Articles
Here are a selection of columns that have appeared in the Irish Independent's Weekend Magazine:
Health Matters
I was sick recently. And I don’t mean lie-on-the-couch, avoid-housework, eat-Malteser ice-cream-and-watch-Oprah sick. I mean proper, I-cannot-get-out-of-bed, not-even-for-the-season-finale-of-Grey’s-Anatomy-sick. Which is very, very serious.
It started innocently enough one afternoon. I had a niggle in my left ear and a raspy throat that made me sound a bit like Demi Moore in her heyday – all husky and seductive. But the next morning the niggle was gone and in its place was a sinister searing pain in my eardrum and a sensation of knives attacking each other in my throat. As well as feeling like death warmed up, I also felt very panicky. This was not a good week to be ill – not with writing deadlines, school runs, vet appointments, dental checks and everything else hanging precariously in the balance. Next week would probably be better – I would have to postpone the flu or whatever it was until then. And so, in the time honoured tradition of millions of Mammies before me, I gargled a few Disprin and carried on, intent on pretending it wasn’t happening.
Two days later, after almost crashing the car in a fug of fever and fatigue, I gave in and crawled to the doctor’s surgery. There, I was duly informed that I had strep throat and an ear infection and would have to stay in bed for a few days. Then I was given a prescription for a double dose of antibiotics and sent on my way.
I left shell-shocked and babbling in semi-delirium. Bed? How could I stay in bed? If I wasn’t around to remember that my daughter needed to bring her recorder to school on Tuesday and that my son had to bring an oak leaf to playschool on Wednesday then who would? My very kind husband said he could manage perfectly well but still I fretted – what if my second child was laughed at for bringing in the wrong sort of leaf? What if my eldest ended up in mismatched socks, was ridiculed in the playground and emotionally scarred for life? But, on my very last legs, I had to give in and, as I lay there in my darkened bedroom, drifting in and out of consciousness and feeling very sorry for myself, I wondered if my husband knew what kind of funeral I wanted or if I should write out a few detailed notes for him.
When I was over the worst and able to half-prop myself up in bed, read a page of OK! and then roll over and drift back off to sleep, things got quite pleasant. If truth be told, I began to think that maybe I could prolong this sickness thing for a bit. (Another, more experienced, mother who shall remain nameless even suggested that I milk it for all it was worth). But no sooner had I started to enjoy my own deathbed than things took a sinister turn. I stumbled down to the kitchen one morning to get more paracetemol – and, OK, the Sunday supplements - and discovered that it was spotless – I knew this because I could quite clearly see my haggard face in the gleaming kitchen tops. Then I noticed that the children seemed to be unusually happy. In fact, both of them asked me if I could be sick again soon – Daddy was apparently so good at supervising homework that he could think of five words that rhymed with snake and make dinner at the same time. Like a light bulb switching on overhead, I knew immediately what was going on - without even trying, my husband was starting to make my job look easy. If left unattended, the worst could happen: the overworked Mum image I had cultivated for so long would come crashing down around me. I had to act and I had to act fast. Luckily, I was already starting to feel much better by then so I quickly made a miraculous recovery and got back downstairs to take things in hand before the situation got completely out of control and my reputation was left in tatters.
And so I have decided that I won’t be properly sick again for a while – pretending it’s not happening is really far safer.
Oh, To be Jennifer
Emotions were running very high before my inaugural visit to New York City in the early 90s. Not only was this going to be my first-ever time in America (a big deal), it was also going to be my first-ever holiday with the man of my dreams (an even bigger deal). The romance of it all was proving almost too much for me to bear. I spent weeks plotting our every move - we were going to kiss at the top of the Empire State building, take a horse-drawn carriage through Central Park, buy his and hers baseball hats in the Nike store and share a bagel smothered in cream cheese under the stars. I had never set eyes on a bagel in real life of course (and I hated baseball hats with a passion), but if they were good enough for the cast of Friends then they were good enough for me. You see, as well as fulfilling my romantic fantasy, NYC was also going to give me what I had longed for since I’d first clapped eyes on Ross and Rachel: the chance to be Jennifer Aniston. If I couldn’t have her gorgeous flicky hair, then at least I could hang out in a cool New York coffee shop. A coffee shop with a squishy sofa. I was almost sick with excitement at the thought.
The trip started off brilliantly when we were unexpectedly upgraded to business class on the flight. I will never forget the sheer thrill of reclining in those massive leather seats, wearing my complimentary in-flight socks, munching on just-baked cookies and watching movies back to back. Movies that hadn’t been released in Ireland yet. I was in my element – mostly because we hadn’t even touched American soil and I was already feeling like Jennifer Aniston. Things were looking good. Now all I had to do was buy a baby-pink Ralph Lauren Polo shirt just like hers and my plan would fall perfectly into place. Luckily, rumour had it that Polo shirts were practically given away for free in Macy’s. I spent the rest of the flight fantasizing about sauntering down Grafton Street on my return, a polo horse glinting proudly on my chest and an iconic brown paper Macy’s bag dangling casually off my arm.
That first day in the city was unforgettable. Initially overawed by the noise, traffic and pure hugeness of it all, we were soon leaping in and out of yellow cabs, our lives in the hands of mad New York cabbies who shouted and swore and swerved terrifyingly from lane to lane. It wasn’t all that romantic, but it was wildly exhilarating - soon, we were cheerfully yelling along, cursing all the useless schmucks in our way and ticking things off our itinerary as we went: the Empire State Building (where we argued passionately about what constituted romantic behaviour and then kissed and made up), Ellis Island, the twin towers, Macy’s (where I leaped on the baby-pink Polo shirt like a woman possessed) and more. We barely paused to eat a hotdog on the street, grinning at each other stupidly in pure delight as mustard dripped down our chins and the city roared around us. But, as night fell, I realised that in all the mayhem we still hadn’t found the perfect coffee shop with the squishy sofa and the Gunther look-alike. With my stomach growling and my legs weak from the frantic pace, I found myself wondering if maybe a detour to Planet Hollywood might be a better option. Just this once of course. Suddenly, the thought of a measly coffee and bagel paled next to the promise of the ultimate American meal: a 16oz super-burger and curly fries. And so I quickly bought a few Friends coffee mugs to remind me of what might have been and took off to eat underneath a half-naked wax figure of Sylvester Stallone. It was possibly the most romantic moment of the entire trip. More than a decade later, nothing has surpassed the thrill of that first taste of America’s Big Apple. I still have the baby-pink Polo shirt. And the Friends mugs. Although I never did manage to get Jennifer’s hair.
Too Green to Clean
I am not a naturally tidy person. In fact, some people (family and close friends for example) might go so far as to call me domestically challenged. But just because a girl doesn’t stack her tinned produce in alphabetical order (with the labels facing outwards) doesn’t mean she is a bad person. And if she happens to run out of essential household items like toilet roll and kitchen paper occasionally (OK, on a regular basis) it doesn’t mean she is a hopeless case who needs help – it just means that she is lovably scatty.
The trouble is, I seem to be scatty about lots of things – most of them to do with housework. I’m not suggesting that the pair from How Clean is Your House are about to burst through the door and take swabs from my carpets to the lab for immediate testing for the plague. But let’s just say that if they dropped by unexpectedly they might have a jolly time examining my kitchen surfaces and poking their noses under my bed looking for dust bunnies.
I admit it - cleaning does nothing for me – and I, in turn, cheerfully do nothing for it either. I know some people who swear by the buzz it gives them, but I would quite happily stick pins in my eyes rather than get down and dirty with a toilet brush and a bottle of Parazone. There are so many other, far better things I can think of to do with my time – things that do not involve getting busy with a feather duster. I’m just not the type to get excited about a Dyson extendible hose and what it can do for my curtains or those hard-to-reach areas at the top of door jambs. Who ever looks up there anyway? Unless you are freakishly tall, you’ll never see all the dust collecting away merrily, doing no-one any harm so what is the point exactly? (All you asthmatics look away now.) I have had cleaners in the past – but they never lasted the pace. It wasn’t because they didn’t live up to my impeccably high standards (let’s face it – anything they could do was bound to surpass my miserable efforts). No, it was the guilt that got to me. I found myself unable to cope with the idea of another person tackling my crumb–strewn floors and soap-scummed shower doors. I simply couldn’t face the shame. I knew what they were thinking you see – “How can this woman live in this squalor?” Or possibly “Are those yesterday’s breakfast dishes on the counter tops?”
I’ve reverted to trying to convert my nearest and dearest to my way of thinking, but sadly to very little avail. Even my children are tidier than me. My daughter, for example, likes to have all her Charlie and Lola books stacked just so and wouldn’t dream of scattering them higgledy piggedly by the bed like her mother does. (I’ve tried telling her that the shabby chic look is all the rage, but she refuses to listen to me.) Even my four year old son told me the other day that the toilet roll was on the holder the wrong way (well, at least I’d remembered to buy some I suppose).
So now I’ve devised a cunning plan. My new theory is that, by cutting down on cleaning, I am saving the planet: by not using abrasive cleaning products regularly I am single handedly preserving the ozone layer. In fact, I’m probably one of the most ecologically friendly people you could meet – granted more by accident than by design, but still. So, who needs the latest designer I’m Not a Plastic Bag bag to be cool? All you have to do is abstain from using bleach for long periods of time and you’re already an Eco Hero. (And before you know-it-alls in the back pipe up, yes I know you can practically clean your entire house with a lemon, but frankly it’s so much better with a tumbler of gin don’t you think?) And dust mites have to live somewhere right? It would be cruel to kill them all surely. So you see, not only am I an Eco Hero, I am a champion of animal rights as well. Imagine the good I could do if I completely stopped doing the laundry for a bit – now, there’s a worthwhile idea.
Picture Perfect
I didn’t always hate having my photo taken. One of my earliest memories is perching on a school desk in my best navy polyester tank-top, my favourite red ribbon with polka dots peeking through my curls, my white patent shoes swinging prettily from my feet. I thought I was only gorgeous. Second, in fact, to no-one (except maybe Holly Hobby – and that was only because she had plaits and a cool patchwork pinafore). I was delighted with myself. That is – until I saw the finished product. It was the first time I realised that the image I had of me in my head didn’t exactly materialise into print. Holly Hobby I was not.
When I signed my first book deal no-one mentioned photographs so it was an enormous shock when I discovered I had to get a professional head shot taken for the jacket cover of my soon-to-be published debut. I was horrified. I spent nights tossing and turning for the worry. Then, I spent even more nights fretting about the bags under my eyes that all the tossing and turning was creating. Not to talk of the crows’ feet and the slack jaw line. It’s no exaggeration to say I had to be manhandled into the photographer’s studio for the job to be done. I wobbled under the unforgiving studio lights, wondering how I could stop feeling so wooden and start acting natural. Unfortunately, I discovered that “acting natural” involved me perching on a stool and spinning endlessly round, throwing my head over my shoulder and pretending to laugh manically as I did so. Needless to say this didn’t work so well (laughing while trying to hold down vomit is not a great look for me apparently).
The crunch came when the photographer suggested I crouch on all fours, just for fun. I invented a gammy knee in the nick of time, but I suddenly found the whole scenario so ridiculous that, out of nowhere, I started to enjoy myself a bit. Maybe I wasn’t repulsive. These were professionals after all – if they couldn’t make me look good then who could? I had a brilliant photographer and makeup artist at my beck and call, another guy squatting at my feet angling a big yoke to throw flattering light in my direction (quite fun once I got over the fear that I had a huge bogey up my nose that was winking down at him) and an assistant to bring me lattes when the going got tough. For a minute I felt just like Sarah Jessica Parker. (Except for the Mammy pants sucking in my jelly belly, but he was only shooting from the waist up – how bad could it be?) Endless nights watching America’s Next Top Model paid off as I strutted my stuff, peering coquettishly from under my lashes and making come-hither eyes to beat the band. At last, I was going to be beautiful. And it would be on film for everyone to see.
A few days later the contact sheets came back. I rang the studio to tell them the photographer had sent the wrong ones by mistake – the ones that should have ended up on the cutting room floor. Where were all the gorgeous shots of me looking hot and sexy? But there had been no mistake. Turns out when I thought I was looking hot I was really looking God Awful. Apparently, I had some uncanny way of blinking non-stop - meaning that three quarters of the shots taken were now unusable. Which left half a dozen to choose from. And I looked nothing like SJP in any of them.
Since then many people (mostly family it has to be said) have told me how lovely the photo is (well, they have to, don’t they) but there was one little old lady in a city bookshop who hit the nail on the head.
“The photo is nice love,” she said doubtfully as I signed a book for her.
“Thanks very much”, I answered, chuffed a complete stranger, and not a blood relative, thought I looked good. Maybe it wasn’t that bad after all. “Yes,” she went on, “It doesn’t look a bit like you.”