Eve of Adam

On Day Two of Twenty-Thirteen I made my way through the flotsam of sales, trawling duvet boxes, pillows, mattress covers and what was left of the matching linen, floral yeuch. I wanted the bedooms to look and feel so good that I’d love to sleep in them.  I came home to find the boys were taking it very seriously, having found old Playstation games, they were re-bonding over Grand Theft Auto or FIFA, whatever, both in a catatonic state.

While walking the dog to de-stress us and attend to her ungainly girth, my pocket hummed, a stranger calls, a Dublin man who wanted to see the room that evening. An insistent sort of man who explained he liked the area, he worked in the UK and it wanted a base. Well that’s not so bad I thought.  Let’s just see if we can tolerate the look of each other. He arrived that evening in a black and red tracksuit with a samurai badge on it. Channelling Bruce Lee when you visit your proposed landlady is a bit of a risk.

It was certainly a first for me to interview a strange man in my kitchen, without the assistance of music, low lights and wine, that is. Perhaps 'grill' might be a better word. He seemed plausible and keen. I couldn’t see a problem.  Those last two sentences suddenly explain quite a lot about my search criteria for the dream man. He declined my offer of coffee, he was on his way to the gym, a brownie point.

I found myself probing the most awkward of questions about marital status, parenting status, profession and social habits, as we sat on high stools at the breakfast bar, a vodka tonic wouldn’t have gone amiss. He quickly told me his tale, construction related like my own.  I lead the way to the bedroom – yes, I said it was a strange scenario!

I began to see this was very much a two way thing, by now I was hoping he’d like to move in, I trusted my instinct, not always a reliable one when it comes to men. He said he’d sign whatever I wanted, up to a year if I liked, I had nothing prepared to sign. Then I remembered the all important advice the neighbour-husband had given me. ‘Oh yes,’ I said, with great humility and not a small degree of cringing, ‘a few people have advised me on house rules, there’s just a couple of things, I’d prefer if there’s no cooking late at night.’

‘You won't have to worry there,’ he says, ‘the most you might find is a chip bag in the bin.’

I laugh nervously, ‘and no overnight guests.’ There, I said it. He looked at me as if to say, ‘we’re in our forties, what kind of nonsense is that?’  He said nothing. I have an image of me with a scarf tied round my head, rollers sticking out, a fag hanging from the corner of my mouth, wielding a rolling pin outside his door.

So, Adam arrives the following Saturday morning with a few bags, leaves his rent, and tells me I won’t see him for another week. Suddenly this is a great idea, I can pay some bills. As soon as I feel the pressure easing, I get a bill for the must-have black-out blinds in Cost Centre #1’s attic-penthouse; 400 euro for three pieces of beige plastic! The search for lodger No. 2 begins.