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.

Surprise Surprise

Huggy Man at the Farmgate,Midleton

Life is full of surprises; Ireland is full of surprises. The village of Castlemartyr is where Sir Walter Raleigh once shopped, now it has many boarded up village buildings, once mercantile, no doubt, butchers, drapers, candlestick makers. I thought nearby Midleton was one long street with not a lot going on but I discovered the Farmgate on Saturday night. I wish we had one of those in D.4 plus ten and it has been there since 1983. Even a farmer's market around here would be good. You enter the restaurant through their farm shop, purveyors of all that is fresh and good from the hinterland and further afield. 
 

At our hotel they recommended more than once we visit Sage as well. Apparently it's in the top 100 in the country and has the nine mile rule. Only produce from within a nine mile radius is used. So, there're two tips for your next trip to east Cork, which I completely missed last time I was there. 

We went to Farmgate with Annie Oakley, my gun-totin' friend from Virginia, who has fallen for Kinsale as her next place of residence. The steaks were to die for and happily we three girls were not only on budget but on our fainthearted diets. No starters or desserts, but digestifs in Pat Shortt's pub were allowed. Saturday night and the youf of Castlemartyr are out for the music and craic, we repaired to the garden seats overlooking a babbling brook, enchanting but for the sub-zero temperatures. What we do for a cigarette. As we were about to leave I realised my bag was a lot lighter, and my inner bag of cards, money, make up was missing. Our taxi was waiting, yes, for the long drive up the avenue. Nobody had handed it in, I was looking at a real catastrophe with it going missing, it was bought pre-celtic tiger, a splurge I'd made in Paris, so a little sentimental too. Abandoning decorum, I interrupted a group of ladies and asked if anyone had seen it. Blank faces, friends waiting at door, taxi meter running. Next I spot a buxom young lass holding it aloft, walking around asking if anyone owned it.

I hugged her ample charms, or thereabouts. There is goodwill yet.

Mariella and I enjoyed the epitome of lazy Sundays, two tired mothers, just read, took the country air and were rewarded with a massage. The spa at the hotel is world class, the staff were friendly and mainly local, full of charm. It was a thoroughly successful little respite, so much so I forgot to check into landlady house and hoped the Cost Centres would forgive my lapse. Better that I hadn't or otherwise all would not have been so blissful.

Lodger No.1 apparently invoked the Overnight Guest pass. I'd sort of thought the idea would be overnight in one's room, no impact on the sons, the kitchen, the dining room, the bathroom, that kind of thing, discreet and subtle. After all, it's a room rental not a house share. It's our home. As I write, all I know is that Cost Centre No. 2 couldn't use the bathroom it was so in demand, and the overnight guest was here all weekend.

I wasn't prepared for my reaction, but it feels a bit creepy, not as bad as being burgled, but a stranger has been in my house all weekend, not at my invitation, it's hard. This is all new to me, and who can you ask for advice?

As this is Diary of a Dublin Landlady, I don't know what's going to happen next. We shall have to wait and see. I know someone is bound to say 'lighten up'!