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 March 2008 Still homeless! But don't mind anymore! Hello mes amies and I hope you had a lovely March. In fairness, the lighter days (for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere) have made everything a lot easier I have to say, yes all a lot more bearable, the burden easier to carry etc etc. Himself and myself came home from New York early in the month and it came as no surprise that our damp-ridden house was still overrun with builders and we had nowhere to live so my parents, with unbelievable generosity opened their door to us and took us in and gave us their spare room and free run of the Magnum-filled freezer and Clubmilk-filled presses and gave us beautiful pink towels (special 'guest' towels) and invited us nightly to watch Lewis or Heartbeat or Taggart or Midsomer Murders or reruns of Frost or reruns of Morse. The only stumbling block was the bed in the spare room which is about 107 years old and has over the years become shaped like a roof (you know, pointy and sticky-upy in the middle, then sloping away on either side, almost down to the floor.) We were so grateful to have a roof over our heads that we were loath to complain so we hung onto each other, trying to balance on the middle of the sticky-upy bit, but one night, deep in slumber, I accidentally let go of Himself and he rolled to the edge and tumbled out onto the floor and sustained a bruise to his right knee. So we asked Mam and Dad if they'd mind if we bought them a new bed - we thought this was the most diplomatic way of putting it - but actually my mother was delighted because she has a 'thing' about beds. I suppose the best way to put it is that she's a collector. Whenever she hears of any of the neighbours planning to throw out an old bed, she asks if she can have it, 'just in case.' Dad on the other hand wasn't so keen because to quote him, "This house is full of fecking beds," and yes he had a point (many single beds and futons and the like) but we were keen to emphasise that the old pointy-middled bed would be going and although Mam looked a bit startled by that, she eventually agreed. We were all getting along famously and to keep it that way, we left after a week because we didn't want to take the piss and for them to take agin us and for us all to start shouting and shoving and flinging around accusations about drinking the last pint of milk and being selfish and that sort of thing. 
So we went to Clare for a while. Lahinch to be exact which is where we used to go on our holiers as kids and where we still go every summer. Now, you know in January when you all so kindly let me know where I should go for a romantic mini-break, well may I repay the favour to you. Go to Moy House in County Clare, a couple of miles outside Lahinch. You'll have the most restful, regenerating time you could possibly imagine. There are only 9 rooms and all of them are different but they're all stunningly beautiful, with those paint colours that Dulux don't do, you know the type I mean, Dusty Badger and Frostbite Blue and Three Day Old Bruise (a very tasteful, subtle mauve.) Sophisticated and elegant but so so comfortable and homely. (Actually I really enjoyed making those names up, maybe some paint company would give me a job.) The views of the Atlantic are stunning and the food is - I swear to God - world class and you can have anything you want, like coffee and scones and banana bread, at any time of the day (or night, I'd say.) It's so peaceful and beautiful and the staff are so very very kind that it would be the ideal spot to recover from a nervous breakdown, just in case anyone's interested. We spent two nights there and they were 2 of the happiest nights of my life.The great thing about being temporarily homeless is discovering how kind everyone is. We've been offered the use of spare rooms the length and breadth of the country and we are gratefully accepting them and we are nomads now. I've made my peace with the fact that we will never be moving back into our house and I feel fine. I grind my teeth a little in my sleep and wake up with terrible jaw-ache and sometimes in the middle of the night I jerk awake in terror and think Where in the name of Christ am I? Which direction is the bathroom? (because I am a divil for middle-of-the-night wees making. The first thing I do when I arrive at a new location is do the walk from the bed to the bathroom with my eyes closed, just for the practice) but otherwise I am serene to my core. My CORE, mes amies. Admittedly there are times I get badly confused and try to clamber out of the wrong side of the bed, over Himself, rousing him from his slumber and teeth-grinding (yes, he's at it too) but otherwise, like I say, SERENE, mes amies, serene. I've been living out of a suitcase since January and now that it's Spring none of my clothes are suitable but still mes amies, I am SERENE. By the way, I hope I haven't offended anyone with my talk of middle-of-the-night wees making. Is it too much information? It's just that that's how it is and I find that other women also have this problem. Also men, but only those over the age of 92. (Himself only makes his wees once a week. On a Saturday evening, after the football results are on the telly. There are times when I even have to remind him. I have to say, "Isn't it time dear, for your little…?") But I'll tell you something gas. For many years I've had this frequent wees-making trouble. Not just in the middle of the night, but in the daylight hours also and long car journeys are a problem. Also short ones. Anyway, out of nowhere I was contacted and asked if I would be the 'face' of Irish Incontinence. How did they know????? However, I turned down this golden opportunity. (Did you see that Freudian 'golden' there? Isn't the subconscious gas?) It's not that I am ashamed of my faulty bladder, no. Not ashamed. I must love my body in all its imperfection. But at the same time I don't want to appear on the telly in an ad break, wearing a navy suit and smiling strangely and saying, "Terrible trouble holding onto your wees? Me too! But help is available!" Or, "Hello I'm Marian Keyes and my bladder is banjaxed!" In the course of our nomadic wanderings, we passed through Gort in County Galway and I have to tell you about it. Gort used to be just a small town in County Galway but in recent years many hundreds of Brazilians have moved to Gort. The reason was something to do with losing their jobs in a meat-processing factory in Brazil and finding that the only place they could get replacement employment was in a meat-processing factory in faraway Gort and so many people moved (as many as 2000 I think, or it might only be 900, but that's still a lot) that Gort has become known as Little Brazil and when Ireland recently played Brazil in a friendly soccer match there were THOUSANDS of Brazilian supporters (TWO thousand) instead of the grand total of NONE you would normally get for a friendly in a faraway rainsoaked country (Ireland.) So as we approached Gort I was really excited because I wondered if I would actually see evidence of this Little Brazilianness and within moments of entering the town, I saw a young man wearing a yellow Brazil football jersey, flowery shorts and flipflops and this was on Easter Sunday which was a bitterly cold, wet day. It was thrilling. As we advanced further through the town, more and more people who looked like Brazilians were out on the streets and there was a Brazilian food-store and a Brazilian fashion-shop and I swear I could almost hear the distant sound of samba music. It was bizarre and fabulous! (I was in Brazil last year, I loved it so much. Everyone I met was GORGEOUS - warm, welcoming and really, really friendly and I'm not just saying that - during the same trip I went to Argentina and the people were quite haughty by contrast. Yes, haughty.) The drive through Gort did loads to lift my spirits. Also one of the other lovely things about being out of Dublin is reading the local papers. I have to tell you about a thing that was in The Clare People. You know the way this year Easter was really early? Well, it's bad for regional hoteliers because they have to open up for Easter, but April is a really quiet month. So a Lahinch hotelier, one Michael Vaughan (according to my mother he's a third cousin of mine, but I've never met him) proposed - yes! - petitioning the Vatican to make Easter a fixed date so that small hoteliers can plan their season better. Isn't that fabulous? So what else can I tell you? Himself's mother, the lovely Shirley is have her radiotherapy and is coping with her customary aplomb. The littlest sister's pregnancy is going great. Caitríona's wedding plans are going good. For the hen night in June we're going to see Kylie. Tadhg and Susan's boxer dog Katie is now the size of a stallion and I'm TERRIFIED of her. Because she's still a puppy, even though a very large one, she's wild and jumpy and eager and licky and it's just all too much for me. I'm going to have to get hypnotised to get over the fear. Also, they're getting a second dog. This is grave news. Grave news indeed. My new book comes out in April. Called This Charming Man. If you read it, I thank you in advance and I really really really hope you enjoy it. Traditionally, during the run-up to a publication I go a little mental, with dread and paranoia and the fear that anytime I open my front door (assuming I had one) that someone would shout, "Oi! You're shite! Get a job making up paint names, you might do better at it!" And that every time the 46A passed by my house (approx every 15 minutes) that the entire busload of passengers would yell, "I liked the last one but this one is shit!" However I won't be there for this publication because luckily I am homeless! Oh, it's an ill wind... We are lucky enough to be back in Mam and Dad's again and the new bed has arrived and a very fine bed it is too, flat, bouncy, EXTREMELY high. For me to get into bed, I have to go out into the landing, carrying a stick, then run as fast as I can towards the bedroom, through the open door and just as I reach the foot of the bed, I jab the stick in the floor and I vault through the air and land on the bed, where I bounce several times, high enough to be able to write messages on the ceiling and after about 10 minutes the bouncing stops and then I'm able to go to sleep. Before I finish can I just tell you that To Russia With Love, the wonderful charity that has done amazing work helping Russian orphans is 10 years old this year. I'm their patron and I'm enormously proud to be part of it and I've included a link (www.torussiawithlove.ie) if you'd be interested in taking a look at what they do. I hope you had a very pleasant March and got plenty of chocolate for Easter and I hope you have a lovely lovely April. Lots of love Marian PS. Have you seen In Bruges? It's great, really funny and good and dark. Colin Farrell is BRILLIANT, Brendan Gleeson is great and Ralf (yes, Ralf, I insist, if he wants to be called Rafe, he should spell himself Rafe. Otherwise he is simply trying to trick us.) Fiennes is excellent. One other thing, my friend Teresa Murphy Moore has opened a yoga studio in Wicklow town. It's called Sacred Space and it's beautiful and she does all kinds of classes, for teens and pregnant women, as well as the regular stuff. If you live in the Wicklow hinterland and are interested in taking a look, the link is http://yogasacredspace.com/node/16 . |
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Photo © Neil Cooper