But to be perfectly honest, I’m scared stiff. You see, she’s really glamorous, and young, and typically French. Beside her, I feel about ninety, and very old-fashioned and dumpy and all those other horrible adjectives. So I suppose I’ll have to dye my hair carrot red and eat nothing but the latter for a month before I feel comfortable beside her. Anyway, I’m going back there again next Wednesday for Anne’s lesson. Their house – FANTASTIC in a word!
D’you know the song ‘Mrs Robinson’? Can you explain it to me? I get the impression that it’s an alcoholic mother, but I’m not sure.
At the moment, we’re waiting for the doctor to see Thomas, who’s got a high temperature again. I’m not surprised, really. Vivianne dressed him in shorts last week. Okay, the sun was shining, but at the same time it was very cold. But every time the kids take a temp of 1˚ more than it should be, she immediately phones for the doctor. I suppose better safe than sorry, but at the same time, she’ll soon be able to open up a drug counter in the restaurant! Luckily enough, their insurance reimburses every penny.
I’m going to go and look at your old letters now in an attempt to discover this Romeo. Back in a sec …
Aha! Found him! I can imagine somebody very tall, well-built, NOT Mr Muscle. With dark hair that always flops into his very brown humorous eyes. And a generous mouth that reveals perfect white teeth when he smiles. No, that is not copied word for word from a Mills & Boon. I made it all up my little self!
But rereading your letter, I see that he’s really not all that marvellous in the appearance category, and is not an angel either. Why are we attracted to other people? I cannot understand it myself. Okay, if he’s a Robert Redford type, okay, that’s comprehensible, but why do we get crushes on guys that are just plain and ordinary? But, then, I never was great at chemistry!
Personally, I think life’d be as miserable as hell if we didn’t have crushes on boys. What utter monotony and misery that would be. You know when I do the ironing now, I compose letters home to you to be posted in the summer which are as follows:
Dear Mary/Sue/Eleanor/Catherine, Please excuse me for not writing for the past two months, but between Jean-Paul, Marc, Yann, X, Y and Z, I’ve been terribly busy. And when I had a minute to myself, well, I was too tired to write. You know how fatiguing it can be, dancing ’til four in the morning, and then, well, the return trips in the red sports cars can be SO exhausting …
Well, maybe you know yourself what a horrible bore ironing is, especially a minimum of two hours a day. I mean you have to do some kind of mind travelling if you want to stay sane! And, you never know, perhaps my dream will come true someday (and no smart comments about cows sprouting wings and flying!).
I’ve just written, with a lot of help from Viv, a rather nasty letter to the teachers of my correspondence course. In the books, they tell you ‘Do this, like this.’ You spend three hours a day typing arthritis into your fingers, only to get an exercise back, with red biro all over it saying, ‘Why did you do this like this? You’re supposed to do it like that!’ So now I’m thoroughly browned off it. The whole thing is very discouraging.
How did it feel to be on strike? I bet you were disappointed they didn’t call in the riot squad with nerve gas and batons and all that! Speaking of strikes – the whole of France is in an uproar because of them. They’re everywhere (sounds rather frightening and sinister, doesn’t it?). Even the Paris–Nice bike race ran into some trouble. I believe a few of the cyclists got and gave a few wallops. Let me ask you a serious question – do you think Sean Kelly knows how to smile?
Anyway, hoping to hear from you soon, love to all, write very soon.
Tons of love,
Catherine
PS Have an appointment to get me goggles changed. But it’s ages away – 11 April. Had to wait for about six weeks.
PPS What’s happening in Dynasty?
Letter 18 / My crush keeps rejecting me!
Carrick
Monday, 26 March 1984
Dear Cathy,
I’m writing this here letter on a Monday morning. Now, I hear you ask yourself, wot’s yer wan doing home on a Monday morning? Has she been thrown out, expelled, even? Well, ‘pour tranquilliser’ your beating ‘coeur’, we’re on holidays, actually, for two weeks. Not much of a holiday really, ’cos I’ve got tons of study to do (and that’s just the weight of the books!). Our accounts lecturer wanted us to get up at 6.30 a.m. to study, just like she did when she was going. Might explain the cut of her – she missed out on her beauty sleep!
Now for a bit of news … I guess you’re gonna be quite disappointed really ’cos nothin’ scandalous happened since my last letter. No really juicy bits of gossip.
Oh, hang on, I just thought of something. Remember the pub at the end of the Parish Height going up towards the Friary? Well, this guy went in there last week with a knife and threatened the woman there. Luckily some knight in shining armour came to the rescue but not before she had suffered a nasty shock. Honestly, Kitty dear, what is the world coming to! That didn’t happen in our day! And as for the youth of today …
By the way we christened the pussy Mimi. Maw found Mew-Mew too hard to say, what with the false teeth and all! So Mimi it is to be.
Cheryl was in to see me on Sunday (with her little sister Kate). Her chances of going to Canada are becoming slimmer and slimmer ’cos they can’t get a visa for her. Therefore, she’s thinking of doing an AnCO course instead. Actually, I was asking her about Dominic (’cos I haven’t seen him yet) and she was telling me about his lovely Roman nose (yes – nose!), which she adores! I’m sure if he had heard her describing his NOSE (shape, structure, colour!) he’d have shrivelled up and died. Anyway, the next day I couldn’t prevent myself from staring at his baby brother who’s on the same bus as me to see if he had one. Honest, he must think I’m loony.
So do you by this stage, I guess.
To get back to the people next door. Yes, Stephen is Anthony D’s nephew. Actually he’s really cute – Stephen, that is! You see, usually he plays ball in the back garden and it sometimes comes over into our place. Every time Maw hands it back to him she says, ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Stephen?’ To which he modestly replies, ‘Yes, I am’! Anyway this morning, Maw was hanging out the clothes when in came the ball. She threw it back to Stephen. He stood there eyeing her solemnly for a few seconds ’cos she hadn’t said anything, and then he announced, ‘I’m a good boy!’ and galloped off, leaving Maw in the stitches.
There go the county council men in their noisy digger again. (Maw calls it a gusher or a guzzar!) Anyway, at the moment, they’re outside doing the road, cleaning shores etc. (’cos yesterday we had torrential rain and everywhere got soaked and flooded). I looked out the window this morning to see one of them holding a shovel (breast-feeding it!) while two more stood beside him looking into a hole. Some things never change, huh?
My da has been in bed all last week ’cos of the terrible flu going around. Niamh had it for four days and so did half of my class.
Do you remember Helen who was in our class for French? Well, her mother died yesterday of cancer. I meant to tell you about her before. Last summer she went for an operation for gall stones and when they operated they found she had cancer of the liver. They couldn’t do much for her. She was getting progressively worse. At Christmas Niamh met Helen with the two younger kids. All they were worried about was seeing the crib. Helen started crying. After Christmas her mother got worse. She was in a lot of pain as the drugs were wearing off. She couldn’t take any food ’cos the cancer had spread to her stomach. Since they couldn’t do any more for her they left her home. H
elen (who was in Mater Dei) came home to nurse her. She died yesterday … at forty years of age. Strange world, isn’t it?
To change from this depressing subject, I’ve given up sweets for Lent and I’m going mad. Guess what else I’m doing. I’ve made a promise to make the sign of the cross every time I pass Piltown church, regardless of what anyone says. I know I’m nuts, ya needn’t tell me. I went to Mass a few mornings in the lecture theatre. The priest is really nice. Father Pat he’s called and is really funny. He ran out of communion one day and said, ‘Sorry about that. Just shows ya I’m not as good as my master at making the food go further but I’m working on it!’
What sort of catalogues have you got? Any chance of sending to moi? I’d love to see one if it wouldn’t cost you a bomb in postage. Talking about postage, do you have to pay extra postage on my letters? If you do I’ll go down and punch Michael O’Donnell on the nose, ’cos he puts on the stamps for Maw, whose job it is to post these masterpieces.
I was delighted your last letter was handwritten (though if my poor eyes could talk …): it adds a piece of ‘je ne sais quoi’. Also, don’t worry about the paper. As I said before I’d read it if it were on loo paper. Actually, I heard about this from a priest: he buys a newspaper and writes his letter in the margins and between the lines so as to save postage as it costs less to post newspapers! You should do the same!
What were you saying about our National Hero, Sean Kelly? How dare ya, ya hussy? Where’s your sense of patriotism? Your civic spirit?
Actually I agree with youse but I think he’s getting better. They interviewed him here on the telly recently and I was more than surprised that he was as good as he was. He was actually well able to explain himself.
I saw Tina on the bus one evening. We had an open week in the WRTC so Greenhill had a day off (though Tina went shopping in Waterford instead and bought nothing). She’s still the same Tina. She looked fantastic. I think, though, she may be sorry she went back as now she’s not even sure if she wants to teach. As well as that, she was saying the competition will be just as stiff this time round.
Talking about competition: Bank of Ireland has opened its ranks again. They have thirty full-time posts and a good few part-time posts. A lot of the lads below* applied, so did Tina and Margaret Bartley. They were all called to Dublin at different dates to do an aptitude test. Guess how many applied – SIX THOUSAND (yep, 6,000). Imagine you have one chance in 200 of getting a full-time job!
H— has finished up and has left WRTC. She’s starting nursing next week. Let’s hope she gets on well. Listen, hang on a minute. I’m gonna shift myself upstairs ’cos the radio has just been turned on and I can’t concentrate!
Hello again. Now to the real purpose of this letter, old chappie. I read with amazement the part of your letter which said you’re scared stiff of going out with Marie-Claude ’cos (gulp for breath) you feel about ninety. And old-fashioned? And dumpy? Nuts and fiddlesticks, I say, old chappie! Have you honestly looked at those photos I’m sending back to you? All I can say is that if you only looked half as good, Marie-Claude would have to beware. I’m not joking. I got the photos from Catherine in college so Niamh got to see ’em. She was stunned and staggered by, as she said, the ‘definite improvement’! She said you exuded such poise, grace, dignity and radiance that she couldn’t believe it was you. Now I tell you, if you can get such rave comments from Niamh you’ve crowned it (’cos she’s really critical). I myself never saw you looking so dashing and debonair. All I can say is that if France does that to a person, then I’m coming out when my next grant instalment comes through. (How does Paris in the spring strike you?)
There was I in the depths of despair having seen those wonderful photos of you, while I eyed me mutt in the mirror – the chin like drumlin country, the shapeless mop, the dry, down-turning mouth – with mounting distaste, and along comes your letter, which says you think you were ninety. Imagine how I felt! So now, old chappie, enuf of this poppycock, I say. You’re looking fab (and the blouse is gorgeous – any chance of it?) and you’re the most interesting person I know. Why else d’ya think I’d be giving myself writer’s cramp with these letters? No joking, when Paw saw the photos he said you looked like a film star (and he didn’t mean Fozzie Bear either!). By the way, the fellas saw it too and thought you were gorgeous.
Now to my crush. SHANE, you think it is. Ya nitwit, it isn’t Shane. I nearly died while I read it and then I nearly had convulsions when I read your describing how ya thought he’d look – tall (ha!), dark hair (ha-ha), brown humorous eyes (haw-haw, hee-hee). He is none of the above.
The heartthrob in my life has a very ordinary-sounding name for a most extraordinary fella! I guess he really isn’t all that bad-looking. But you can understand I can’t judge that objectively. My crush is becoming a bit squashed ’cos really he keeps rejecting me. Sob! Sob! I mean, there I go falling at his feet – and he just steps over me! I offer him a bit of me apple and he says no. I offer to lend him some paper and he says he’s already got some! Seriously, though, he must think I’m the dullest, the thickest and the most boring person around ’cos I never know what to say to him and end up looking a full fool. Ya know how terrifying witty people can be!
He is really something but a relationship with him would be out of the question as he’d walk all over me, have me for breakfast and regurgitate me for dinner (how’s that for symbolism?). Another guy is really nice, though, and I like him a lot but I haven’t got a crush on him. He’s really witty too but knows where to draw the line. He is a gentleman in every sense of the word and he’ll make someone very happy someday ’cos he makes you feel like a princess instead of dumpy Mary, Joan or Biddy.
Now to my problem. Honestly, Cathy, I’m seriously getting worried. I may be flattering myself but I think one of the guys fancies me. It’s really quite embarrassing. He persists in sitting beside me (thus depriving everyone else of the chance!). Okay, it was funny at the beginning but now … Take last week: myself and Nuala decided we’d go to Paddy Browne’s for lunch. We were on our own, when suddenly in he walked having followed us all the way. Then he wouldn’t leave until I left too! A few days later, all the fellas were going down to play snooker. He came over and asked me would I come with them while all the other fellas stood looking in amazement. I was the only girl in the group, which was pretty embarrassing. Needless to say, I didn’t go.
Then last week I moved desk and the fellas got on to me so much about rejecting him and he looked so desolate that I had to move back. Last Thursday night he took this girl to the disco and Niamh maintains he did it to make me jealous. Dear Aunty Katie, HELP. I mean, I don’t want to hurt his feelings or anything but he’s too much of a boy. He’s only seventeen (listen to Methuselah speaking!) and he seems a little sheltered by his mammy (incidentally he brought in photos of his mammy to show to me, so that looks serious, huh?!). He tries to tell jokes (which I don’t find funny!). I’m going spare!
We voted for a new union last Thursday. I felt all ‘growed up’ as I cast my vote. You see they (Liam and Shane) were only going for a laugh, just to put up funny posters.
My favourite song at the moment is ‘Hello’ by Lionel Richie. I understand fully about the fireside, sparkling wine, sheepskin rugs and – nearly forgot – the hunk. I think both of us are incurable romantics and I hope we never change.
How did Paddy’s Day go? I can just imagine you going around singing ‘Hail Glorious (hiccup) St Patrick (hiccup), Dear Saint (hiccup) of our (hiccup) Isle’. I was going to send you a sprig of shamrock but I guess your grandmaw did that. I don’t know wot it is about Paddy’s Day but it always gives me a lump in my throat
! The Mass I went to was all in Irish. Children with badges and green ribbons; parents with clumps of shamrock, to which half of the field was still attached. Had a fab dinner of yummy roast beef (the blessings of God on St Patrick anyway).
Dominic McGlinchey, the most wanted man in Ireland, was caught that day too. Now the guards can be sure that they won’t be robbed of their uniforms again (as he did three times, leaving them standing in their undies by the roadside!). He was caught in Co. Clare and Killian said there was no truth in the rumour that he was to be the Grand Marshal in the Ennis parade!
After dins me maw and I went to the Carrick parade. Met Mary Meagher (an old neighbour from Mass Road). There were tears in me eyes as we swapped stories of Mass Road – hens with ‘gammy’ legs, cabby houses, plates of bacon and cabbage – oh, for the days of yore. The parade was useless except for the Macra cow (see Carrick Opinion for picture). Guess who was pulling its tail. Only Monie May. Poor bruvver was the only fella in the Civil Defence contingent. We went to the park then to see the Irish dancing but it was so cold we came home via the Clinic (I only had Cidona!). By the way, the new chipper-cum-restaurant is open. The smell coming from the place was DIABOLICAL but the food is supposed to be OKAY. Also, rumour has it that there’s an absolute dream of a hunk behind the counter who’s guaranteed to turn your knees to jelly.
Listen, I’d better shurrup if I want to get this letter in the post today. Hope you’re keeping well and all that jazz.
Best wishes and lots of love,
Mary
PS I’ve just read about Annette and Nicola Cleary doing so well with their classical music. I’ve sent it on to you.
Letter 19 / Where am I going from here?
The usual dull boring dump in the middle of nowhere
Dear Cathy ... Love, Mary Page 12
