by Marian Keyes
The funny thing is that every night I try to write a gratitude list and one of the things that regularly appears is ‘Today no terrible disasters happened to me or anyone I love’, so in a way I HAD been grateful for the luxury of ordinariness and I was desperate to return to those halcyon, pain-free, anxiety-free days.
Then! Unexpectedly a corner was turned! Himself went back to his physio, who did some fiendish jiggery-pokery on the place where the nerves and his spine intersected, which released him from much of the pain, and he came home armed with a set of exercises, which the physio claimed would be a great help.
He’s meant to do them for ten minutes three times a day, and in solidarity I am his coach and timekeeper and I wear a hoodie and sweats and carry a stopwatch. First of all he has to nod his head vigorously and while he’s doing that I shout, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Then he has to shake his head vigorously and I shout, ‘No! No! No!’
Then he has to waggle his head in a strange, inconclusive way and I shout, ‘I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!’
Then he has to do rotating movements with his head, like I used to do in the warm-ups in the aerobic classes I did in the 1980s, and I shout, ‘Round we go! Round we go! Round we go!’
At this point he tries to look at the watch and I say, ‘It’s only been four and a half minutes, keep going,’ and he objects and says that it must be at least seven minutes, but I shout, ‘Funky chicken! Funky chicken!’ and I hide the watch inside my hoodie.
Defeated, he commences doing jutting movements with his head (like he’s doing the funky chicken), and I sing Earth, Wind and Fire songs to get him in the funky chicken mood.
Then he has to do some funny business with a ball and a wall, where he sort of headbutts the ball against the wall using his neck muscles. I am still looking for the best song to accompany this, but ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’ has been my default thus far.
Meanwhile, Christmas looms. God, what a wretched business it is, and hard to believe that this time last year we were swanning around, so bounteously laden with worldly goods that we were altruistically giving each other goats on behalf of communities in the developing world.
This year, seeing as the world economy has gone into meltdown, it’s more like, feck the Ethiopian farmers and where’s me Body Shop gift basket! I am, of course, joking! All I’m saying is that things are very different this year. Lots of people won’t be buying anything – goats OR Body Shop gift baskets.
I am getting Himself a yearly subscription to Sheridans Cheese Club for his Christmas present. It’s what I got him last year and he says it’s the best present anyone’s ever given him, and what it entails is that on the second Wednesday of every month a foul-smelling parcel shows up at the front door (usually flung by the postman, who yells, ‘For the love of God! The stench in the van!’).
When the foul-smelling parcel is unwrapped, it is found to contain four different cheeses and a long biography on each of them: the farm they grew up in, their nationality, age, favourite member of Girls Aloud, all that business. I couldn’t be bothered myself, cheese is cheese, but Himself gets a great kick out of it.
Regarding the worldwide economic meltdown, Himself says that if there’s any way that people can, we should continue spending. This causes me to narrow my eyes suspiciously at him and conclude he’s after buying a load more CDs. ‘It’s basic Keynesian economics,’ he keeps saying, and I keep replying, ‘What the hell would you know?’ And then I remember that actually he has an MA in Economics and, wrong-footed, I shout, ‘Time for your exercises! Dance! Boogie Wonderlaaaa-aaand!’
mariankeyes.com, November 2008.
Nephews
There are several ‘clusters’ of nephews in play, in my life. I will commence with the Redzers, who are Dylan (four) and Oscar (two), who are the children of my sister Rita-Anne and her husband Jimmy. Anyway, myself and Himself went with them on a little mini-holiday (Friday to Monday) to the Powerscourt Hotel. Now, I make no bones about it, I am besotted with the place. It’s odd: when it was first built in the heyday of the Celtic Tiger I withheld my judgement, I decided I wasn’t going to be easily seduced by it … and then I went there …
Oh God, where do I start?
Well it’s only half an hour’s drive from my house. So in thirty minutes I went from crowded Dún Laoghaire to the mountains and the trees and the greenery and the lakes and the peace of Wicklow. No airports, no planes, no seven-hour drives, just thirty minutes in the vehicle.
We parked the car and already my shoulders were loosening and lowering.
Rita-Anne and the Redzers had also just arrived, and in we went and the welcome we got was lovely. The staff are so nice – a lot of ‘foncy’ hotels offer ‘Snotty Disdainful Service’ under their list of amenities, but not here. They’re very warm and they even have a little ‘pretend’ check-in for nippers, so they don’t get bored and start flinging themselves around, roaring and shouting, while the real check-in goes on.
Then we went to our lovely rooms, with views of the Sugar Loaf, and in the Redzers’ room they’d put in a ‘special’ (that’s what he kept calling it) roll-out bed for Dylan and a cage (i.e. cot) for Oscar, only he is a bit of a wild man, so that’s why you could easily visualize him in a cage. Also, for ‘the younger guests’ there are mini-bathrobes! And biscuits! And free milk in the fridge.
Then it was time for everyone – even the younger guests – to put on their togs and bathrobes and go for a swim. And, oh my God, the pool! It’s all mood-lit and almost womb-like.
In general, I fear the water. Not fear it, in that it might drown me; I fear it, in that it might wet me. You couldn’t pay me to have a bath. I DO, I must stress this, I DO know my duties as a member of society, so of course I have plentiful showers. But I forced myself into this beautiful pool because I knew it would calm me. And it did.
Then it was time to watch the Redzers eat their tea! Despite his tender years Dylan has already been to the Powerscourt Hotel (we went for Dad’s eightieth back in March), so he knows all about room service and he thinks it’s the most wonderful thing ever invented!
I had a quick (and I do mean quick) shower and changed into my nightdress and went in my bare feet with Himself to watch the tea-eating. (This information becomes relevant very shortly.) Jimmy (husband of Rita-Anne) was after arriving and then in came Tibor with the grub – Tibor is Mr Room Service, he’s from Hungary.
The chip-eating began with gusto – then the most godawful racket started up. It was the fire alarm. It was one of those noises that make you feel like your head is going to explode with the vibrations – they probably use them in Guantánamo Bay – but like the Irish people we are, we calmly continued eating our chips. ‘Just a drill,’ one of us would say, from time to time, while our heads started to judder and melt. ‘Are you eating your gherkin? Can I have it?’
All of a sudden, it dawned on us, as one, that maybe it wasn’t a drill, that maybe there was a fire. Giving the few remaining chips a wistful farewell glance, the six of us hurried from the room, three of us in our jim-jams (Dylan, Oscar and me).
‘Don’t go back for anything!’ somebody shouted, and out in the corridor other people (all of them, sadly, fully dressed) were pouring from their rooms. Instinctively we made for the lifts – and then we remembered everything we knew about lifts and fires, so we recoiled and started hurrying down the stairs, Dylan and Oscar being carried. It was high drama, my amigos, high drama.
We emerged into the Sugar Loaf Lounge, which is in the lobby, and there was no alarm going off there. Instead there were
a load of civilized people wearing chinos or nice frocks and sipping glasses of wine and looking in alarm at our ragged barefoot band. ‘Fire alarm,’ I said weakly, pointing upwards, suddenly aware that I didn’t have any make-up on. But we weren’t allowed to go back to our rooms – the noise was still clanging away up there and a load of men wearing belts full of tools were heading upstairs with purpose. So we settled ourselves on a couple of couches and when a lovely member of staff offered us a drink, we said, ‘Feck it! Why not? We’re on our holiers!’
The strange thing was that it felt very homey. Apart from the worry that some random stranger might catch sight of the soles of my hideous feet, we were all quite relaxed and happy there. No one – certainly not the staff – behaved as if there was anything untoward in the sight of a grown woman sitting in the lobby of this lovely foncy hotel in her nightdress. (May I stress that my nightdress was my usual long-sleeved, high-necked, floor-length, stripy jersey item from Marimekko; at least it had the virtue of being very modest.)
We all had a lovely time and then two weeks later Himself and myself went to Englandshire to visit his parents, his brother Chris, his partner Caron and their two boys, Jude (seven) and Gabe (five). Our visit coincided with the annual Cambridge Folk Festival, which is nothing like as bad as it sounds. For a start it’s not just folk music (although there was some ‘As I roved out one dewy morn, I spied a maid all fair and square’, etc.). And it’s not like a festival in that people aren’t falling around scuttered drunk. It’s all very mellow.
People spread out rugs and read the Guardian and eat falafels and buy jester’s hats made of felt and occasionally go to one of the three music tents to hear some music.
Now, I readily confess to not being a music-lover. I’d be quite happy to be described as a music-hater. Nevertheless, it was all fine. The sun shone on the Saturday and then, from Stage 1, I heard the oddest noise. It was music … but I liked it. ‘This I have to see,’ I said and pushed my way through the crowds – the great thing about being in a place full of Guardian readers is that no one feels they can chide you for pushing – and I got right up near the front. My information was that this was the Keb’ Mo’ band, and I swear to God, I spent the next forty-five minutes transfixed, goosebumps all over my body. The Keb’ Mo’ man was singing sort of soul, and sometimes he was more bluesy; he has the most captivating voice, like melted chocolate, and the charisma was rolling off him like a sea mist.
When I got back to base camp, everyone fell on me and gave me a right scolding. ‘We were worried!’ they said. ‘We didn’t know where you’d gone!’ Then, when they heard I’d gone to see a band, they were even more worried.
Keb’ Mo’ was almost the highlight of the Cambridge Folk Festival. My two actual highlights were 1) Jude ‘cycling’ me a smoothie – do you know of such a thing? He hops up on a special bike and cycles like mad and the energy generated powers a blender. And 2) Gabe holding my hand when we went to get ice cream! It’s the little things, isn’t it …
mariankeyes.com, August 2012.
Redzer-Sitting
Right! Rita-Anne asked me if I’d mind the Redzers and I was keen – yes, keen – to help because they are two little balls of delight, but knew that I alone would be insufficient for the task, for they are full of vim, but Himself couldn’t help on account of going to Watford for the football and especially on account of Watford having done so well this season and, as we speak, definitely in the play-offs, which is very good! Yes!
So I asked Gwen if she’d help and Gwen said yes, and oh, my amigos, this was great, great news as Gwen is officially GWN (good with nippers). She really has the gift: she has a handbag full of stickers and just has a great ‘way’ with childer. Whereas I do NOT have a great way with childer, because somehow they intuit that I’ve no natural authority and am a total pushover and therefore they do NOTHING I ask them to.
So anyway, yesterday I arrived at Redzerville and Gwen had already been there for two hours and I expected the house to be bedlam because whenever the Redzers come to me they zoom through the house like a pair of red-haired tornados, rearranging everything, and we find the oddest things in the oddest of places for months afterwards. (Do not get me started on my beloved home bingo kit is all I will say …)
But no, as good as gold they were, sitting at the kitchen table, doing colouring.
Then we left and proceeded to the nearby shopping paradise of Dundrum, where we aimed for MaccyD’s. The Redzers don’t often go to MaccyD’s, so this was a big, big, big treat, which they’d been looking forward to for ages. I will digress slightly here and tell you that Oscar (Redzer No 2), who is super strong-willed, would only wear his Cheltenham Town football outfit for the visit, which is slightly (quite a bit) too large for him, and red socks so long they went up to his thighs. He cut a dashing figure.
To get to MaccyD’s we had to go through House of Fraser, and the thing is I wanted to get Gwen a little present because Gwen is a really good person who has been incredibly kind to me in a multitude of ways and I knew Gwen was looking for a Clinique Chubby Eyes Stick in Bountiful Beige and her fella had tried and failed to purchase it in Manchester and in various duty-frees.
So, as I discovered myself to be actually passing the Clinique stand in House of Fraser, I brought our cavalcade to an abrupt halt and asked of the lady, ‘Have you any Bountiful Beige?’
‘No,’ says she, ‘and we won’t be getting any until the end of April.’
Distressed, I exclaimed, ‘There’s a world shortage!’
‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘and it’s all your fault for tweeting about it.’
For some reason that made us all fall around the place laughing, even the Redzers, who are young and innocent and who know nothing of Chubby Eyes or tweeting but who are essentially upbeat souls who enjoy a good laugh.
All went well in the McDonald’s, including the Happy Meal toy, which the lads were very excited about. Oscar didn’t finish his chips, but Rita-Anne had warned us this might happen and under no circumstances were we to leave them behind because he’d be looking for them later, so we wrapped them up in a napkin into a little parcel which he insisted on carrying himself. Oscar, it has to be said, is a great man for carrying things. Oscar always has something in his hand.
However, unbeknown to either myself or Gwen, Dylan had stashed half his hamburger in his pocket. (This detail becomes important later.)
Out in the Dundrum concourse, I put it to the lads that we go to Harvey Nichols to ‘look at make-up’. The lads, who are always positive, seemed happy enough to ‘look at make-up’, even if they had no idea what it entailed.
But the thing was, I had an ulterior motive. See, I had a plan to try to get something nice for Gwen, seeing as the Chubby Eyes were embargoed till the end of the month.
So in we went and I strong-armed her to the Hourglass counter (I would have brought her to the Tom Ford counter but that is only in Brown Thomas) and shoved her at the lovely lady and said, ‘My friend here needs a foundation. Will you look after her?’
Next thing poor Gwen is ‘taking the stool’ and the Redzers were left in my sole care, and the thing is that even though there are only two of them, it feels more like a hundred and I am a poor figure of authority at the best of times.
They were extremely interested in the make-up, the pair of them, EXTREMELY interested. And full of zip and vim after their lunch. They were grabbing lipsticks and scribbling on their faces and sticking their fingers into eyeshadows and thinking they were like finger-paints and putting stripes of colour everywhere, and I was racing around trying to control the
m but it was like herding weasels and they were slipping like mercury from my grasp and thinking it was all hilarious and I could feel the aghast looks of the other shoppers, that is to say, the real Harvey Nichols shoppers.
Oscar had managed to procure a pile of Chantecaille eyeshadows, a collection worth about a thousand euro, in his squishy little paws and was all set to depart for home with them, and Dylan was trying out the new Hourglass illuminating powder, which isn’t even officially launched yet, and it was absolute mayhem and poor Gwen was up on the stool, being done, and in all fairness the Harvey Nichols staff remained cool. Which was good, because there was worse to come. Oh, much worse.
Gwen eventually agreed to let me buy her something (an Hourglass primer), mostly because she just wanted it all to be over, I think, and she came down off the stool and tried to put a shape on the lads but it was too late, the damage was done, they were wildly overexcited and in fairness who would blame them? I too get very excited around make-up, especially new stuff.
I went to the till, and Gwen had the bright idea of taking the boys to look at the fish in the tank at the Crème de la Mer counter, and in fairness the fish did have a calming effect because the shrieks died down for a while.
Then Dylan produced the hamburger half that he’d put in his pocket for ‘later’, and of course Oscar had his leftover chips, so they took a notion to sit on the floor and have an impromptu picnic, right in the Harvey Nichols doorway.
Which, even writing about it now, is still making me laugh. And I think everyone came out of it well. The Harvey Nichols employees were really nice, no one made us feel anything other than welcome, and the Redzers’ joie de vivre and their total unselfconsciousness and ability to be spontaneous and in the moment was lovely to behold.
