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 …

Did you know John Waters was famous in Italy? Do you care? No. OK.

I’m getting stuck into Edit number 12 of my book; I thought I was finished at the fourth re-write. Having been advised by A.N. Agent that it was too long at 125,000 words, I’m only on page of 80 with the scalpel and 5,000 precious words have been excised already.

So as not to be heartless I’m sending these émigrés to a file marked ‘possible short stories’, I find it hard to ‘kill my darlings’ but go they must.

Aci Trezza, Sicily, Faraglioni

The Italian student has been here in landladyhouse a week, this fact contributes to my zeal with deadlines, now that I have to prepare dinner for 7pm each evening, my day is ruthlessly organised.

We’ll call her Donatella, she arrived in Dublin last Saturday at the inhospitable hour of 11.30pm, at 11.25pm I got the brainwave to tell her to take a taxi from the airport to join me and friends, luckily she jumped at the idea and was immersed in Dublin terrace society in no time. At 44 and from my favourite region of Italy, Sicily, she settled right into the company with a glass of vino and when her mother rang said, ‘Ciao Mama, Si, Fantastico.’ Very pleased with her Irish welcome.

As a novice Bean an Ti, I’ve been very lucky, she is great humoured and the cooking isn’t so bad (having been relieved of regular dinner duty since the cost centres went to college, it’s very hard to get back into).

I was watching Vincent Browne (feat. Tom McGurk) with Donatella during the week (I know, a deadly introduction to Ireland). Next thing, she squealed as John Waters was introduced, ‘Ah, I know heem, he is famuss in Eetaly.’

I was sure she was mistaken.

‘He was a musician, he took drugs,’ she said.

I know he’d tried to get a song in the Eurovision (and complained bitterly about not being picked), but a rocker?

Apparently, he gave a televised ‘testimony’ to Pope Francis recently and avowed that finding faith had transformed and saved him. So there you are, he has a Damascene moment and gets to issue belligerent diatribes via the Irish Times. Good on him, I suppose.