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 August 2007 Much happens! Worried that I mightn’t get to tell you it all! Tremendously active month. So much so that will have to ‘precis’ many events. Or indeed just provide you with edited highlights. Well I began the month by finishing my book. Yes! Apart from bits and pieces, a final read-through, the copy-editing and the proof-reading, it’s done! All 210,000 words of the fecker. I celebrated this monumental feat by; a) tidying my spice drawer b) buying a new bathmat c) taking 2 pictures to the framers No-one can say that I don’t know how to let my hair down! Also, very early in the month I went to see George Michael. What is your view on GM? A fan? Or can you just ‘take him or leave him’? I would have considered myself a mild fan, I’ve enjoyed him since the Wham days and play him fairly often in my car (the only time I ever listen to music) but I wouldn’t have said that I LOVED him and in fact I’m not really sure how I ended up agreeing to go to see him because I’m not the kind of person who normally goes to gigs because I usually can’t see anything and end up getting beer split on me and being uncomfortable and bored and other bad things. Anyway, Himself seemed to think that actually I DID love George Michael and bought tickets and along we went with Mags and Rita-Anne. Himself had agreed to come even though he was a straight man and there weren’t too many of them in the audience. However, we’d been given a head’s-up by our friends Paul and Aoife, who’d been to see George last Nov and they’d said it was ‘a fantastic night’ and this had aroused my curiosity because Paul (Paul Whitington, I’ve been friends with him since we were both 16, his birthday is the day after mine) is very, very hard to impress. He is really quite sceptical – in a very admirable way – and my thinking was that if Paul Whitington enjoyed George Michael, then George Michael must be very, very good indeed. Himself was obviously thinking along the same lines as he came to the gig. Anyway, to make a long story short it was one of the very best nights of my life. I hadn’t realised until I was there singing along that actually I really really LOVED George Michael. It was a very emotional night because there was so much love there for him. It was one great big enormous George love-fest. He was charming, humble, extremely likeable and he looked BEAUTIFUL and everyone was singing and clapping along like Late Late Show audience gobshites. (Quick note: The Late Late Show is an Irish chat show and they seem to bus their studio audiences in from the 1950s. They always seem to be peopled by biddable eejits who will clap along like wind-up toys to anything - all they need to hear is the opening three notes of My Lovely Horse or indeed even the sound of a clock ticking and the next thing, there they all are, happy shiny-eyed gobshites, clapping obediently along, like time-warp automatons. Sometimes Himself makes me to go music things and even when the music is infectiously rhythmic, I resist the urge to get into it, just in case I start clapping like – exactly! – a member of The Late Late Show audience. It is one of my biggest fears.) But there I was at George Michael, clapping along SHAMELESSLY, all inhibitions and sense of decorum gone. To sum up: if GM comes to your town, go and see him. 
Then Himself and myself went to Mayo for a couple of days. Eileen’s family has a house there and many of them were home from America and Geneva and other farflung places and the weather was beautiful and me, Eileen, Himself and Eileen’s cousin Stephen Gibbons climbed Croagh Patrick. Mother of Christ, it was hard! I’d done it before, some years ago and I’m sure they’ve made it a lot steeper and higher since. Four and a half hours it took. (This is shamefully slow. Even people in their bare feet do it faster.)A few days after we came back from Mayo, Niall, Ljiljana, Ema and Luka arrived from Prague for their Summer holidays. Luka turned 6 on August 13th so wild celebrations ensued. Himself and myself bought him a Spiderman car yoke because even though I love buying him cute clothes, he was in a fouler the last time because he thought he was getting something good and it turned out to be just a t-shirt. (I mean, I thought it was lovely, but I suppose it wasn’t my birthday.) Oh God, yes! I’ve just remembered big news! I got my hair colour changed. Radically. Fundamentally. Profoundly. Yes. My hairdresser Jason (from The Hairbox, Dun Laoghaire) has had a vision for me for some time now. A vision which involved getting rid of my dark hair with purplish highlights and going instead for a ‘rich brown.’ I was doubtful and I admitted it to him, but I took the attitude that it’s only hair and that even if it was a disaster that it could be fixed, or that even if it couldn’t be fixed that it would eventually grow again. I mean, look at Britney! So I submitted to the process and oh, mes amies – and I don’t want to say anything to upset Jason, of whom I am immensely fond – but I wasn’t happy. However, the truly bizarre thing was that I was able to sit there and say, “You know what Jason, I don’t really like it. We embarked on an adventure together, we knew it could be risky, but we were prepared to take our chances and sadly it hasn’t worked out.” Truly, I am finally an adult (more of which in a while.) Every other hair disaster I’ve had in my life I’ve said, tight-throated, high-voiced, trying to choke back the tears, “Lovely, yes lovely, oh look the back view, yes lovely there also, I must go now, here is a hundred quid tip, lovely, yes, I’m quite thrilled, please let me through, goodbye.” Then I’d rush out into the street and go home and shriek at whoever was misfortunate enough to be there. 
The problem as I see it is – and it is here that Jason and I part company - it has a faint gingerish hue. Jason stalwartly denies that I have any hint of ginger, but even Himself – who knows well the risk involved in criticising my hair - said when I came home, “It’s not bad. But - and I beg of you to restrain yourself, madam, it IS a bit gingery.” (He’d been reading Charles Dickens.) (Another thing, before I get a deluge of ginger-haired people sending me angry emails, can I just say that actually I think red hair is beautiful. Just not on me. I’m too pale and freckly to get away with it.)The other problem is that I don’t feel like me anymore. When I had dark hair and purplish bits I thought that despite all my many, many faults, I had a bit of dash, a certain pizzazz but now I feel like a nondescript middle-aged woman and none of my clothes goes with my hair. Nevertheless, yes, nevertheless, and I’m not entirely sure why, I’ve decided to stick with it for a while. Mercifully I had already said no to all telly and photo stuff for the foreseeable future (too stressy, my poor central nervous system still isn’t so good. Mind you, it has been top-notch stuff I’ve turned down – Hell’s Kitchen, I’m A (ginger-haired) Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, Celebrity Masterchef and an offer to have my own show!), as I would have had to cancel them forthwith, so it’s not like it matters if I have gingery hair. No-one other than the postman and the people in the picture framers when I go back to collect the pictures, will see me. However, as a result of all the chemicals, my hair was in utter flitters so I treated myself to Frederik Fekkai’s range for Extremely Banjaxed Hair. (Actually I don’t think that’s the exact name.) Oh beautiful, beautiful products. So beautiful that I’ve just got up and gone and got them so I can tell you their exact name. It’s the Protein Rx range. I got the lot, the reparative shampoo, the conditioner, the daily protein fortifier and – best of all! – the anti-breakage treatment mask. I swear to you, my hair had an entirely different texture after I’d used the mask, it was no longer breaking off in my hand. Also, I really approve of this mask, because it spells itself ‘mask’ and not ‘masque’ which is a bit wanky. Finally, I threw in the Summerhair Zero-humidity frizz control. Which is a bit of a laugh considering we’ve just had the wettest Summer in Irish history. Humidity? We’d be thrilled by a bit of humidity. All the same, the spray seems to work just as well against the damp constantly hanging in the Irish air. While I’m raving about products, I must tell you about an experience I had. It’s about being an adult and getting older and all that. Now, I genuinely don’t care about getting older, there’s an undeniable relief in it, but one of the things that I was aware of is that, as I advanced through my 40s, my lips would shrink from luscious plump youthful cushions (in my dreams) to a mean, judgemental slash. It sort of made me sad because mouths can be nice things and I knew that if things got desperate I COULD go for that trout-pout injecty thing, although the thought depressed me terribly. Anyway, about a year ago (or maybe it wasn’t quite that long) I started using Dermalogica’s Multi-Vitamin Power for lip and eyes. A thick, fragrant ungent which banished the fag-smokers lines which had started to appear above my mouth (which considering that I’m not a smoker seemed only fair) but last week as I was putting on lipstick, it suddenly dawned on me that actually, my mouth seemed quite pouty. Poutier than it used to be, or so it seemed. How could that be? I was getting older not younger. Was it the Dermalogica thing? Before I go any further, can I let you know my feelings on a few things. 1) There is nothing wrong with getting older – and looking older. 2) There is nothing wrong with our lips shrinking from luscious plump youthful cushions to a mean, judgemental slash. It’s called character. 3) Women (and actually men, now, too) are put under horrific pressure to spend a fortune on no end of anti-aging, anti-cellulite, beautifying stuff and we should resist such bullying. 4) I stopped writing a beauty column because despite my great, conflicted love of the products I felt uncomfortable being part of that industry. 
So mes amies, I wouldn’t be telling you this story if I didn’t think it was true.
Then myself and my pouty mouth went to Lahinch in County Clare with the Praguers and Himself where we had a truly lovely time and the torrential rain held off for a couple of days.Then no sooner had the Praguers gone than Caitriona and Sean arrived from New York, on the scout for a place in the West of Ireland to get married in. Fun times were being had by all until I discovered that I’d misunderstood copy-editing dates and I thought I had AGES left to make changes to the shagging book, when in fact I had NO TIME. This necessitated a round-the-clock lock-down, with me chained to the effing computer, my heart racing, my mouth dry, deciding I hated every word I’d written. Oh, horrible, horrible, so horrible that I ended up getting sick (old style virus which hasn’t bothered me since last Nov.) It is a pain in the bum being sick and I am ashamed to be always going on about it. Anyway, I got the changes done and I’m trying to let go of the book and kiss it goodbye and wish it well on its journey and generally to stop being such a mentaller control-freak about everything, but god knows it’s HARD!!! Many, many of you have been kindly enough to ask when the book will be out. It’s called This Charming Man and will be out (I think) in Ireland, UK, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa next March. It’s not a Walsh book but is still very nice. It will be out in US and Canada in May and I’m afraid that in non-English-speaking countries, the publication dates depends on how long the translation takes. But thank you for all your kindness and interest and patience. The hi-jinks look set to continue well into September. Cait and Sean are still here. AnneMarie and baby Jack arrive for 10 days. Then on Friday I go to Prague with Himself, Tadhg and Susan, then on Saturday we drive to Bratislava with Niall and Lilers to see our glorious boys in green thrash the living daylights out of Slovakia (in the European Championship qualifiers.) Then, yes, then, myself and Himself go to Istanbul. On a minibreak. Which coincides with my birthday (Sept 10th). What do you think? Many of my more liberal friends have gone cat’s-arse mouthed about me visiting Turkey and yes, I know where they’re coming from. Indeed for many years I wouldn’t go there because of their hideous record on human rights. However, I will say 2 things. 1) They have cleaned up their act to a certain extent. 2) If I decided to steer clear of every country who doesn’t have a decent human rights record, I wouldn’t even be able to live in Ireland. There are rumours that planes flying suspects out of the US and onto a European country to be tortured (so the US government can say that they don’t torture) stop in Shannon (airport in County Clare) for refuelling. Oh God, mes amies, what a downbeat note to end on. Let’s think about something nice before we say goodbye for this month. Let’s just meditate on the fact that it will be September any minute. Oh yes, autumn, season of new boots! And coats. And handbags. Think of all the lovely things that’ll be in the shops. I LOVE September. I LOVE Autumn. Let’s think of how great we’ll feel in our new boots! And high-waisted jeans (actually, that was just bravado there, I am very, very fearful of high-waisted jeans and won’t be buying a pair any time soon. I mean, I look at Kylie and think, How does she do it? Please God, let me die and come back as her. And then I think, but what good is it, looking fantastic in a pair of – no doubt, free - high-waisted jeans if your fella two-times you with an Israeli model? And then I think, ah sure, feck it, I’ll stick with the normal waisted ones for the time being in the hope that Himself won’t run away. Explanatory note: I am not seeking to imply that Oliver Martinez didn’t like Kylie’s high-waisted jeans. I am seeking more to imply that no-one’s life is perfect, not even those charmed few who know how to wear high-waisted jeans.) Thank you, as always, for your kindness. I hope you had a lovely August and that your September features a pair of black patent, platform ankle boots, a teal-blue swingy carcoat and a metallic grape-coloured handbag. (If colourways are not to your liking, feel free to change them. I will never know, I just want you to be happy.) Lots and lots of love Marian |
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Photo © Neil Cooper