It's 3pm I'm in dire need of chocolate

I am in dire need of chocolate.

I’ve had the urge under control for a while, so it seems worth mentioning now because I’ve a few things to get off my chest.

You see a few weeks ago, Racquel dragged me to WeightWatchers. In a Methodist Hall at 10am. The details are important. I went without breakfast, the venue wasn’t much fun. I borrowed her ballet slippers and wore as little as decently possible. 

Their scales was wrong.

And it cost 20 euro to join and get weighed. That’s the equivalent of an off-peak blow-dry which is way more satisfying.

I only wanted to lose a few pounds, the ones that didn’t fall off in the juice detox. But apparently I can’t miss a week until I reach my target and become a gold member. Racquel persuaded me to go to a Dublin 4 meeting for the next one. It’s in that hotel that Sean Dunne’s missus dreamt up a farcical figure for, as she languished by a pool in Thailand. And the portfolio languishes in NAMA and our property tax fills the many black holes created by their ilk.

I digress, but you know where I mean. It’s still sitting there in the new ‘Knightsbridge’ hosting WeightWatchers meetings, while herself plays house in Connecticut. 

The D4 scales was wrong too. 

This week I went back to the Methodist Hall on my own, having got the red wine sandwiches under control. Their scales was on the mend.

I even stayed for the ‘talk’. The motivating lady is super. She’s from the days when women had to give up work when they got married, when people had dinner at lunchtime. I missed last week so I didn’t get to hear all the Mother’s Day warnings.  She asked how did we get on that day? The other ladies, for there are many and only one man, gushed about breakfast in bed, fancy dinners, flowers and chocolates. 

I felt alone, isolated, an outcast. They just wouldn’t have understood.

At 6pm on Mother’s Evening CC#2 arrived home with a glittery card full of appreciation and guff.

His gift? 

A box of Ariel Liqui-tabs. The luxury ones, not the Lidl ones.

I suppose it was more practical than flowers and they smell nice. He’d used the last one the day before and I refused to buy another pack for a week.

CC#2 was a bit more traditional, giving me files for my college notes.

So, on my way out of WeightWatchers yesterday I splurged on the 3 euro, 5-pack of caramel and chocolate bars that are only 2 points each. I reckoned on one-a-day at most.

Last night I drove to TV3 for a female audience with Vincent Browne, on how liberated we are not. 

After a classic VB rude interruption, I came home for dinner with the man formerly known as absentee boyfriend. 

He needed some chocolate after my fine roast chicken and vegetables. All I had were WW caramels which I reluctantly offered. Here’s what he did …

Father's and Sons' Day

Laduree from Tristan. Too gorgeous to eat, maybe not....

Will there be a card? A drawing hastily executed? Flowers? Chocolates? Breakfast made? I am up writing early on the Sunday designated for making mother’s feel special or at least appreciated for pushing a trolley around Tesco and filling the fridge now and then. Cost centre #2 comes to my desk and hands me a white paper bag with a name from the distant past, it’s so old, it’s chic and vintage, in fact, these days the name must represent triumphant survivalism. Golden Discs. I know I can download anything I want, easy, instant and leave it stuck on my computer or iPhone, but he heard me say I wanted to buy this CD and with HMV closed didn’t know where to go anymore. You see, CD’s can be lent, like books and uploaded. The first CD he ever bought me was Kylie, which I still love for driving long distance. My special mother’s day treat is Lykke Li. A sort of husky Bjork meets Bob Dylan meets Patti Smith, I recommend.

In the afternoon, the cost centres and I make a long overdue visit to my brother who is undergoing chemotherapy. We’ve had a few cancelled visits when he hasn’t been feeling well and hope today will be a good one. It will be the first time in years that his sons and mine are all in the one room. His wife and I have prevailed on them to co-ordinate a few hours off on Sunday afternoon, away from soccer, rugby, work, cinema, girlfriends and, most popular, bed. After the essential photo calls, we settle down to watch the England v Italy game; a sport I never thought would bind me to my sons.

I want to invite my brother and his sons to cost centre #2’s forthcoming twenty-first celebrations and try to pin CC#2 down on the details.

I offer to do a dinner at home for his friends, the local homies, not everyone he knows. These days the twenty-firsts are often all-boy dinners and plus ones aren’t invited. CC#2 and his girlfriend don't go to each others parties much, but get on exceedingly well all the same. There is a new breed of woman out there who is content to walk the dog with her student boyfriend as a date. Tolerant but not surrendered; there must be a book in that.

In response to the offer he says he doesn’t want any fuss, no party.

‘But don’t you want me to do something special; just have your friends here for beer and pizza?’

‘My friends here drinking beer and pizza wouldn’t make me feel special,’ he says.

‘Oh.’

‘Going out with you, dad, CC#1 and my girlfriend would be special.’

You can’t argue with that. Now I just need to find a very loud restaurant.

Celebs

My new tenant is due to move in today. I think I went a bit overboard with the bleach in his shower room in a bid to hasten the pristine effect. A chambermaid I’m not and I’m retiring from cleaning duties now, it’s been far too vigorous a morning for someone who’s been out late. Midnight on a Wednesday is the new late; I think some of you might agree.

At least it was a sort of cerebral-oriented evening with a modicum of drinking and a lot of thinking. My friend from Virginia, whom we’ll call Annie as in Get Your Gun, because she shoots, invited me to The Picture of Dorian Gray at the Stephen’s Green Club. Only it was cancelled last minute due to poor booking, now that’s a shame for the actors. I was in my LBD ready for town when I got the message, followed by another message from Blonde Racquel asking if I could take a spare table at a fundraising Quiz in the Four Seasons. Trivia Heaven, Annie and her husband joined me. She and I pooled our American and European trivia and managed to finish ahead of some tech companies, while the big law firms topped the polls most of the evening, until finally the bragging rights went to Racquel’s table, with a trophy and an incomprehensible smart phone each. She’d been hoping to come 2^nd for the Brown Thomas vouchers, suffice to say the modicum of wine transmuted into celebratory drinks.

Back in landladyland, I’ve just shown the bedroom to the acupuncturist/cranial sacral therapist, and I am mighty intrigued about his work. Whatever about him moving in if friend moves back to city life soon, I think I’d book in for a treatment, though I don’t think I was delivered  by forceps (you can have cranial issues if you had a traumatic birth), it’s all about getting your body back in line, your organs in balance, that sort of thing. He was very convincing.

My Queen of Hearts Cake by Clarice (not her real name!)

I need to plan a lunch for tomorrow afternoon. The sodden weather we’re having has put me right off doing any actual shopping for it today and I‘m hoping for a Nigella moment tomorrow. It’s an early birthday lunch, there are two birthdays in the house in March and then there’s Mother’s Day, we’re going to have to assess the hierarchical options. Chronologically, Mother’s Day and mine come first; cost centre #2 was due on my birthday. Gratifyingly, he did me the favour of arriving nine days late and has taken his leisure with everything since, waiting until his leaving cert before becoming remotely punctual and communicable.

I have to admit to being a birthday diva, as many of my friends will testify. It is one day when you can be cheered up unconditionally. Mine is a bit of a non-event this year, not ending in a zero or a five, but still I want to see friends for lunch and not put any of us to a restaurant expense.

I thought I might have dinner with Absentee BF on the day. The permutations of flights and effort didn’t do it for me. Instead, I’m going to go out next week with the girls who can’t get play dates for tomorrow. Yes, most of my friends have small children, while mine are like bodyguards. Thankfully, those coming only need play-dates for themselves.

So cost centre #2 will be twenty-one on the 21^st. Another cause for celebration, and being the stoic philosopher he is, wants nothing to do with it. Mother still has to celebrate the day she gave birth to him. You may have guessed by now that I live alone with my sons. And that is for the last fifteen years. Their dad has been living abroad all that time. So, better get my own out of the way and plan the big one.