Territorial Memory

I consulted Absentee Boyfriend on the lodger/overnight guest issue; he is the incarnation of patience and diplomacy over the phone, from the Alps, at a safe distance. His advice was ‘sleep on it and see how you feel in 24 hours’.

‘I won’t be able to sleep,’ I grumble and restrain the dog from sniffing at her twentieth tree trunk as we take the evening air. If nothing else, it was good to have a male perspective, the women I’ve told are all horrified, it’s a female territorial thing, just like my dog I suppose.

Earlier yesterday I got a reminder from my mother to text my youngest brother for his birthday. It’s a significant one. I texted him en route from Cork, when Mariella and I stopped at Kildare Village in the hope of finding the perfect tea-dress for under fifty euro, in silk. They haven’t really hit the outlets yet and the dresses in most shops were between 300-700 euro, now that’s hardly a bargain worth going all the way to Kildare for, is it?

When I spoke with my mother later she reminisced about my brother’s infancy. I was twelve when he was born and put in charge of taking him to the local shop in the pram. I thought my mother would have learned on brother number three that I was liable to leave the pram outside the shop and come home without it. Sometimes my friend, Vyvienne, came with me and two of us would still manage to leave the baby behind, so engrossed were we in our sherbets and Mandy’s, it wasn’t even the Jackie stage of life.

By twelve I was getting more responsible and think I only did it once, at least I put the brake on and it didn’t roll down the hill in Goatstown. But yesterday my mother told me about another incident. She put the baby in the pram in the front garden, where she could see it from the kitchen window. People did that kind of thing in the ‘Seventies, sun didn’t cause cancer in those days, nor did cigarettes, a bit like Mad Men, there were no warnings about responsible parenthood.  

She went to bring him inside and found him lying in the grass, not making a sound. Someone had stolen the pram and left the baby behind. She reported it to the police who knew of the thief, a woman with lots of children in D.4 (I can hardly be done for libel at this stage – there are diverse parts of D.4 you’ll admit).

Huggy Noddy, the builder, is back in my house today, bolshie boiler trouble again. We go in search of a radiator leak throughout each room, ending up in the side-attic. You know the kind of place, crouching beneath the eaves with a lamp, surrounded by the jetsam that the Cost Centres have been told to store efficiently. I spy the costly cycle rack I bought for my car for those expeditions when I’d need to take my bike to the west. Never used. 

The Baboon Effect

And there’s the last shoe box I saved from a series of de-clutters, I like this one, especially as I didn’t exactly see myself buying a collection of the shoes. The Christian Louboutin shop in Mount Street is very near Pyms Gallery, London, a great showcase for Irish artists over many years. Louboutin is all about the red soles, the baboon effect, I believe. So I bought a slinky black pair, back in the day, I kept the box, you never know when you might need it and it was a pleasant memory of a visit to London. A day when I strolled in sunshine with ABF and had oysters at Scotts of Mayfair, right beside Louboutin, if I remember. As I crouched in the attic, a Proustian reverie came over me. OK I’m a hoarder.

I leave Noddy to his task of replacing bottle valves in the leaking pipes of the attic and try to get back to my computer. There’s another electrical problem, Noddy grabs an electrician who’s working on a house nearby. Hours later there’s an arsenal of tools, pipes and joinery around the kitchen. Tristan Davenport, lodger #2, is gamely working away amid the debris and I go about preparing some lunch for the men.

I end up with a sort of solution; but it will require yet another electrician to visit. Noddy leads me up to the attic to show me the repairs, proudly displaying his invention to assess any further leaks. A neatly torn crisp white card with a subtle manila underside, my Christian Louboutin memory box, dismembered and servile.