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 June 2007 Huge apologies for last month's let down! Much has happened! Yes, mes amies, I am so so sorry for not doing me blog last month and thank you to all of you - God, there were millions - who wrote in with messages of sympathy and absolution, but I will explain what happened. I'll start at the beginning of May, outlining all the highlights, including my interesting and ongoing ill health and bring you right up to date. Okay, at the start of May, we went to EuroDisney. I will list the cast members: me, Himself, Mam, Dad, Rita-Anne, Jimmy, Caitríona and Seán (who had come from New York) and Ema (7), Luka (5) and Ljiljana (not exactly sure, something in her 30s) who had come from Prague. I had worked round the clock before we went in the hope that I'd be finished the first draft of This Charming Man and therefore would be able to kick up my heels with great relief in the company of Minnie Mouse, Tigger etc. but sadly it was not to be. A small but challenging portion remained to be still written and hung over me like a guilt-making, anxious-making cloud as we boarded the Minnie Mouse Express. 
But never mind! Have you ever been to any of the Disney Places? Now, I wouldn't blame you for curling your lip in a sneer and saying, 'You'd never catch me in any of them places. It's nothing but a money-making exercise!' Well, I agree with you that it probably IS a money-making exercise but not JUST a money-making exercise because it's GORGEOUS. It was Ema's 7th birthday the day we went and we had such a lovely time. There were a few hairy moments when Dad overdid it on the teacups and got 'a reel in the head' (Irish phrase meaning 'dizzy') and had to be led away, weaving all over Main Street USA, bumping into small children and knocking their Mickey Mouse ears off their heads and he had to be reinstated in his hotel room by my mother. It was her I felt for really because she'd got a gleam in her eye and had fashioned plans for the Aerosmith ride which now came to naught. And speaking of which, if you go, the Aerosmith ride is just TOO funny. It's a rollercoaster, like other rollercoasters, except that they play Aerosmith songs, so there you are doing loop-de-loops and hanging upside down and singing 'Walk this way' and doing the 'nerdiddynerdiddyner' guitar bit. Another hairy moment when on 'The Cars' ride (or indeed 'Les Voitures') when I got chastised by an outraged Disney employee as I flicked the Vs at Himself, as Ema and I drove past Luka and Himself.
Then we went to Paris! Yes, for 2 days! Where Niall (father of Ema and Luka) joined us and the thing was, and none of us knew it, but Seán Ferguson had planned to ask Caitríona to marry him! Yes! In Paris! How romantic! But everything conspired against him. She got a sore throat (oh yes, she is a Keyes, no doubt about it) and 'refused' to go out in the cold for a romantic walk, where he had planned to find an ultra-romantic spot to 'pop the question'. So he shelved his plans until after dinner that evening. But guess what! We put on the news and there was a big newsflash saying, '40,000 rioters expected in Central Paris this evening!' Because of the election, you see? That right-wing bloke Sarkovy or whatever his name is had been elected instead of the lovely Socialist WOMAN and people - specifically the Algerian-descended youths in the outer suburbs whom Sarpoxy had called 'scum' - were flooding into the Champs-Élysées to demonstrate their displeasure. As it happened, we were staying 2 feet from the Champs-Élysées and the restaurant we were going to for our dinner was approx 18 inches from the Champs-Élysées. As we went out for dinner, the fuss was beginning, but as we emerged, preparations for the riot were in full flow. Millions of riot police EVERYWHERE and the sounds of shouting and general chaos.I love the French so I do: if they're not striking, they're rioting. As a nation, they really care about things. At this stage Seán Ferguson was a sweaty wreck but nothing would divert him from his plan, so somehow - and God knows how exactly he managed it - he persuaded Caitríona to go down to the Seine. Himself turned to me, extended a gentlemanly arm and said, 'Care to take a stroll up to view the riots?' Well, being an old lefty, as indeed Himself is, I couldn't think of anything nicer. Sadly we couldn't get very close, what with barriers and armed police and all that, but as luck would have it, we were standing outside the very apartment block where Sarpoxy was having his celebratory dinner ('May it choke him'. Irish phrase meaning, 'Well, yes, I hope some of your dinner gets lodged in your oesophagus because I don't like you,') and there were 4 million television cameras waiting outside, so we waited too and every time one of the citizens of the building came down to put out his bin or leave a note for the milkman or give his dog his last walk of the evening, the crowd thought it was the right-winger and alternately cheered and booed (me and Himself booed of course. I also shouted, 'Shame on you, you smelly right-winger. You can't go round calling people 'scum' then refusing to apologise for it. Also it is so VERY WRONG to wear a double-breasted blazer with jeans.') So by the time we got back to the hotel, the deed was done, the question had been popped, the answer had been in the affirmative, a ring had been produced, the most beautiful diamond, very very pretty, very Caitríona, and they were all sitting in the lobby of the hotel drinking champagne! Fantastic. It was a night sprinkled in stardust and special thanks has to go to Michael Fitzgerald in New York, who gave Seán Ferguson the diamond at a very reasonable price. 
So after all that excitement, we all left France and returned to our respective homes and I worked and worked and worked and worked and worked and worked on the book. I started early in the am and worked all day, then after dinner went back to work and finally I finished the first draft 2 days before I was due to go to Sweden. (I'm not looking for praise here, simply setting the scene.) Now, I will admit I was afraid I would come down with my old trouble, the virus-style lurgy, but my body, wily type that it is, had a surprise in store for me - yes, a MASSIVE cold-sore on my chin, I'm talking massive, the whole chin area, weeping and crusty and so indescribably unsightly, accompanied by - God, the grossness - an infection in my nose which swelled one side of my nose up to 20 times its normal size and was so red that I was causing traffic confusion. (Cars stopping when they were allowed to go.) I looked like a troll and Doctor Murphy prescribed antibiotics and a paper bag to wear on my head. Throw into the mix a mouthful of ulcers, two handfuls of hangnails and torn, bleeding skin and the fact that I suddenly aged 20 years overnight and I wasn't the best ambassador for my books heading off to Stockholm.(I enclose a picture, also featuring my 'jacket of many buttons' which I wrote about in April and many of you said you'd like to see it.) Although have you been to Stockholm? It's astonishingly beautiful and impressive. And very, very clean. And the people are fantastic - they're very decent and fair and friendly and EVERYONE I met was wonderful to me, even though I sometimes removed my paper bag from my head. More than a million copies of my books have been sold in Sweden and 55,000 copies of the new hardback. I am so very grateful to you all. I felt accepted and loved, despite my face. Everyone I met seemed to be planning to head off to the Swedish archipelago for the Summer and it filled me with a jealous obsession to find a nice simple (mirror-free) cabin by a lakeside or in a forest, with no cars and quietness all around, but although I've been scouring the internet, all cabins fitting that description are fully booked for the rest of the Summer. Now, I'm not complaining here, but my schedule in Stockholm could be described as 'gruelling.' I mean I was there to work, so I haven't a leg to stand on, but - and really I'm not complaining - it was relentless. Very early starts, evening events and in between there were no breaks, it was interview after interview after interview, sometimes with a wretched bloody photographer who'd take me outside and make me walk up and down steps on trembling legs as he (oh, yes, it was always a 'he') looked for his best shot. In order to celebrate the fact that I was having my photo taken many times, also being on telly, a selection of pustules and medieval-style boils erupted on my face, to keep the massive cold-sore and the troll-nose company. And no matter how much make-up I plastered on, my grey exhausted face continued to resurface. Plus, I was also 'tailed' by a journalist, who shackled herself to me for an entire day, from waking to bedtime, so I had to pretend to be in good form all the time. There were many lovely moments though. Thank you to the courageous woman who stole me a rondellhund from her local roundabout and presented it to me. I'm sorry you got into trouble (she'd been spotted nicking it and got reported) but I hope Norstedts have returned it, because Emma and Linnea, the artists, missed it very much. (The plan had been that Norstedts, my publishers would post it to me and I would 'plant' it in my local roundabout and hopefully start the rondellhund craze (roundabout dog) in Ireland. Alas it was not to be.) On my last night in Stockholm I went for dinner with several lovely people who work in the book world and who have supported my books over the years but I suddenly found myself unable to speak. I think I must have used up all my words in the interviews because I was hearing people's questions down a long echoey tunnel. "Where do you get your IDEAS FROM? FROM? From? From? Fromfromfromfromfromfromfrom? FROM? FROM? FROM? FROM?" It was really weird. I was trying to formulate answers and I couldn't remember the words for things and it was like the word gearbox in my brain had jammed. It was horrific and people were looking at me like I was a right oddball and I was desperately hoping that something dramatic would happen like flames would come out of my ears or that I'd suddenly start speaking a strange gutteral language in a Beelzebub-style growl, and then perhaps they'd realise something was wrong with me and they might allow me to go home to bed. But all I could do was stare at them desperately and wish the right words would land on my tongue. Anyway, when I got back to Ireland I thought things would get better but they got worse. I began stumbling and falling and dropping things and misjudging distances. One evening the thought crossed my mind that I needed to have a smear test - never a pleasant consideration - and the next thing I got 'a reel in the head' and found myself lying on the floor. So that, my loyal amigos, is the reason that I didn't do a May blog. All I wanted to do was run away to a small cabin beside a peaceful lake in Sweden and carve rough-hewn rondellhundar and salt my own herrings but instead I had to go to Englandland. Although it was for a lovely reason, it was to meet the newest of the nephews, Gabe, brother of Jude, son of Chris and Caron. Lovely Jude is almost two and a half now, and is a very sweet child and from when he was 3 days old, he was the LIVING IMAGE of his Dad. Gabe, however is a different kettle of fish entirely and it never ceases to amaze me that the same gene-pool can produce children who look so different. Jude is dark-eyed and dark-haired and very very pretty. But Gabe, even at 5 weeks is the LIVING IMAGE of Ross Kemp (Grant in Eastenders) - really bright blue eyes - although they might change - and a bald head and a solid, sure presence and already he was smiling! At least he was at me. (Smug.) Then off to London for the Orange Prize. In fairness, this is one of the things in my life that I'm most proud of, to have been a part of that. The night before the ceremony, the 6 shortlisted authors (except for Anne Tyler who is a recluse) read from their books and they were brilliant. All of the 6 books are fantastic and very diverse and I was so proud that we'd picked such good ones that I cried. (Mind you, I've been crying at the drop of a hat anyway.) Then the 5 judges (I was one) were 'whisked' away from the reading and incarcerated in a room in Soho House and told we wouldn't be let out until we'd picked a winner. It took us until midnight, but that was grand because it wouldn't have felt right to not have given each of the books a thorough examination. Then - the worst bit - we had to take a vow of silence until it was announced at the fancy shindig the following night and although I had no intention of telling anyone, I was terrified when I was doing interviews about it on telly that following day that I would be seized by a Tourettes-style, irresistible urge and I'd suddenly shout out, "It's Half of Yellow Sun!!!Yes!! It is!! That's the winner!!!!" Then back to Ireland - with AnneMarie and baby Jack who is now five months old. I hadn't seen him in a couple of months and AnneMarie had assured me that he was a lovely baby, very good-humoured, hardly ever cried but secretly I thought, 'Me arse.' Everyone says that about their babies. And although I was delighted they were coming to stay I was wondering how my already beleaguered Central Nervous System was going to cope with a shrieking baby in the house. I'd been hoping for a little bit of peace and quiet for the 4 days before I went to South Africa. But as it transpired, AnneMarie wasn't lying!!! Jack Scanlon is - and my apologies to other friends and family who have babies - one of the nicest, most good-humoured fellas I've ever met. He'd laugh at ANYTHING. Which is very gratifying. And in the 4 days I had with him between coming home from London and leaving for Johannesburg, I'm convinced he did me more good than a whole month spent salting my own herrings in a small, quiet, mirrorless cabin beside a lake in Sweden. I lost several hours lying beside him doing fake coughs (he finds it unceasingly hilarious) and singing him songs about how shaming it is to have to go on telly when you've a massive cold sore covering your entire chin. He really is a DOTE. Then on June 10th, we sadly took our leave of Jack (oh, yes and AnneMarie, of course) and flew to Johannesburg. This was my third visit to South Africa and the best so far. I'd like to thank all of you, so many who turned out in droves, literally hundreds, for all my events. You welcomed me so warmly and it was a huge, HUGE pleasure. (If you are ever going to Johannesburg, try and stay in The Grace, it's such an excellent hotel, small and friendly and you get many free things, like fruit and canapes at 5 o'clock and free afternoon tea and other wonderful things.) News reached me on June 13th that I'd won the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance. Melissa Nathan, some of you may know, was a very clever, funny writer who died last year from cancer at the outrageously young age of 39 and this was the inaugural year. I was so THRILLED to win and GUTTED not to be there to get the trophy and the honour and the glory. Then on to Cape Town for the Book Fair, for more thronged events. It's not fair for me to single out any one event because I felt so welcomed and appreciated at all of them, but I was overwhelmed by the reception I got at the Fairlady Brunch at the Table Bay Hotel. 200 people (with another 200 turned away - I'm sorry!) and the whole thing was so feel good and such a laugh! It was such a pleasure for me and thank you all so much for coming. I had a couple more dodgy episodes in Cape Town, where I stopped being able to speak, also I continued to look ancient, easily 94 and a half and I had many, many lapses from my sugar-free state. However, there was one bonus. I discovered this fabulous product from Sisley. (I have often written in the past about my great love of Sisley skin-care and how their wondrous Global Anti-Age is the only 'super-cream' that I will hand over hard cash for.) This lovely yoke is called Phyto-Touche Or (that is French for 'golden dry oil') and it's for EVERYTHING - your body, your face, your hair. A great perker-upper. So it meant that I could dispense with having to apply fake tan every night and having to dance around for 20 minutes in my pelt to dry myself before going to bed. Also it neutralised the worst of the ashen greyness on my fizzog. All in all it gave me a bit of much-needed sparkle. After Cape Town we went to Tanzania for a few days to see the animals (yes, I am a lucky cow). First we stayed in a fantastic tent (by fantastic, I mean it has a proper jacks!) beside a river which was riddled, yes RIDDLED with hippos and they kept making these fantastic gawking, belchy noises, the type that Himself says I make if I've just drunk an entire litre of diet coke in one go, a litre that had been standing in the hot sun for a while. Spectacular! Like being possessed be the divil. 
Then we went to the most fabulous place on earth. The Ngorongoro Crater Lodge. It's like a magic mountain kingdom, which looks down on the floor of the Crater hundreds of feet below, which is a bit like what I imagine the Garden of Eden would have been like if it had ever existed. (None of that literal interpretation of the Bible for me! Ho, no!) Lions and elephants and warthogs and cheetahs and hyenas and jackals and pink flamingos and hippos and pelicans and much, much more. No giraffes though, because the sides of the crater are too steep for their delicate legs.
The Lodge is the most incredible, most romantic place ever, huge, vaulted, triple-height ceilings made from banana leaves, hung with elaborate crystal chandeliers. Claw-foot baths and tree-trunks in your room and everything so beautiful and the staff the most obliging, kindly types ever. (Also, fyi, it's run by CC Africa, who are committed to ethical, eco-good stuff. What I liked was that the staff are all Tanzanian. So often in these places, the lowly jobs are given to the indigenous people but the managerial posts are given to some whitey from far away.) Just one word of advice, because the altitude is so high, it's cold. Bring a ganzee. ('Ganzee' Irish word meaning, jumper, fleece, sweater, gilet, poncho etc.)Now we are back home in Ireland and I'm on my way over to Doctor Murphy - plus ça change, mes amies - because I managed to get some stomach bug on my travels and the over-the-counter anti-puking stuff is defeated by the specialness of whatever is wrong with me. I have puked with such gusto that I've pulled a muscle in my oesophagus and it keeps twanging away good-oh inside of me like a plucked guitar string. (I am not exaggerating.) So there we are. Once again, sorry for letting you down so heinously last month and sorry about all the whinging I've done this month. I intend to spend July working away without drama, editing and fine tuning the book and taking strong doses of Vitamin B and I have high hopes that I will be restored to funniness and non-whineiness by next month. Thank you again for all your kindness and patience and I hope all is well with you. Lots of love Marian |
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Photo © Neil Cooper