Dublinlandlady does Radio

It's been a long road to here

Gentleman lodger #2, whom we call Tristan Davenport, has been a reader of this blog prior to his arrival. He tells me he sometimes checks it to see who he is, but yesterday he asked what had happened to dublinlandlady, what with hospital visits, newspaper interviews and radio talks, she no longer looked, never mind sounded, like the mother of two who'd gone all boarding housekeeper in January. Give me time, I say, I'll be back.

I was nervous at the thought of a live interview, what if I stuttered or couldn't remember a word? Which happens quite frequently at home when I can't remember the name of the dishwasher or microwave,  'put it in the w-w-w white thing or turn off the b-b-brown thing'  I stammer, you would think the cost centres would have me worked out by now.

Worse again, the researcher said there would be photographers, and I still look like a car crash, bandaged nose and black eyes. I hoped the surgeon would remove the dressing yesterday, he looked at me in horror when I told him I was doing a radio interview, 'can't you do it on the phone?' he gasped, apparently I'm supposed to have been in bed the last five days recuperating.

Luckily a friend got the brilliant idea of coming into Radio Centre with me, I'd completely overlooked what it might feel like, pouring out a rather painful and tragic event on the air and its consequences. So the girl I've known for nearly thirty years, with whom I've shared a house and gone on grown up holidays without our kids, came and held my hand. Her name is Friend in Time.

CC # 2 has been rising early seeing as his finals are imminent and we have breakfast together these days, or rather he piles lashings of food into him and checks his phone incessantly while I ask him seeming irrelevant things. Like what do you think about this interview, you being a philosophy student, like?
'I think it should be up to women to do whatever they want, I told you that already, mom.'
End of.

I drove the short distance to Montrose, what a lovely place to work, all Miesian long low glass and steel, classic Scott Tallon Walker, and hasn't dated. I distract myself analysing the architecture and admiring the cherry blossom. I'd made notes on things I needed to remember, Friend in Time reminded me I  just had to tell my story, that was the only thing people wanted to hear, and to speak to the person at home or wherever they were listening to their radio. That had a spontaneous lachrymose effect, when I think of the personal, I feel the weight of injustice come crashing towards me and the waste of effort to save other Irish women from the same fate. I now feared having a similar tearful episode on air and in front His Patness.

Interestingly and very helpfully, no notes are allowed in studio. We were both taken down to the sound room in which three women worked at complicated looking monitors and we watched until Pat Kenny was ready to call me in. Whoosh, it went in a blink. I now know why he is such a successful broadcaster, very kind, very good. I was even able to tackle the 'Mick' question without notice.

There was a lady from the Irish Independent in the foyer, I was by then in a bit of a blur, I checked with FiT and we agreed it would be ok to extend the interview. There were an awful lot of women in RTE, busy women doing great work, a side of the radio I hadn't appreciated. It's just the ads I don't like, and the news. And, no, I'm not going to say I think I'll apply for a job in there too.

The woman from the Independent has three children, I believe she well understood why I am doing this.

And now, I am relieved.