Pest Control

There just had to be a drama between the time the Dail *rose* and the Supreme Court *sits* otherwise what else would I have to write about? The #royalbabyboy ‘GAL’ is so over. Collapse of trial for corruption in rezoning is so soul destroying and worst of all the Revenue trousering several hundred in property tax out of my bank account is sending me into a melancholic spiral, so much so, I’m doing two weeks Bean an Ti duty with an Italian student to cover it. I can’t remember the last time I served dinner seven nights in a row, never mind FOURTEEN.

Before the Rat Attack

When Cost Centre #2 sauntered in from his internship last night starving (they send him home in a taxi, but he doesn’t get time to eat all day, bless) he threw a withering look at the war zone that is now the garden.

‘Did you catch him?’

‘Not, yet.’

‘Everybody knows rats are the most evolved species, they’re smarter than humans, they outlived dinosaurs,' he proclaims.

At that moment the creature appears and struts around the garden sniffing for food, starting to climb up a table. It’s jaw-droppingly arrogant, to think I’ve been sitting out there for the last few weeks, thinking it was a leaf falling every time I heard a swoosh sound, it was the bastard scuttering down the wall.

‘He’s outsmarted you,’ CC#2 guffaws, ‘Rat 1 Mom Nil.’

Thanks David Attenborough.

He looks up the internet, most hits are for peanut butter, all the experts say that’s the thing they can’t resist. Cost Centre #1 is out, but at least he has set the traps with bacon so now it only fairly befalls the other one to improve the strategy. Fairness is something my sons have no concept of. Nor do I think they ever will have. Perhaps some wife along the way will beat it into them.

I donate my rubber gloves to the operation and we sacrifice a knife that will have to be thrown out. Attenborough ventures out with the bowl of peanut butter and complains bitterly about the placing of the traps. Everything anybody else does in landladyhouse is *shit* according to him. Indeed there was a book published a few years ago, just for boys like him I'm sure, called ‘Is Everything Shit, or is it just me?’ Sorry, I digress, this is painful to write.

The War Zone

Attenborough says he refuses to deal with any deck-kill as he expertly smears the peanut butter over the raw bacon.

McGyver (CC#1) returns and checks his traps, commenting Attenborough is a wimp and anyway he saw the rat first and did all the work, you get the picture.

We turn out the lights and wait for action. A Random Cat arrives to balance nature, this is when I’d normally bang the window to get rid of unwelcome feline. Oh, for my sheepdog now (she’s on her annual slimming holiday in Glandore with my neighbours).

Attenborough and I stand on seats inside and crane out the window, as if it's going to run up our legs. He points out the cats ears curving and turning as its sonar stealthily detects the position of the rat beneath the deck. The rat's sonar being more advanced it must be deflecting or disguising itself. Note I am trying to convince myself it’s in the singular, contrary to hardware man who says ‘if you see one, there’s more’.

The varmint seems to have outwitted the cat as well, the floor show ends without incident and Attenborough decamps to Playstation.

‘I told you they were smarter than humans, only them and sharks have outlived dinosaurs, you don't expect to win do you?’

It's always his parting shot.

So, this morning I survey the battlefield after the deluge, the apocalyptic thunder and lightning of last night. The rain set off one trap, the magpies and pigeons have been cheekily nipping at the others. No casualties yet. Would that they were just drowned in a sewer somewhere far away. In the meantime I’m trapped indoors.

And this should be a lovely morning when I’m sending two chapters of my novel to a charming-sounding agent. Only, guess what, the printer ink ran out on last two pages. It’s not the end of the world obviously, but I can’t print the cover letter either. This has never happened in the entire time I’ve worked at writing voluminous reports. Never did I run out of ink before. Well, Copy Graphics in Clonskeagh to the rescue.

Maybe it's a sign.

I'm fed up with signs. This life is full of them and we all know Ireland is the worst small country in the world in which to follow road signs (as opposed to the TBSCITWIWTDB*).

I'm not good on garage maps, too awkward to hold while driving, but I’m great on googlemaps. There should be a Destiny App, a Fate App, you could just go to their list of FAQs as every effing service *provider* suggests you do when there's a lack of er, service, and not just get the favourite options but the preferred answer based on your Facebook/Linkedin Family Album/horoscope menstrual cycle data.

Now there's a thought, anyone know a neighbourhood nerd I could call?

At least Pest control arrive tomorrow, they'll be taking the kids away first.

Speaking of whom, they both fell over when I told them the Italian student was 44, can't wait till I hear them try and pronounce her name, Tiziana. Tee hee.

*You'll just have to Google it, clue: Enda

When X is not a Kiss

Suicide Blonde

On Monday I joined the paid employment people on the Luas into town.  Cheered on by the fact I’d got free parking and my return fare was 3.70. So far, so budget. The tram glides through the backlands, the more fascinating underbelly of Victorian Dublin, built the year of the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861, a British law under which Ireland still operates.

For a change, I immersed myself in the world of digital wizardry and got some savvy ideas from Helen Shaw at Athena Media. There are so many free and clever things you can do with Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and now that I’ve discovered Tumblr, Dublinlandlady will be on the move with dynamic content – that’s the idea anyway.

So, I missed the morning presentation by psychiatrists at the Seanad, a woman in the public gallery told me Dr Tony McCarthy, resident psychiatrist at Holles Street, made her cry. I remember attending him once for an hour after losing my twins, it cost 180 euro, I decided I couldn’t afford to be depressed. In fact, it took so long to get an appointment with him that by then I had started my masters in UCD architecture school and I was so consumed by the amount of study ahead, I didn’t have time to be depressed.

Anyway, the Health Committee hearings are all about that, depression and suicidal ideation in pregnancy rather than after pregnancy. And that, I can assure you, is very depressing to listen to over and over, cogent arguments by experts and extremely held ideological views by well funded lobbyists.

I felt nobody in the room really understand the human side of the story, yes the doctors might be familiar with patients in tragic circumstances, but it is quite another thing to go to a strange hospital in another country grieving the loss of a wanted baby.

A woman sitting beside me in the gallery asked if I was a journalist, as I was making notes on my ipad. 'No', I said, 'I took the D v Ireland case.'

'Oh, wasn’t she very brave, I read all about her.'

'No, I mean, I am D,' I said.

We both laughed, she nearly fell off her chair and nudged the women beside her, Nora Owen and Gemma Hussey - the early sisterhood, I suppose. From that moment I felt fine, protected. They took me for coffee and I got to see the famous Dáil bar. Not a bad place to work, Leinster House, very plush and lovely ceilings.

I wonder if X, at 34, is married with other children and how she remembers an experience that is relentlessly exercising the individuals in this chamber, the people on the street, the media, the clergy and the members of this House. I wonder if we heard from her would it clarify the question at the centre of the debate, that termination is not a 'treatment' for suicide. I’d like to know how she thinks the legislation should be framed for victims of rape and incest, as serious crimes that would surely provide a compelling case to give that woman a choice.

Wherever you are X, I hope you are bearing up.

Just Marking your Cards..

Foyer of The Marker Hotel

I managed to hobble to a social media network event on Wednesday, Jeff Matthews from Linkedin was there, he started in Dublin with 6 people in 2006, they now employ 350 here and provide a nifty platform for all sorts of professions and industries. I still haven't changed my profile on Linkedin or announced the impending novel publication. I'm prevaricating between self publishing or the traditional route. The former yields more return per copy and more choice in book cover. It's tempting. I'm especially encouraged by Her Vanessaness of Writing.ie with whom I now seem to be on a committee, having inadvertently been assigned the role of membership secretary at |rish Pen. 

Exchanging business cards at the event, I handed one to a recruitment consultant. He took one look at mine and inclined his head pityingly, ‘not much call for architectural historians in our business.’ Usually, I’m stuck for words when confronted with tacit rudeness, but just suggested he might like to look beyond the card at my projects. Next morning, I smiled as I received an email from him, exclaiming his feelings of inadequacy. I suppose we can all open our mouths and but several feet in them at times.

After the Business Network event, my dapper friend Leigh and I went to The Marker, Dublin's newest hotel, designed by the Portuguese practice of Manuel Aires Mateus and realised by Irish architects MDO. The facade has been finished for three years, a giant checkerboard affair, which only begins to make sense when you enter the ground floor space. Inside, the ceiling undercroft is a sculptural plateau of geometric planes, described by the attentive waiter as 'inspired by the limestone landscape of the Burren.'  Similarly, the exterior is the portuguese architect's impression of the Giant's Causeway.  

The interior is chic, with a sublime nocturnal vista of the Martha Schwartz neon garden, one of the more inspired Tiger legacies. The hotel employs some charming Irish staff, serving top class cocktails. We were spoiled by the entire experience; we could have been in New York.

So there, the story of a truly Irish hotel, the developer and builder go bust, becomes a ghost hotel, looked like it might be consigned to the heap of unfinished monuments to the Celtic Tiger, rescued for a song by an American group, salvaged and styled into a stunning new venue. Just in time for the nearby audience of The Full Monty to descend on the cocktail bar and, well, sort of remind us we were down the docks.

Only 5 Shades of Grey

I brought the snow home with me as well as another boiler breakdown, which the lodgers and cost centres can’t have been too enamoured by. It takes two days to get the Kerry based service engineer to have another look. This time it’s my thermostat he says, nothing to do with him, but he’ll disconnect it.

‘But,’ I say, ‘what about the expansion valve inside that you said was causing the pressure to drop,’

‘Oh, yes,’ well I can’t get at it, your cupboard, the boiler and the pipe work would have to come out, it’s a day’s work, very expensive.’

‘But I’ve no heating or hot water,’ my teeth chatter.

‘You need a plumber to put an expansion valve in your hot press.’

But I thought he was a plumber. He gets it going again for me but it won’t work on a timer, I’ll be legging it down to the kitchen at 6am to turn it on so the princes and princelings will arise from their slumber in relative warmth, as is their birthright.

I’m only writing a boring boiler blog because they emailed me a bill straight after, that would bring the non-repairs to 400 euro so far. In a departure from my usual indignation, I wrote and explained that I didn’t think this was fair. The thing is they have my VISA number and can charge the cost straightaway.

Well blow me, if I didn’t get an email back, agreeing with me, and apologising, saying it was sent in error.

I am not over the shock.

Now with a bit of heat, and the skiing cut short, there is no excuse but to plough on with Edit Eight of my novel. I am doing this in response to a lengthy analysis I received from a well known publisher, who enjoyed it but said it wasn’t for them. I’ve been going through it with a fine comb, trying to figure what bits weren’t for them. Maybe the fact that it has only 5 shades of grey? After being asked by sailing men all last summer was there any sex in the book, I had to put in five scenes, indoor, outdoor, upstairs, downstairs, and I can’t remember the last place.

It has been the longest edit so far as, of course, I’ve been blogging all the time and landladying, composing endless CV’s, riding and well a few hours skiing and all that takes quite a bit of prep and packing.

It’s Easter Saturday, Absentee Boyfriend delivered an unseemly gigantic chocolate egg, a sight for sore eyes, both of them. Is it churlish to wonder does he know that if I ate it, there would be six inches of girth added to my middle and that’s not such a good look. Or that big chocolate egg does not equal an actual date, like going out, but as gestures go, as he departs for the airport yet again, it goes in the ‘thoughtful’ pile.

A Swiss Easter Bunny

I spent Good Friday with Blonde Racquel (because we Irish have to go somewhere for an illicit drink, just to outdo the system) and we got to talking about books we liked, my book club is long dissolved and when writing a novel, there are only certain books that can be read to avoid distraction or worse, desperation. Racquel has promised to read my final draft. She will be one of only five friends to read it before publication and so it spurred me on to lash into the last bit this evening. When you ask someone to read your manuscript, you budding authors out there, give them a simple job, two questions:

Where does it slow down, make them yawn?

Do they spot any continuity lapses, ie. drinking tea when the character started with coffee…

They’re not necessarily proof-reading it, but if they want to, that’s very helpful. They’re not expected to correct your grammar either.

Which brings me to the marketing bit; I met an A&R man at a launch a few weeks ago. He said he used to work for Sony and EMI, but he’s freelance now. I said it sounded like a great job, why did he leave? ‘They didn’t need me anymore.’

Cheekily I asked if I’d know any of the acts he discovered. ‘The Corrs,’ he replied.

Heard of them.

He told me he gets a lot of his work online now, through Linkedin.

‘Are you serious? I’m on that and I never get work from it.’

I explained what I did while he yawned (architectural historian, art historian, building conservation, that kind of thing)

But, I said I don’t do much of that anymore what with no money in the country and all. ‘I’ve written my first novel,’ I say.

‘So why don’t you change your profile and say what you’re doing now?’ he asks reasonably.

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ I reply in dismay, ‘I only want to share that when I’ve published.’

‘So, let me get this, you’ve done something new, finished a book, but don’t want to tell any of your 500 contacts about it, because in fact they might even know the perfect person to publish it…’

A hail of pennies drop…

Hmmm, I see his point. I’m trying to do the traditional, in your dreams sort of thing, be discovered with my first book, when it rarely, I believe, happens like that. I contacted +Helen Shaw of +Athena Media to find out how I'm going to get it out there, she's got a day course running in April, we shall she how I get on.

So, I’m going to get brave about this. Even though it’s sitting on two agents desks in the UK, they are mighty slow to come back to me. And time is ticking, banks are waiting, and frankly I want to write another one, a funny, thriller this time.

Happy Easter