I’m forty years old, and I’ve never been arrested. I have my mother to thank for that. As she always said, “If you don’t believe what your mother says, the police will come and take you away,” so I’ve always believed her.
She’s an amazing woman, and she’s looking really well for a twenty-one year old. I think it’s because she eats the crusts on her bread which keeps her teeth straight and her hair curly. It must save her a fortune on dentists and hairdressers. Also, I help her to stay healthy, by never walking on a crack and breaking her back.
I did think I was in serious trouble yesterday, though. Continue reading
Niamh awakes in their dark bedroom. She feels the weight of Ben sitting on the corner of the bed, tying his tie, getting ready for another day. From the very start she has loved the heft of him.
It was at the afters of a wedding – a dancefloor full of leaping eejits air-guitaring to AC/DC momentarily parted, and there he was, sitting at a table on his own, looking at her, sitting at a table on her own. She smirked. He raised his eyebrows.
From then on, they were thunderstruck.
They danced that night to “A Wink and a Smile,” him tall and solid, and her fitting neatly into all his grooves.
Niamh had long known that she was prone to notions, so much so that she tended to get carried away with herself. In Ben, she found an anchor.
And she, in turn, offered him something that he could never have gotten on his own: bath bombs. His body was often in a ball of knots after a hard day running his own successful business. Niamh softened him. Often, literally. Continue reading
Michael was a ten-year-old who knew two things: he secretly liked to dress up in his mammy’s clothes, and his “life would be complete” (he would say dramatically) if he could be on The Late Late Toy Show.
Of course, you could apply, but Ireland of the 80’s worked more like an underground Rube Goldberg machine: a system of whispers and nods and winks and taps on the nose until your request reached the right person. Michael’s dad knew a lad in the football club, who knew a lad in the rugby club, who knew a lad in RTE, and that’s how Michael got his interview. Continue reading
On January 6th, this year, you see a fifty-something woman with a tartan shopping trolley getting off the Luas at Jervis. What you do not see, what no-one will ever see, is the unbuilt city in her mind.
Her name is Maureen, and she is off to do her few bits, as she does every Women’s Christmas. 353 days to Christmas Day, and everything done, in the nick of time.
If you had been there for Women’s Christmas last year, you would have seen her daughter, Emma. Her approach is ever-so-slightly different. She usually bounces around the shops on Christmas Eve evening, collecting whatever crap she comes into contact with, like a Velcro-covered spinning top. Continue reading
In college, Niamh and Sarah were inseparable. The sort of inseparable that made a few lads sing K.D. Lang’s “Constant Craving” at them as they passed.
You know, dickheads.
Sarah loved five things: her purple Doc Martins, her guitar, changing her haircut, Niamh, and riding dickheads. Well, she didn’t know they were dickheads at the time, but that is invariably what they turned out to be.
Niamh, on the other hand, had a college-long love affair with her course-mate, Paul, which, unfortunately, he had no idea about. She was too shy to tell him that she thought he was, “A grand lad, altogether.” The whole thing was exasperatingly unrequited. For Sarah too. “For fuck sake, either you ride him or I will!” she would say, often. Continue reading