Best Foot Forward

When I had two good knees

Wednesday morning I'm at St Vincent's Trauma Clinic and the wait isn't so bad except there's nowhere to rest the throbbing leg. I have a book, Tatty - the name, not the condition - an iPad to write on, forms to be filled in for a mindfulness class, which ask all sorts of mood questions in different ways just to catch you out.

There are quite a few leg and arm cases around me, young and old, the main problem is the audible tv show on the wall, Jeremy Kyle, with crazy mean people saying crazy mean things to each other.... a teenage mother who doesn't know who the father is.. I think that's all a bit depressing for the outpatients already in pain. Everybody is studiously avoiding watching it, except the man beside me is trying to explain it to his elderly mother and keeps repeating ‘it’s all about sex'. It's really too early in the morning to be listening to him too. So I'm assiduously clacking at my keyboard, looking busy.

The student nurse calls me in, the orthopaedic doc can't read the notes, I explain in detail from memory what the damage is, then the senior guy arrives, he talks about skiing a lot, slightly embarrassing, I feel guilty taking up their time, although, all the cripples outside have foot, knee and leg injuries and they probably had a stupid fall as well. A new knee brace is fitted to keep the joint from rocking (what a pun!) and off I go in search of an iron to replace the caramel clogged one at landladyhouse because I forgot the gentlemen lodgers like to iron their shirts.

En route, I get the call from the Sunday Times to say they're going to run the story in the News Review section, I was just thinking a little column in the opinion page, if anything. They want to send a photographer. Holymotherofdivinesweetjesus. Tesco don’t have any irons, we’ll have to try another day, so I leg it home for Mr De Mille and get ready for my close-up. I put a black jacket on over the tracksuit bottoms which conceal the chunky knee brace and try to clear a space on the table so it looks like a tidy office.Mr De Mille does his best lights, camera and action, I want to smile into the camera, its eleven years since the event I am interviewed about, but a jolly face won't work.

At this point I’d like to remind the dublinlandlady reader that levity, not brevity, is the soul of wit, and I am departing from the serious matter of the interview by making light of my domestics while more than slightly traumatised by the idea of the piece in the paper.

With all this going on, I’ve managed to overlook an important meeting in the courts, in Smithfield which couldn’t be further from landladyhouse on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, so I superlash into town and hope legal counsel hasn’t got the clock ticking. If I had any idea how this case was going to start, never mind end, I’d write about it, so we’ll all have to wait in suspense, it’s another one of its kind, testing Irish legislation, when I’d rather get on with writing another book.

After all that, the new, new thing, I think, is Mindfulness, a sort of talking yoga for the mind and body. Anyway, it’s a recession by-product and I’m lucky to have been given a place on this course so I must turn up even with all the trials of the day. I think the idea is to be conscious of your thoughts, and how they’re interpreted, choosing to step back or let them stress you, I’m still figuring it out.

I arrived in time for the meditative body scan, where we must start with focussing on the big left toe, as I lie on the floor, warm under a blanket, restful after the hospital, photographer and court; I concentrate on the toe and rub it against the fur of my Ugg. I think of the Boston amputees, the dance teacher, the little girl who loved Irish dancing, and am so grateful to have that toe. I can’t think of anything else except how lucky I am to have all the toes on each foot attached to my legs and, albeit one wonky knee.

The Lash Paradox

Photo courtesy of Baron Von Richterscale
'Life isn't all Black and White, Layers of Meaning'

I awaited the outcome of the Savita Hallapanaver inquest last week to make up my mind about putting the record straight. The following evening I bumped into Justine McCarthy of the Sunday Times at a party (as in, I nearly knocked her over). It was clearly meant to be, we arranged to do an interview on Tuesday and she said she would let me know if the paper wanted to go ahead with it. I felt a weight off my shoulders just talking to her anyway. It’s a story of injustice and barbarism and it’s time for honesty and tolerance.

I can’t help mention what a lovely woman she is and the second woman to interview me in the last few months, what strikes me as fascinating in an age of iphone stealth gadgetry is they both write shorthand, like Arabic squiggles, into actual shorthand notebooks, real journos.

As the paradox of life would have it, I had to go straight from there to an assignation next door at the Kildare Street club, with friends from Cork, and forced to drink champagne in the evening sun filtering into the basement courtyard. Good company can’t be underestimated for lifting the spirits. And I make no apology for descending into frothy mirth to change the subject from a very sober one.

Organising three back-to-back meetings in the Stephen’s Green vicinity is my idea of a taxi fare well spent. There was just one more thing to do, meet Clarice, uber stylish jewellery designer, for an hour at the Image web launch in the RHA.

I’m not quite sure what made the biggest impression; vertiginous heels are so Tiger, as are IT bags, all there aplenty, easy for me to say of course, forced into wearing flat boots and a knee brace, I can scoff while my own Imelda collection gathers dust at home. No, I think this season’s trend is definitely eyelashes, they used to be a cosmetic decoration, they’re now not just curtains on the windows to the soul, but veritable face wings, with a scientific ratio of density, length, mass, straight, angled, curl sweep, flare dip, stop start doll lash, tranny double lash, I can safely say, without contradiction, that the combined lash batting and blinking caused a brisk draught and sonic hum throughout the gallery.

Look, when Marian Keyes says she gets super powers from her lash extensions, what more can I say?

Among many people I hadn't seen in ages, I met the daughter of an old friend, whom we sadly lost a few years ago. She is a powerhouse of ideas and projects with a film company, publishing company, drama school and now a new fragrance collection, ROADS, I’d like to say you saw it here first, but look out for entrepreneur extraordinaire. I love words and their etymology, and acronyms for that matter, as I write, I'm wondering where the name ROADS came from. I know her dad would have come up with something like: Roll Over And Die Sucker...

I'm glad to report that the Power people at Image know how to throw a swell party, fabulous music, cocktails and bootylicious boys and girls.

Just one more lashing thing – Alicia, the lashful first born of jet-setting Racquel popped in at the weekend to fill in the gaps in my own little lashes, you see they wouldn’t fall out and they’re stuck on for over a month, they just got straggly like drunken spider legs and I daren’t pull them out in case the natural ones came away too.

The dilemma now, I’m going in for a minor operation tomorrow (Friday) and we all know you’re not supposed to wear make up or jewellery, especially not nail polish (apparently the first sign of a heart/respiratory problem is the toes turning blue, so they have to be polish free). So, I’m wondering when I’m knocked out will someone start prising them off, one by one, leaving my windows to the soul as bald as an eagle. Not a good look.