Iron Men Cometh, Iron Lady Vanishes

As I hobbled to the shops with my sheepdog to buy the papers, my hero, Alpha Romeo, swung around the corner with Sunday papers in tow. We sat in my garden with a pot of peppermint tea and read the interview together, I wish the photographer had let me make a smiley face, eleven years after the event I am much relieved to have spoken out and hopefully bring some relevant dimension to the increasingly vitriolic debate.

I've got a bandaged nose from my minor op and instructed to rest. The good timing of the anaesthetic after-effects on this particular day is I'm still a bit high, or rather less sensitive and while the interview brings back memories, seeing the lapse of time and the inaction of the State has angered me more.

Being so post-op tired I'd love to watch a movie on landlady tv, but it's been broken since I went into hospital. When A. R. leaves, I decide I'll fix the tv myself and remove the mountain of books and photos that saddle the gadget table, prise it away from the wall only to find enough dog hair to stuff a mattress. Groan, now we have to hoover while the princelings slumber.

The problem is the TV is set into a shallow recess and flush with the wall, no visible cables or plug, it's a a cool  MTV crib kind of thing that the cost centres insisted on back in Tiger days as well as a fridge that spewed ice. At least I didn't buy bank shares, I say that a hundred times a week.

Flattened by the exertion, the anaesthetic and unproductive effort I sleep like a log in the afternoon. We adults don't get enough sleep, but when I do, I'm like a different person, imminently more capable and tolerant. I wonder if Margaret Thatcher, who survived on three hours sleep a night would have been a less confrontational woman had she had her rest, would the Argentines have their own island back. I wonder if Enda could break the stranglehold of the unions and the dissent in his party if he arose at 4am each day to do battle. Where's his mettle?

The phone rings, it's a man who would never ring for an idle chat, what man does you might ask? He's seen the newspaper interview and wants to clap me on the back down the phone. He's in my house within the hour, his mountain bike strapped to his jeep, his lithe figure propped up on a stool, aviators on, Americano in hand. They don't come more Tom Cruise - the movie version I mean. Or is it Hugh Jackman? Maybe Val Kilmer? One of those super guys.

Approaching Valetta by boat, could be Ironman's Swan 60

I nod towards the gaggle of gadgets in our midst. He turns, he lifts the great slab of 50 something inch screen off the wall. I'm his able assistant while Sir Leigh arrives and thankfully takes over from Tristan in the chef department. Unplug, reboot, we're in business within minutes, two ironmen to the rescue in one day, not bad in landladyland.

Because my friend doesn't understand blogs, I had to show him a sample of this one, where his petrol head ally Baron von Richterscale appears, and now he wants to make up his own name, but that's not really cricket.

After dinner I left him and Sir Leigh to talk about a plan that will change the face of Dublin, change how we use the city, how we see ourselves and how others see us. One that Sir Leigh has worked on and I have seen gather momentum over the last few weeks. So it's time for me to retire. What will I call him? Initially, Dublin's Eligible Cool Lad About Now, will do.

Don't know why he hasn't been snapped up yet.

Boys will be Boys

I forgot there was a big Irish festival coming up until I drove into town last Thursday night with a sore bum after being on the horse all morning and couldn't get a parking space at 7pm. Not a good plan with a farewell dinner at Ukiyo, for friend heading to Japan. I thought I could be good, not drink, save taxi money and park for free. Not a bit. After 40 minutes circling for a space and barricades everywhere for Paddy's Week, I had to use expensive BT carpark and time my visit under two hours. Such are the cutbacks if you go out more than once a week.

Ten years after our stint in UCD School of Architecture, a mix of planners, architects, historians and generally stalwart mates gathered for her nibs. I'm very picky on cultural cuisine, if the food is good the room is usually awful, this place had both going for it, I wish I could have stayed for the karaoke, but I could feel rigor mortis setting already from the ride.

On Friday, cutbacks necessitate using the bus, if timed well with the Dublin Bus App, it’s a military exercise, parking near the bus stop and keeping warm in the rain, while preparing to make a mad dash, with correct coinage.

I’m having the long awaited tete a tete with Clarice, and trying a new wine bar, La Ruelle, a bit quiet and old-couply, in a converted garage that would have been better left as a rough space with random tables and grungy gasoline atmosphere, but was more like an airport concession, a missed opportunity and waste of design money. I prevailed on Clarice to go somewhere else within walking distance, what about the Unicorn? Now there's a place that would laugh at you if you turned up on a Friday night without a booking a month in advance. Table for two, no problem. Starters only, no problem, Wine for 20 euro, no problem, hassle free cheap night, no problem. Early home, no, er, problem.

Nearest thing I can find in my Photos to a a Bad Boy

Basking in my healthy Saturday morning, the sun is shining and I leave the front door open to avail of every last ray. A figure appears, 'Don't ask' he says as he waves away my lingering salute.

Tristan always looks like he's come from a meeting with David Cameron, as in just left Downing Street. He has that soignée swagger, with a finely cut cashmere coat that just doesn’t look like he’s met Inda in the Dail. Whereas if I was ever to turn up at 10.30am after a night out, I imagine my little dress and heel highs would be a bit of a giveaway. He stows quietly away to his suite.

Fast forward to Saturday night and all the male sleeping beauties appear dressed to kill. It's not even worth mentioning the clash in Rome of Ireland v Italy, so profound was our loss. But there's an air of celebration among the male denizens of this house and one by one they despatch themselves to something or other in celebration of the French saint who banned snakes in Ireland. I feel like Cinderella, Lodger 1 and 2, cost centre 1 and 2 are all dressed up and have carriages waiting. I can be very philosophical about having nothing to do or nowhere to go, it was meant to be. I'll be up for my yoga on Sunday morning without a 'will I or won't I' moment.

It's Sunday morning and there I am, again only one alive and in the kitchen and the front door opens, I see the tan leather shoes first, then he approaches the kitchen. 'Triss' I announce, thinking he might need an Americano on his way to the suite. But it's Adam this time.

'Ah, all the men are coming home round the same time,' I say.

'You're running a bad boy establishment' he said, or something to that effect.

Sure.

I had to smile though; the last thing you want to see when you come in at that hour is your landlady. He struggles with the kettle to make a cup of tea.

'Were you not out last night,' he asks incredulously, it being the great Irish annual worldwide drinking night in the name of all Paddies, allegedly. Therefore, the one I’d rather be home watching tv and doing laundry, dodging the boxer gridlock as it dries on the warm floor.

'Ah, no' I stammer and ramble on about preserving brain cells and economy.

'What?' he says, 'all you have to do is put on a short skirt and you have guys like me buying you drink.'

Hmmm.

Did I give away all those short skirts?