Man-Flu and Woman-Fire

Adam and all his ribs moved in quietly, almost invisibly and disappeared again for a week. When he returned I had an urge to feed him, at least do Sunday brunch, I asked the boys to promise they’d scramble eggs for him if I wasn’t there, my mother even suggested ironing his shirts. ‘I draw the line there,’ I insisted, I don’t even iron my own. We next met in the kitchen on Sunday morning when he sought a glass for some water. He had a bit of a cold, I fell over myself getting out the Berocca , the Echinacea, ‘you’re grand,’ he said, I’ve a pharmacy in my room, ‘Surely some lem-sip?’ I pleaded, as I toppled a bottle of evening primrose oil, nail varnish remover, super glue, herbal insect repellent and sundry spools of thread as he shuffled back up to his cosy bed.

Thinking of cosy beds, I remembered my new toy. The Fire.  I can’t wait to get out the firelighters, scrunched newspapers, matches and briquettes, which I haven’t seen used in at least twenty years and see what happens. Trying to source logs in Dublin seems to be a bit of a secret. Expert hardware man, Rory, says they’re too dear and those Wicklow people won’t deliver them. He can’t be bothered keeping them anymore. I know I’ll crack this one day. Tips anyone?

The room that’s never used, what David McWilliams would call The Good Room, has been re-arranged in deference to the lodgers, with reading chair facing fire. Now that it’s sort of ablaze, the thing about a fire is you can’t turn your back on it. You can have a radiator on in a room and not be in it. But you can’t ignore those real flames. And the only thing to do on a wet, windy, grey Irish Sunday with a fire lighting, is, well read. And reader, this is a long forgotten realisation; you can actually read all day, only interrupted by rearranging and reapplying briquettes. It is an art. I finished Donal Ryan’s Spinning Heart and started Selina Guiness’s Crocodile by the Door, both kindly lent to me by a dear friend, as I’ve gone more Kindle recently. Another controversial subject, but with 3,000 books and counting, there just isn’t the room and of course there’s Michael O’Leary. I will tell you about my Ryanair wardrobe another day.

All writers unanimously advise you have to read, read and read again, if you want to write, so I’m not just relaxing, or being still as I was recently reminded to be, but also working. No guilt there.