinth. I have one of my many girl crushes on Kate Mosse. (See also Davina McCall, Claudia Winkleman, Mariella Frostrup and my editor Louise Moore.) So many LOVELY people came to the event, I could have cried I was so touched. A writer of children’s books Ali Sparkes, came along and gave me five of her novels, which I’m looking forward to reading. Another lovely girl, Laura Sparling – her dad drove her a long way to the event, it was incredibly humbling - made me the most exquisite bracelet, in my favourite colour, purple. You can see her work on beadsbylaura.co.uk. Also a really beautiful girl called Stacey (I think, my memory is gone to hell) was there because her extremely good-looking boyfriend Chris (again apologies if name is wrong) had brought her for her Christmas present! I couldn’t believe it! So much kindness. Also I’ve attached a photo taken with Abby and Michelle, two other lovely girls who came. (This will also give you a second opportunity to study my bad haircut.)
So, California. It was to a spa place, a mind/body/spirit set-up that I’ve wanted to go to for a long time to learn about ‘Transformative breathing’ and Qi-Gong and all that sort of thing. An acutely feathery-strokery sort of place and although Himself has his moments of feathery-strokeryness, he flat-out refused to go. It took many many months of patient negotiation before he agreed. And mes amies, the transformation. In him. Up at 5.15 every morning to do a 5 mile mountain hike before breakfast. This is not a joke. I barely saw him. He was rushing about from Strength Training to ‘Mindful running’ to sessions with a disturbingly attractive (female, oh yes, female) personal trainer. He was constantly late to meet me because he’d been sitting around ‘gassing’ (his word) with the pals he’d made on his middle-of-the-night hike. It was hilarious. Meanwhile I had embarked on a different style of ‘journey.’ I had gone hoping to immerse myself in meditation and yoga and Feldenkrais (I can’t exactly tell you what it is because I never got to go to any of the classes because I was so busy elsewhere but it’s something to do with balance and posture) and other physically non-taxing activities. But instead I ended up doing sort of dance classes. They were like the aerobics classes of yore (I was having terrible 80s flashbacks) but with fabulous music and dance moves and one day for the Latin class we wore swishy skirts and shook maracas and perhaps you’re reading this and thinking Christ Alive, I couldn’t imagine anything more mortifying, let me tell you that this was EXACTLY what my response would have been before I’d gone. But it was so freeing. I was dancing around like the lopsided eejit I am and having such a wonderful time, not caring what I looked like or who was laughing at me and it was like being a little girl again, except that this time round I was happy. And like Himself, I too made pals, except that I made mine in the dance place instead of at the top of a mountain.
Massages were included in the price of the week but Himself refused to have his. When pressed he admitted that he feared that he might ‘make a show’ of himself on the table and confuse the masseuse into thinking he was looking for a ‘happy ending.’ I mentioned this to Caitriona my sister, who is a nurse and no-nonsense about this sort of thing. “Oh it happens all the time,” she sez. (the show-making, not the happy ending.) “The girls are well used to it. If things get out of hand, they just hit it with a spoon.” I relayed this information to Himself, who remained doubtful. I came up with a solution: we would have a trial run. So off we went and when things reached optimum position, so to speak, I gave it a stout clatter with a soup spoon, but sadly mes amies, the stout clatter wasn’t sufficient to deflate things. We were baffled and so were all the others in the dining room. (My little joke. We were alone.) I offered to inflict an even stouter clatter, but he cupped his hands protectively around his region, telling me to get lost, that I might bruise it. We considered that we might be using the wrong sort of spoon, Himself seemed convinced that if the spoon was wooden it would do the trick, but we had no way of getting our hands on a wooden spoon, so we decided that all things considered, it was probably best if he opted out of the massages.
So now we’re back and – really, forgive me for complaining, because
I had such a fantastic time while I was away – I feel AWFUL. November
is traditionally a bad month for me at the best of times, I’m not exactly
sure why. I think it’s the sudden terrible shortage of light, and after
the blue, blue skies of Southern California (it was cold but so bright) coming
back to Ireland, where the gunmetal grey skies hover six inches above my head,
I feel – okay, I won’t say suicidal because I’m only experiencing
the vaguest, flickeriest dream-style images – I feel that if some random
event happened (like, as I said earlier, the runaway meteorite) I wouldn’t
complain too much. This is a terrible way to think as I have such a lovely life
and am so lucky and fortunate but I suppose if we are predisposed to depression,
as some of us are, that we have little enough control over these feelings. And
to be fair, I’m far less prone to the bleakness than I used to be.
Also I have a fabulous idea for a new book – which I’m so RELIEVED
about, I’m always terrified that when I finish a book that I’ve
used myself all up and I’ll never be able to write another - and I just
haven’t got the energy, faith in myself, whatever is required, to start
writing it. But this wretchedness will pass, it always does mercifully. And
to be quite honest – and I really hope you don’t mind – I
feel a bit better for even writing about it. I honest to God hope I haven’t
passed on my burden to you, instead I hope that if you’re going through
your own November stuff (and indeed December as I’m writing this on Dec
1st and I still feel shite) that it’s a bit of a comfort to know that
you’re not alone.
Now, calling all European readers. I need your advice. A newspaper has asked me to write a piece about a ‘snug, cosy, romantic’ break in a hotel, but I don’t know anywhere that fulfills the brief. My apologies to readers in further flung parts of the globe, I don’t doubt that there are many perfect places right on your doorstep but I couldn’t take another bout of killer jetlag so soon. Any suggested location would have to be okayed with the newspaper, also they will probably cancel the piece because that is usually what happens when I genuinely want to do something, also when I get other people to help me, but if you know anywhere, I’d really appreciate your suggestions and my apologies in advance if I don’t get to use it. The requirements are as follows: a direct flight from Dublin would be nice, also a hotel room with a fireplace, room service and a nearby bit of parkland/lake/forest etc for ‘romantic’ ie shortlived walks. The icing on the cake would be massages. I will bring my own wooden spoon.
I hope that your November wasn’t too grim and that your December will be endurable – remember this Christmas mullarkey is a terrible, terrible business. Really terrible. The most stressful and sad time of the year – if you’re feeling wretched that’s quite all right. I will report back in early Jan on how I survived. (I find that saying no to 99 out of every 100 party invitations is a great help. In fact, saying yes, but then simply not turning up is even better. That way no-one badgers me to change my mind and all the other guests get so scuttered they don’t even notice that I’m actually at home, tucked up in bed, eating chips and watching Strictly Come Dancing. Sometimes I even think about pretending afterwards that I was actually at the knees-up and saying things like, “God almighty, You were in TOP form there on Saturday night.” And because there is such a pervasive sense of shame about everything everyone does in December, they’ll think, ‘Christ, I don’t even remember meeting her, I’ll really have to knock off the sauce come January.’ But I am a kind person, one who has experienced plenty of shame herself, so I refrain from that sort of cruelty.)
Lots of love
Marian