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.

The Generosity of Artists

The good thing about finishing my book and not yet published is that other writers are very kind to me. I can’t quite visualise my work in a cover sitting on a shelf, never mind the drinkies and speeches, and that is a good thing or I’d never have got it written. And everybody has been there.

Osmosis would be good

This weekend I was invited by literary friend, Mariella, to a champagne reception at the French Ambassador’s residence in honour of the Franco-Irish Literary Festival. I suppose I couldn’t say no, could I? We arrived en hommage to Coco Chanel, as did every second woman in an LBD and pearls. Which was a good thing as Madame d'Achon likes her CC. What bliss, delicious canapés, wonderful company and utterly stylish surroundings. Not a bad gaff if you have to live in wet Dublin.

Since early 2012 I’ve attended several literary events, very much as an observer, at Waterford Lit Fest I met the very charming and successful writer, Sinead Moriarty, and did an inspiring workshop with another bestseller, Monica McInerney, who couldn’t have been more encouraging.

At the Dun Laoghaire Book Festival I got up early to hear John Boyne, Claire Kilroy and Chris Binchy share their experience. That was when I discovered Vanessa O’Loughlin, a writer’s angel.

I spent a week at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig in February 2012 to finish my novel and send it to the celeb agent, who’d asked to read it. You know what they say in the I.T. world – fail early! It’s really good advice, because you don’t waste time refining something that isn’t working. The agent liked my writing, but the structure didn’t work – what do I know about these things? I was trying to write in a new form, alternating chapters in the past and present, apparently the reader loses interest with that kind of thing.

I was given Lady Guthrie’s room, no wonder I’d the feeling of ‘having arrived’! The other residents included an illustrious Italian composer, who was working on an opera about Henry James; a film director, the artistic director of Macnas, a great fun girl, some strangely quiet Irish poetesses, one not so quiet, and a bevy of wonderful artists one of whom now plays on-line scrabble with me, from across the Atlantic.

At Listowel Writer’s Week I caught up with Manchan Magan, a man of many talents, who was writing his own experimental novel, and who was great on giving me tips on who to see. Which was good as I wouldn’t have thought of Patrick de Witt and am really glad I went to his interview, bought his book, loved it (The Sisters Brothers).

Truth be told, I also stalked an agent down there, he loved my pitch, asked for the book when I’d re-written it and kept in touch all last year. He got a new job heading up a flash new literary agency since then, I don’t think I’m flash enough for it!

At West Cork Lit Fest I met Anita Shreve, bought her new book, which believe it or not, alternated past and present chapters, and was encouraged by her interview. By the way, the book didn’t work (Weight of Water).

In Dublin last September I listened to a panel with Donal Ryan, Kathleen McMahon, Selina Guinness. I read Donal’s ‘The Spinning Heart’ and Selina’s ‘Crocodile at the Door’ over Christmas, well worthy of their shortlising.

At this stage of writing, being finished and listening to how others started, how each subsequent book is a new beginning, is part of the learning. You could spend an entire year in Ireland doing nothing but attending literary and arts festivals, some of them even clash, that would be a bit sad though wouldn’t it?

So it was that last Saturday I met Christine Dwyer Hickey, Anne Haverty and Mia Gallagher and followed it up with a visit into Alliance Francaise yesterday morning for Christine’s talk.

There are only tourists, their heads craned upwards, walking around Dublin early on Sunday morning, so why is there no car parking, surely everybody hasn’t abandoned their cars overnight? Anyway, I was very pleased I made it in, two hours of French and Irish inspiring writers, and all done by lunchtime.

Thanks for the invite Mariella, the writers I met were so encouraging it’s given me another burst of energy on a Monday morning to finish my review of ‘Five Days’ by Douglas Kennedy and keep editing my own book, or it will never see a cover.

Bittersweet Camomile

After a few postponements, Absentee Boyfriend and I were going out for dinner on Tuesday, only I'd also suggested to international woman of mystery, Racquel, to come over that evening too, indeed, and Sir Leigh, mutual friend, was also joining us. Bung a pork fillet in the oven and toss some veggies around it I thought, it's all about the chat anyway, isn't it? Sir Leigh talked of stuffing, no need I said,  good grief. But he arrived with a melange of black pudding and other fine Irish foodstuffs, of which he is an aficionado and took over the kitchen. I donated an apron. Neighbour blitzed breadcrumbs for him and a very artful presentation resulted.

Dinner a la Sir Leigh

This could catch on, when he arrived ABF decided we'd dine in landladyhouse, and I, thanks to Sir Leigh, felt like I was dining out, such was the extent of his very tasty stuffed pork  and colour co-ordinated vegetable dishes.

There's no such thing as a free dinner in your own house you know, I finished scrubbing pots at 6 the following evening. The thing I remember most amongst all the undoubtedly scintillating conversation, ABF said he didn't like reading about himself in the blog. I might have to axe him. You know, Axe him....

By Thursday I was making progress on my edit and finishing the new Douglas Kennedy book I've to review (whom I've never read read), except I had an afternoon appointment with the recruitment consultant who'd told me there wasn't much call for architectural historians. He regretted saying that and invited me for coffee or lunch, I agreed to coffee, unsure if I could take any more career annihilation, and discovered a lot about the job market I didn't know, mainly I've no chance of getting one unless it's through a personal connection, as my skills are too 'specialised'.  Talent solution its called, and Linkedin is the new free recruitment agency according to him. So that's another project for next week.

Seeing as I'd put on a dress, I went for a pot of camomile tea with an old friend in the Dylan Hotel, someone else who is always flitting in and out of Ireland, let's call him the Scarlet Pimpernel.  He spent most of his time being evasive and typing emails, I can only conclude that it's the type of afternoon tea I can do without and when he left I hobbled out to say hello to some friends in the garden.

Friends, wine and chat, there was nothing for it but to leave the car. The concierge very kindly parked it for me and with the fear of clamping gone, I was home in a taxi and realised I'd left the Douglas Kennedy book, Five Days on the back seat. I'd got to a stage where the story began to hold my interest, when a dramatic twist was taking place on the streets of Boston. In five days this week the world had become well acquinted with the names of its streets and suburbs, where some mother's sons chose evil and we saw it is never far away.

I'd better get back to the Douglas Kennedy, because it's the nearest thing to a job this week.

Candy Floss Bed Linen

Crushed Raspberry Bed Linen

I'm no iron lady as anyone who's read some of these posts will know, but today I needed to iron a sheet, it being a lovely sunny day with the linen on the line; who'd have ever thought we'd be celebrating hanging the washing out to dry.  Ironing a sheet is a job to be got over quickly. I found the equipment in Cost Centre #1's penthouse, 'I'll have this done in no time,' I say, and look around for a glass of water to top up the iron. Half way through the job, I get a sickly strawberry sherbet pong, then the iron starts to get sticky and brown bubbly caramel dribbles forth. Yikes, bloody flavoured water, just think what it's doing to your insides CC #1!

The sheet smells of cheap bubblegum, I've heard of fruit flavoured condoms, but sticky candy floss sheets - I don't think they'll catch on.

And the reason I haven't got around to writing a post all week is literary;  literally, reading a book for review, which I'll end up half reviewing here if I'm not careful, whereas it can be read soon in the Sindo. I'm also continuing to axe thousands of words to fit my novel into competition criteria. I'm saving them to put somewhere else, after the weeks of solitude it took to write them in the first place.

The review and editing were supposed to be done last weekend when I went for a quiet retreat to my friend in Wicklow. We shall call her Victoria, not after Beckham, or even Secret, but Grayson, from Revenge, only because she's looks a bit like Madeleine Stowe and has the figure to go with it. Victoria's husband, Baron von Richter Scale was checking out pistons in some romantic Spanish location with his fellow petrol heads. There was nothing for it but to stay in with her and cook, gossip, read, gossip, sleep, gossip and er, drink a bottle or six of wine. And even though I've a cat phobia, I managed to relax enough not to squeal in fright at the thought of her creature touching me.

Ah yes, the silence, the bird song, the distance, a great retreat, but still the book review isn't finished.  And on Sunday afternoon we have to curtail the rural idyll to visit our friend who's displaying her new baby furniture at the Pregnancy and Baby Fair. As you can imagine, Victoria and I are far from interested in anything that might be purveyed but it's important to support our friend. We arrive an hour before it ends and take a quick scoot around the stands looking for her. We pass the Mount Carmel Hospital stand and a myopic woman hands us both a leaflet and asks us to think of them when we're having our next child. At least she didn't presume we were pregnant. Victoria was horrified, I said we should be flattered - Non?

Next day I'm in hospital after my GP suggested I get the knee and thumb further checked. The only way to bear the waiting situation was to bring the book and enjoy the peace. It amazes me that 90% of patients who complain about the waiting in A&E, don't bring anything to pass the time. I hardly read a few pages when the nurse called me, then I settled in for another hour only the doctor called me within 10 minutes, then I thought maybe a few more pages only the radiographer called me. OK I had to wait a bit on a trolley to get all the results, but it was warm and comfortable.

A young girl, maybe late teens, sat nearby crying. She was wearing a fetching white sort of skater dress, ie, short and floaty, tanned limbs, candy floss nails,  french pedicure, I noticed this as she wasn't wearing any shoes. Her arm was in a sling. She sobbed so much I tried to think of something to comfort her, but when I looked again she was absorbed in  her phone. Her doctor listed a few things off to my doctor, words like Student Races, fall, alcohol. I conjured up images of the girl running in a sack race or maybe an egg and spoon race with a cocktail bar at the finish line.

My thumb was strapped into a velcro thing and I was told I should have been on crutches for the last three weeks, but it was too late now, the tear was mending, they said, just keep it rested. When I got home I told CCN#2 about the girl and asked if there were some student races in UCD today?

'No, mom they were in Leopardstown, horses, student tickets, er hello?'

'Oh, that explains the girls friends in the waiting area, all dressed up with fascinators.'

'What are fascinators?' he sniffs

'Ah, hello, look it up.'