Making It Up As I Go Along (15 page)

It has been the wettest bloody July I can ever
remember, and in the middle of it Himself and myself decided to go to Donegal for a few days, in
a strange ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ mentality. Apparently it always
rains in Donegal, so if it was going to be wet anywhere, we might as well be there.

Now, I’d never been to Donegal before
(neither had Himself, but you’d expect that, what with him being English) and I’d
always thought of it as this mad, wild, mystical place, sort of lawless and like a separate
country.

When I told people I was going I got two very
different reactions. 1) People warned us that it was the worst county in Ireland for
‘bungalow-itis’ and that as soon as you cross the border into Donegal there are
loudspeakers placed every four yards, blaring out Daniel O’Donnell songs, twenty-four
hours a day, like the way they do with the teachings of your man Kim Il Kim in North Korea. Or
2) people said it was really, really beautiful.

Well, I can report that although there is a good
bit of bungalow-itis in some areas, in other areas (the national park) it is utterly stunning
and wild and uninhabited and amazing, but sadly not once, no, not
once
, did I hear the
bould Daniel.

The people are extremely friendly and kind, and
that beautiful soft, melodic accent! Aye! We got a puncture outside Letterkenny and loads of
people came to help and we met some very kindly
people in Ulster Tyres who
toned down their accent so we could have half a clue what they were saying.

It was so funny, we were on our way to Sliabh
Liag (the highest marine cliffs in Europe) and (as always with me) nature called, so we stopped
at a tea-house/craft shop called Ti Linn in the middle of nowhere, where it transpired they had
beautiful crafts and yokes and I got the itch that I always get on holidays to buy things
I’d never buy at home, like cushions and tablecloths.

And while I was browsing, I noticed the place was
VERY FULL for a place in the middle of nowhere. Also, at the far end of the room was a table
buckling under the weight of finger-food. Because there were many men in suits eating the
cocktail sausages, Himself concluded it was the ‘afters’ of a funeral, whereas I
thought it was a corporate bonding yoke – that they were about to have their sangers,
before climbing Sliabh Liag.

Well, it transpired to be neither! Instead we had
gatecrashed the official opening of Ti Linn (even though it has in fact been open for four years
– I mean that, I’m not exaggerating) and we fell into a chat with a beautiful woman
called Laoise Kelly – who only happens to be one of the best harpists in Ireland –
and Steve Cooney, also a well-known musician. Himself was all star-struck because he is a big
fan of traditional music. I explained to them that I hadn’t a rasher’s who they were
because I only ever listen to George Michael, and they weren’t remotely offended by this
and introduced us to Siobhán, the owner of Ti Linn, and before we knew it we were right
in the
thick of things
, eating cocktail sausages for all we were worth and generally having a
top-notch time.

mariankeyes.com
,
July 2008.

One of the jammiest things that ever happened to
me was the
Guardian
sending myself and Himself on a romantic mini-break to
Finland/Lapland. Well, it was DELIGHTFUL. The fabulous thing was that we arrived in Helsinki at
6 p.m. on the Friday evening and I assumed all the shops would be closed. However! I was
entirely wrong. There were about forty-eight – OPEN! – Marimekko shops, all within
touching distance of the hotel, and they were ENORMOUS. The biggest collection of Marimekko
merchandise I’ve ever seen. The greatest density of Marimekko merchandise in the smallest
radius – it could be in the
Guinness Book of Records
.

I was suitably restrained, as per my New
Year’s resolution, and eventually purchased only two nightdresses and not an entire crate
of towels, bedlinen and clothing. Just the two nighties, one a teal and dark-blue stripy item
and the other a charcoal-grey with a fruit-bowl pattern. These are what I wear when I work, they
are in essence my uniform, so I didn’t feel guilty about buying them.

Then on to Ivalo, the most northern airport in
Finland, and there was so much that was beautiful and unusual that I probably won’t be
able to do it justice. Basically, it felt like we’d come to colonize a new planet. Because
the sun never actually rises during January, the sky was strange and beautiful; it was light,
but it was a funny colour, sort of lilac, and there was snow everywhere, which reflected the
lilac light, and the clouds looked like huge
purple satellites, just
hanging above us, and everywhere were endless forests of fir trees.

We stayed in a place called Kakslauttanen and
there were log cabins and glass igloos and ice bedrooms scattered throughout a snowy landscape,
and while we were there they were building an ice church and an ice restaurant.

Now, I must stress one thing: it was very, very,
very cold. It was minus 15 every day, and we had to wear several layers of technical long johns
before we could leave our little log cabin. Which was the cutest thing ever. I’d expected
it to be – yes, loggy – but also quite grim and functional, but it was soft and
comfortable and full of delicious little touches, like a carved heart-shaped table, which was
nothing like as kitsch as it sounds, but sort of reminded me of Minnie Mouse’s house in
Disneyland (a very, very good thing).

Also, there was a four-poster bed and other
furniture which was carved in a way that reminded me of
Who Framed Roger Rabbit
. Yes,
delightful!

We did loads of great stuff. We went on a sleigh
ride, pulled by reindeers, through a stunningly beautiful snowy forest. (And could have done a
similar thing with huskies if I wasn’t so afeerd of dogs.)

We did this mad ice-driving and rally-driving.
(Himself LOVED that. In fact he said that although we were having ‘a lovely romantic
time’ that this would be a great place for a stag weekend. Yes …) And the best bit
of all: a night-time snowmobile trip to see the Northern Lights.

Everyone was at pains to warn us that we probably
wouldn’t see them, because they’re not like trained seals, who entertain on demand.
But would you credit it, we saw them! It began by looking like pale-green dust swirling above
us. But soon it began to form into shapes – one
that looked like a
flying saucer and another that looked like a bridge and another that looked like a HUGE
cathedral hanging in the sky and many more that looked like massive mountain ranges. The more
time that passed, the more they appeared – I’ve never in my life seen such
awe-inspiring, magical sights.

We also met a delightful Japanese girl called
Tamoko Ono, who was there with her husband, who seemed like a Japanese Himself (quiet,
supportive). You know when you meet someone and you feel like you’ve met a soulmate, well,
that was Tamoko Ono. (We share a love for Marimekko and Hello Kitty, and we are both burdened by
being born under the Virgo star sign.) She – being Japanese – had these fantastic
disposable heat pads that you put in your gloves or boots or stick to your body and they heat up
and keep you from dying of cold. When she and her Japanese Himself left, she bequeathed me her
remaining ones. The kindness of strangers …

On our last night we stayed in a glass igloo, the
purpose of which is to lie in bed and gaze through your see-through roof at the Northern Lights,
but sadly there were no NLs on that night. But it was still fun, sort of like glass camping.

First published in the
Guardian
, January
2009.

As luck would have it, Himself and I were turfed
out of our house in Dublin due to it being riddled with damp and overrun with builders and this
coincided with Caitríona’s ‘special birthday’, so we went to New York and
rented an apartment for a month because we are lucky, lucky yokes.

The cast of characters was as follows: Mam, Dad,
Tadhg, me, Himself, Suzanne from London, Eileen (Eilers) and Siobhán … actually, now
that I look at the list it seems very short. It certainly felt like there were lots more of us
when we were all together. (I should state that not everyone was staying for the full month
– that was only Himself and myself. Everyone else stayed for five days.)

Rita-Anne couldn’t come because of being up
the duff, and Tadhg’s fiancée Susan couldn’t come either, and both of these
losses came as terrible blows because they are the only sensible ones in the family.

Now, about Siobhán. Siobhán and I have
been friends since we were fourteen (her brother was my first boyfriend, and although he dumped
me for a posh girl with big knockers, Siobhán and I remained friends). It’s one of
those lovely friendships where we have absolutely NOTHING IN COMMON but we still love each
other.

She has three really lovely girls and a perfect
home and perfect blonde hair and wears pastels without mysterious brown stains
appearing on them four seconds after she’s put them on. Nothing at all like me. And
yet we are great pals, and Himself and I are godparents to daughter number 3, Emily.

So we all had great fun for five days, then the
others went home and Himself and I stayed, and our rented apartment is lovely, especially
because unlike most Manhattan apartments
it has –
yes!
– a window
,
although we had to pay extra for that, and the only fly in the entire ointment is that on our
first night here I was woken from my jet-lagged slumber by very, very loud music coming from the
apartment next to the one next door.

Then on the second night I was woken from my
jet-lagged slumber by very, very loud music coming from the apartment next to the one next door.

Then on the third night I was woken from my
sleep-deprived, half-mad slumber by very, very loud music coming from the apartment next to the
one next door. The walls were practically pulsing, it was so loud and bassy, but wait till I
tell you the most bizarre thing – it was a Cher song! A Cher song remixed so it had a
dancey bassline but it still had that stupid, singing-into-a-plastic-pipe wobbly singing bit.
Talk about adding insult to injury! If I have to be woken in the middle of the night, I’d
at least like it to be by someone good, like George Michael.

There were so many things that were wrong about
this Cher song that I hardly knew where to start. I decided that the fact that it was 2.30 in
the morning was as good a place as any, so I lurched from my bed, Himself trying to restrain me,
out into the corridor – where the music was so loud the ceiling was crumbling – then
banged and banged and banged like a maniac on the door of the apartment where Cher was coming
from. (Himself, still mostly asleep, was staggering around the bedroom, trying to find a pair of
jocks to put on to accompany me.)

Afterwards, when I was
telling the story, many people expressed shock and said, ‘But this is New York, people
have guns, you could have been killed!’ But the way I was feeling I’d have been
delighted
to have been shot! I need my sleep. I need an awful lot of it. I can’t
function without it.

Eventually a young man with curly, neatly cut
hair opened the door, and I nearly went blind from the force of the music, but he didn’t
shoot me and instead he found the whole thing wildly funny, which is probably fair enough,
seeing as I was standing there in my nightdress, my hair askew, and sobbing with frustration.

After much negotiation, and pauses for him to
writhe with mirth, he agreed to turn the music down. Every night since then, going to bed
I’ve been clenched with fear, afraid to go to sleep because I’m terrified of being
woken by Cher or worse.

Although I know next to nothing about the
Cher-lover, every time I pass his door I stare hard and ‘feel’ him, and my
imagination has conjured up all kinds of things, mostly based on the fact that he doesn’t
seem to have a job, because his telly is always on in the daytime and he can dance his little
hooves off in the middle of the night without any apparent worries about having to get up for
work in the morning.

Also, his apartment has a window, so he’s
clearly no stranger to the finer things in life, like natural Manhattan daylight. So where is he
getting the money from? From his rich daddy, is my (admittedly baseless) conclusion.

Now and again he gets late-night visitors (other
nicely turned-out young men) who bang on his door and say, ‘Yo! Open up, man!’ and I
lie in my bed and curl my lip and repeat, ‘Yo!’ with great scorn, because the young
man is very young (about fifteen) and his haircut is most definitely not the haircut of a
‘Yo!’ kind of person.

Strangest of all, New York
is a really noisy city, but I’ve no problem being woken by police sirens or cars beeping
or disembodied voices shrieking, ‘You didn’t do that, motherfucker, you DID NOT DO
THAT!!!!’ But still, a teenage youth who likes nothing more harmless than dancing around
his apartment to Cher in the middle of the night can reduce me to lunacy.

Now, wedding dresses! Caitríona is getting
married in August and a lot of my time in New York has been spent in specialist wedding-dress
shops, looking at Caitríona in the most beautiful dresses.

I don’t know if any of you have done the
accompanying-a-loved-one-as-she-tries-on-wedding-dresses thing, but I think I’ve found my
niche, my hobby, my passion, call it what you will. I LOVE it. I find it endlessly absorbing,
soothing, exciting and enjoyable; it completely takes me out of myself. I have a terrifyingly
short attention span, but I could look at loved ones trying on wedding dresses for ever.

Sadly (or maybe not, it couldn’t have gone
on indefinitely) she has actually found a dress, stunning, fabulous and really special. Maeve
Binchy once wrote an article called ‘The Woman Who Walked into Weddings’ about a
woman who gatecrashed weddings because they made her feel so good. Maybe I should start hanging
around bridal shops and infiltrating dress-viewing parties of women – there are usually so
many people present that I should be able to mingle unnoticed.

Finally, I had my legs waxed – by the only
blind leg waxer in New York. Even in a city full of gimmicks, this is going too far. I
don’t think the poor woman knew she was blind but I kept having to point out patches that
she’d missed, and now that I’ve got my legs back to the apartment and am examining
them in the light shed by our expensive (but worth it) window, my legs look like a
field of crop circles! Nevertheless, if that’s all I have to worry
about, I’m doing okay. As my mammy would say, at least I
have
legs.

Altogether now, DO YOU BEEEELIEVE IN LIFE AFTER
LOVVVVVVE.

mariankeyes.com
,
February 2008.