No Laughing Matter

Just when I thought there wasn't a lot to laugh about, there really wasn't a lot to actually laugh about. Racquel invited me to the Laughter Lounge on Thursday night and, because Lodger No. 2 was in his third hour of boiling chicken and talking on his mobile, I was happy to escape and figure how I could improve things at home. I’ve come down from landlady heaven with a bang, the honeymoon is over and we’ve only been in the same house for five days. I know CC#2 can’t wait to say ‘I told you so’.

The comedy night was a fundraiser for the medical treatment of two children from Tramore, Ryan and Ethan, with a rare disease, ALD. Now, that is no laughing matter.

The best laughs that night were with Racquel’s assorted friends before the show. We were surprised to find a Geordie compére, a sort of emaciated Les Dawson, who must have been more familiar with workingmen’s clubs in Northern England than our very mixed audience. We began to look at each other slowly, open-mouthed as he tumbled out scrotal gags and fellated his way through a screeching monologue at the hen parties up front. And, when he got tired of that he ranted about David Cameron. Interestingly, nobody in the audience responded to his political diatribe, I think  because we'd probably prefer Cameron to our last two prime ministers.

It must be one of the hardest things to do, stand-up comedy, some of them should never get up on stage in the first place, like the Cavan man trying to be Jack Dee, telling wife jokes that could have come from a Christmas cracker. We all agreed we’re not prudes, we’ve just sort of grown out of cheap lavatorial gags. Thankfully, one act with three young guys elicited peals of laughter, great timing, great sketches and an impressive imitation of a blow-up doll. Christopher Hitchens argues that women can't be funny, their brains aren't wired for humour. Well I'd like to argue that one back with him, except he died last year, leaving us with that piece of pointless research.

Yes, the evening took my mind off my poor tenant selection process. Though he’s a very nice chap, Lodger No.2 will have to go. And I am not very good at doing that kind of thing, never having evicted anyone before. 

It was a very late night by the time Racquel and I got the rest of the world’s affairs put right. As I drifted to sleep, I remembered someone telling me that finding humour in adversity is a crucial survival tool, a coping mechanism. According to Victor Frankl, it saved many people in concentration camps. I’m beginning to see how writing the blog and finding humour in the everyday is sort of helping with the ordeal of sharing my home.

Dirty Laundry and Papal Bull

When Lodger Adam first moved in, he came into the kitchen one evening with a hulking great device under his arms, 'what's that?' I politely enquired, 'oh that's my baby,' he said as he cradled and stroked it. It looked like an iron with a great big potty attached. 'I've 150 shirts, I find ironing therapeutic,' he put me in my place.

As I wear a lot of non-iron t-shirts, even under suits, I nodded in respect. Our basic iron remains in CC#1's room as CC#2 has inherited my creased look. I've bought Adam his own ironing board so he can enjoy therapy at will. He’s a perfect lodger, here so little I’ve taken to doing his washing and am about to change his bed linen, I never would have thought I'd see the day. How times have changed, men really, really love ironing, if only they'd said it sooner.

I remember years and years ago, a laundry van coming to collect my mother's sheets. I hope it was Swastika, an unfortunate name, but then so is Magdalene, as far from the caring appeal of the biblical character as you can get. One of the women this week said the nuns were like the Gestapo. Power, collusion, control and systematic abuse, just like the Third Reich really, only this time the victims were incarcerated for longer. They say it's the evolution of washing machines that changed it all, imagine that? Indesit put the nuns out of business, but not before they sunk their dirty linen money into land.

With tales of scaling walls to escape their prison or stowing away in a delivery van, it's almost the stuff of derring-do gals in St Trinian's, without the humour. They spoke of the hidden Ireland, not such a great name for the country-house hotel group. What courage it must have taken to run away without a penny or a place to go. This is too sensitive a subject for a short post and I only write these words out of respect and that I cannot ignore what has come out in the last few weeks and wonder is this the end, what next will be uncovered about Irish society and who else will be silenced?

Which brings me to Papal Bull and silencing of priests who speak up for women and children. It's official, the Magisterium says so (that sounds like a sorcerer's board game). I don't know Fr Tony Flannery, nor have I ever read his articles, but if they're honest and open enough to bring the wrath of Papa Razzi down on him, I hope he will resume and let the dirty laundry be washed and hung out to dry.

Banksy and Kovac in one day

CC#2 Dublinlandlady CC#1

Walton's it wasn't. But a sort of spontaneous welcome dinner happened for Dr Kovac, who, now that I've spent more than five minutes with him isn't at all like the hunk on ER, but the name will stick. After I'd shown him to his room and let him settle into bewilderment, I did one of those kitchen interviews again, I was getting used to them, though this was punctuated with translation issues. Best to show him the useful phone apps, Dublin Bus and Hailo. Now he can enter and exit the city in total confidence, the rest I'll leave to the Latvian and IT community until I gather tourist momentum. 

I took myself out with the dog to figure out what to do next. Stay out and not come home came to mind. Texted CC #1 to see if he'd like to cook dinner for himself and his brother. All his favourite ingredients for a hefty carbonara were in the fridge. Those boys like nothing more than dollops of cream and egg on a bacon slathered carb fest. I suggested he make enough to feed new lodger. Who, I am glad to say sat with us and was probably relieved that the sting was taken out of his own strange predicament. 

Poor old CC #2 has now lost his shower room, but being a young Buddha, he isn't taking it out too much on the family. Remember when they gave up their bottle or got potty trained and you bought them a reward? I'm nearly at that point.

I could hear Kovac negotiating the kitchen this morning, best to leave him to it and grab any excuse to snooze another few minutes. Being another gorgeous sunny day helped. Come on, there's worse ways to survive this.

A friend who's heading to Japan for a year emailed to say she was looking for an electrician to sort a few things before she abandoned her apartment to a minder. I remembered Huggy Noddy and gave him a call, 'Are you in?' he asked, 'I've something for you.' Pause, as I gathered myself. 'Something arty,' he encouraged. He arrived with some sheets of timber and a can of spray paint, and made his way to the back garden. When I went to see what was going on, he had a stencil of me and my kids, he'd photographed a family portrait last time he was in my kitchen and was now creating his own Banksy version of us. I suspended the weird factor and figured this was one of the ideas he said he want to talk to me about. 

You know, it was really good and very, very novel. Well, to me anyway. When the twenty-somethings saw it, the proof was in the reaction. Perplexed and amused, we were all surprised. Your family portrait graffiti'd in your garden? Not for everyone - but I'm sold, there are no wrinkles.

Somebody once told me that guilt, or was it worry, is like paying interest
on a loan you haven't yet taken out. Equally, no point in worrying about a
problem that can be solved and, even more, no point in worrying about a problem that
can't be solved. It's all easier said than done, isn't it?

The lovely puppy-eyed girl went and found an alternative room yesterday, so
all is sorted. It would appear that I'm up and running as a landlady and can
turn my attention back to finding an ideal job, or getting my book published, or even writing another one. 

With a Little Help from my Friends

After 1,360 page views on DAFT since January and over twenty viewings, the new tenant moves in this evening. The vote was unanimous at Sunday lunch yesterday. I took a straw poll with Cruella and other girlfriends before the first bottle of wine was consumed, so there can be no accusation of bias towards Dr Kovac.

I’ve taken down my ad and also my b&b ad from Airbnb, where I was running into lengthy correspondence with new pen pals from all over the globe. I’ve written apologies to all the runners up, a golden orb appeared in the sky this morning and has stayed put all day, there is washing on the actual line. It’s approaching 8 degrees, I just need to win the Monday Million and all will be well with the world.

Which reminds me, Cruella commented yesterday that my posts appear to be written in the middle of the night, she presumed I came in from a party and got keyboard happy, every night? No, it’s the google clock, it seems to log the posts around 8 hours behind Irish time. That’s my story anyway. I can assure you I haven’t been known to write coherently at that time of day.

The five girlfriends agreed the gap since Christmas was way too long to have convened a lunch. A quorum of four is all that’s required for a thorough-going analysis of all that’s wrong with the world and the ensuing six hour debate on how it’s put right. I could only stay for five hours so I’ve missed at least a further five hours of material for the ‘girlfriend lunch’ post. It will have to be assembled some other time, they were far too sober and forbidding for me to use anything discussed up to 7pm. From whence I got myself home to go back out on the absentee boyfriend date. Is there some coincidence with the tenant uptake in my house and his frequency of visits of late? Like I said before, he isn’t known as absentee the last four years for nothing, I think he started off as invisible boyfriend, or useless boyfriend and has graduated to the more permanent title, harking back to absentee landlords, those men that had a territorial interest in Ireland, but lived and worked elsewhere.

As a dinner date I believe it went quite well, especially as I wasn’t in the least bit hungry having partaken of the finest fare assembled by our girlfriend group earlier and I wasn't in the least bit interested in prolonging the evening into dancing or any such crazy notion. 

Budding entrepreneur lunch hostess had only returned from Morocco with baby son, and deposited him with his dad that morning, ready to greet us glowing with a healthy tan. She made it all look so easy that I’m inspired to host the next one, knowing I won’t be rushing anywhere. The days of sitting seventeen women down for lunch in my home are long gone; you can only talk to four or five with any sort of comfort. So, not being hungry at dinner and only having to deal with a delicious starter, I was able to offer all the advice and perspective that AB required. Because, reader, between lunch and dinner chats yesterday, I know we are all feeling different these days, everybody needs an ear or a shoulder, don’t be fooled by appearances.

Select or Delete?

I arrive to the deafening barks of my friend’s new Belle, the beautiful black basset hound. Clarice peals as I enter, 'it goes on for three weeks!' I look down at Belle who is wearing new-born pampers. An innovation Clarice's Spanish lodger introduced when he brought his own dog to stay, where apparently nappies for bitches in heat are quite normal.

The one person who could empathise with my lodger selection dilemma is Clarice, a veteran of the landlady class. ‘Oh, the Latvian,’ she said without hesitation. That doesn’t help my guilt about the lovely girl though, perhaps it’s my fear of reverting to mother hen that’s making me lean towards the man with the rucksack. You see, lovely girl wants the room because it’s got so much wardrobe space for all her stuff. I’m giving myself until this evening, so that I can take all of us out of our misery.

Meanwhile, I am becoming no stranger to rejection myself. I am reminded that it is all part of the publishing process, but still doesn’t make it any more palatable.

With one lifeline left, I recently had a positive response to the book summary from a new agent and sent them the draft I finished in November 2012. So much has changed since then, that when I started reading it again, there was so much to be cut and tightened, I wish I hadn’t sent it. It's too long at 131,071 words. Even though I've written and read it ten times, the more I do it, the sparser I want it. Those writing gurus say it's all about re-writing and it is. Patience, however, was never my strongest point.

That will be three agents and one publisher who've read it in six months. In first-time publishing terms that, alledgedly, is a miracle. And had I got it right the first time, that would have been too brilliant for words, in fact I wouldn't be writing a blog about being a novice landlady, because I wouldn't be renting out bedrooms and I'd be writing my second novel somewhere with a sea view.

So now I’m on the receiving end of the selection process from two agents who haven't got back to me. Maybe their rejection policy is silence. Admittedly, the two other responses I've received have included critiques, with good advice and ultimately not dispiriting. But I’m still not published…..

I've heard enough good news of online publishing to regard it as a safe back-up, initially, it seemed like a cop out, but in nearly two years since I started my book, online publishing has taken on a new respect. I was advised by an accountant to do it in the first place, he said, 'why would you want to get 5% per book sold when you could get 70% online?' A very good question, but then, where would the reviews, interviews, signings and book tours come in?

A novice writer is apparently never, ever, ever to imagine such things. If a friend tells you she's picked out what you're going to wear on Mariella's Book Show, thank her for her belief in you and then dismiss it immediately. Ironically, said friend didn't like the book when she read it, she said it was too descriptive and prefers books with a lot of action, where people get killed and there's a bit of a mystery. Pick your test readers!