Making It Up as I Go Along by Marian Keyes
mariankeyes.com, April 2013.
Novena-Max
Not so long ago, I decided to do a reading/Q&A/meet’n’greet-style event in the Pavilion Theatre in Dún Laoghaire. And I was absolutely thrilled because it’s my local theatre and I’d been there many times in the past few years to see other authors – the lovely Kate Mosse, the magnificent Joseph O’Connor, the wonderful Kate Atkinson, the hilarious Armistead Maupin, the wise Ruby Wax, the beloved Paul Howard aka Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, and I think (but can’t be certain, because my memory isn’t what it was) the delightful Alexander McCall Smith (I saw him somewhere, it could have been the Pavilion).
And at all the yokes, I’d be sitting there and enjoying the show, but there was always a bit of sadness because I’d have loved the opportunity to do something similar myself, but it couldn’t happen because of me being too mad in the head and not able to for the excitement/stress/having to talk.
But suddenly I was well enough to be doing it and I can’t tell you what it means to me. The plan was that I’d read from my new book (The Woman Who Stole My Life) and then the most lovely person, Maria Dickenson, would interview me. And then it’d be over to the audience, who could ax me anything. And I mean ANYTHING!
Following the axing, we would have a GLITTERIN’ raffle! My beloved niece Ema and beloved nephew Luka would be there to make sure everyone’s names were in the Salad Spinner of Happiness.
I’d have loved the Redzers to be there too, but it’d be past their bedtime. But Mam announced she was coming, so I decided to ax her if one of the prizes in the GLITTERIN’ raffle could be to win one of her novenas, because her novenas are POWERFUL STUFF – novena-max! You’d be sure to get your intention.
But when I put it to her she visibly recoiled and straightened herself in her seat and her cheeks went a bit pink and she said, quite stiffly, ‘No, Marian. Sorry, but no. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be respectful.’
So I had a little think about it and said, ‘I suppose you’re right, Mammy, I suppose you’re right.’
Then she brightened a bit and sez, ‘How about I say a prayer for EVERYONE’S intentions?’
And yes, I thought, that would be nice.
Then … oh yes … then I could see the wheels in her head turning and she opened her mouth to speak and I thrust my palm at her and said, ‘No, Mammy! No leading the entire audience in a decade of the rosary!’
‘But –’
‘No, Mammy, not even if it’s one of the Glorious Mysteries.’
‘How did you know I was going to suggest a Glorious Mystery?’
‘Because I just do, Mam. I am intuitive.’
Then she muttered some things under her breath and I’m sure they weren’t complimentary about me and we sat in huffy silence for approximately three minutes, thirty-seven seconds, until she exclaimed, ‘I need you to buy something for me.’
Immediately she was raging with herself for ‘breaking’ first, but see, because she doesn’t know how to work the interwebs I have her over a barrel when it comes to website purchases. She refers to my tablet as ‘the Magic Yoke’.
So she produced some quare little booklet that had been put through her letter box and points out a GANKY-looking press and sez, ‘Should I get this one? Or …’ Then she thumbed a few (obviously very well-perused) pages and pointed to an equally ganky-looking press: ‘Or this? Which one should I buy?’
‘Neither of them, Mammy,’ sez I. ‘That’s which one you should buy.’
‘Which? One?’ And she went a bit steely, so I said, ‘Right, that one.’ (I picked the first one, because really what difference could it make, they were both SHOCKEN.)
Then we were friends again and she said, ‘Will that man be there at your yoke? That man that you like?’
‘Tom Dunne?’
‘Yes. Him.’
‘I doubt it, Mam. Anyway, Tom has to work in the evenings, his show starts at 10 p.m.’
‘I thought he was on in the mornings.’
‘They’ve changed him. He’s on in the evenings now.’
Another little silence followed, then Mam said, all casual like, ‘That husband of yours is a great man. A GREAT man. God was looking out for you when he sent Himself to you. The day you met Himself was the luckiest day of your life. You were STEEPED in good luck. STEEPED, I’m telling you. STEE–’
‘All right!’ sez I. ‘I get the message! I LOVE Himself! He’s the only man for me, ever, and the Tom Dunne thing, it’s only a bit of harmless fun, like looking at pictures of houses on sale in Killiney. Or Balenciaga coats in Brown Thomasez.’
‘Grand,’ she said. ‘Fine. Good.’
‘Yeah!’ I said. ‘That’s right. Fine! Good!’
‘All the same,’ she murmured, ‘I wouldn’t mind getting a look at him.’
‘Well, you won’t.’
Then the bus drew up outside, bringing Dad home from the day centre, and we had to go to attend to him and convince the poor divil that this was where he actually lived and that neither of us were his sisters, thereby bringing our tense little chat to an abrupt (but merciful) end.
mariankeyes.com, October 2014.
Madeira
I made a rash promise on the Twitters that I’d do a diary of my holiers in Madeira, the way I did when I was on my holiers in Antarctica. However! I had not factored in that it was a walking holiday I was on in Madeira and at the end of every day I was absolutely SHATTERED and in no fit condition to be writing my name, never mind a diary.
However. All was not entirely lost, because I’d written the below while I was on the two planes flying to Madeira (from Dublin to Lisbon, from Lisbon to Funchal), and it seemed a shame to decommission it entirely. It’s not about anything much, except the previous night’s Friday Night Dinner over at Mam’s, but it might be better than nothing.
Here is a diary of my holiers in Madeira! However, as I’m on the plane on the first leg on the flights, flying to Lisbon, I don’t have much but minutiae to report. So I will report said minutiae!
Well, I rose at 8 a.m., readying myself for a 9.30 a.m. departure from the house. I donned my Fitbit and this is only my second day of the fecker but it is already tyrannizing me. I decided I needed to do a quick skite to Ronan the Chemist, because I suddenly became worried that the three crates of medicaments that I’d purchased earlier in the week wouldn’t be enough. And although Ronan isn’t far away, I usually go in the vehicle, but with one eye on my ‘step-count’ I decided I’d – yes! – WALK to Ronan! But then, after a discussion with Himself, I realized that actually I DID have enough medicaments and that I was just doing the panicky pre-holiday thing that I always do, and I abandoned all plans to visit Ronan.
I ‘took’ my breakfast of porridge and enjoyed it tremenjussly, but I was brimming over with pre-holiday giddiness that had no outlet, so I had to eat fifteen cinnamon and apple ‘diet’ biscuits in order to calm myself. Then I hated myself. And that was grand, business as usual, you might say.
I will backtrack slightly to yesterday, where we had the Friday Night Dinner at the mammy’s. Turnout was low because all four of the Praguers were ‘otherwise occupied’ as they prepared for their holiday in Madeira with myself and Himself. Present were: Me, Himself, Mam, Dad, Anne Marie (visiting from UK), Rita-Anne and the Redzers.
It was a joyous occasion because the Redzers had just returned from wrecking New York and I’d missed the little blighters while they’d been away, things had been eerily quiet. I interrogated them on what they’d done while ‘Stateside’, and Redzer the Elder said they’d gone
But no! It transpired that the Redzers had gone swimming in the roof-top pool in the Soho House! And I nearly got SICK from the laughing. I’m sure you know, but the Soho House is a foncy members’ club – I’d been in that self-same New York one a few years back and around the pool is profoundly intimidating – many, MANY slender beauties in elaborate bikinis and ginormous sunglasses lounging around, being aloof and soignée and icy and drinking foncy elegant cocktails in misty glasses with tiny white straws – the time I was there I was a cringing ball of fear and unworthiness. And the thoughts of the Redzers in their goggles and armbands, doing energetic water-bombs and wild shrieking and splashing, had me in convulsions.
‘Then we had pancakes,’ RTE (Redzer the Elder, aged seven) said.
‘No, we didn’t!’ RTY (Redzer the Younger, aged five) said. ‘We had BRUNCH!!!!’
‘Yes,’ RTE said, in a rare display of agreement with his brother, ‘we had brunch.’
And that started me off with the laughing again, and it made me think of the scene in The Blues Brothers when the two brothers go into the foncy restaurant and make shows of themselves, flinging food across the table into each other’s mouths. I had to check with Rita-Anne, but yes, the Redzers really DID have brunch in the Soho House. ‘We had HASH BROWNS!’ RTE said, and clearly the hash browns had made a big impression on him.
Next thing, Tadhg’s car drew up outside and we all rushed to the window because a) he’d been vague about whether or not he’d be coming over at all, and b) and far more importantly, he hadn’t given a definitive yes when we’d asked him if he was bringing over baby Teddy. And being quite honest with you, no one has much interest in Tadhg these days, unless he’s accessorized by baby Teddy. ‘He’s getting out,’ someone says. ‘He’s out. He’s on his own. No, no! He’s getting something else out of the car!’ Then, in disappointment, we saw that it was only a bag.
‘Awwwww, it’s only a bag,’ RTE said.
‘But why would he need a bag?!’ Mam asked. ‘Tadhg isn’t a “man-bag” type. He’d only need a bag if he was bringing –’
‘BABY TEDDY!!!’ we all chorused, and then we saw Tadhg opening the back door of the car. ‘He’s opening the back door! He’s opening the back door! There he is!!! THERE HE IS!!!!’ And sure enough, there was baby Teddy in his little chair, being led up to the house.
Everyone thundered out into the hall, and as soon as the door opened we were all pawing at baby Teddy. Mam yelled, ‘Don’t be UP in the craythur’s face! Don’t be UP in his face!’
Out of the corner of my ear, I heard Rita-Anne say, ‘When did Mam start saying that saying?’ ‘While you were away,’ Mam replied, ‘and you can’t make fun of me because it’s a real saying, I checked. So don’t be UP in baby Teddy’s face.’
But we couldn’t help ourselves. We were UP in baby Teddy’s face, and it’s a good job the poor little divil is as easy-going as he is, because a lesser child would have been terrified.
Details on baby Teddy: he was six months yesterday. He is FABULOUSLY squishy – he has the squashiest thighs you’ve ever seen. He is SUPER-smiley. He loves dogs, and his best friend is Tadhg and Susie’s boxer, Katie (named after Katie Taylor).
I hadn’t a hope of getting near him, so I went into ‘the room’ and had a little chat with Dad, who greeted me by saying, ‘You look very dirty.’
‘That’s my fake tan,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’ He asked. I attempted an explanation, but I’d have made more headway with baby Teddy.
‘And why do you put them colours on your nails?’ he asked.
‘Because I like them,’ sez I.
‘So do I,’ sez he. ‘Are you married?’
‘I am,’ sez I.
‘Well, I wish someone had told me!’ he declared.
Then it was dinner time, and this week it was mine and Himself’s turn to get the grub and I’d gone off-piste. Usually we get them big pasta yokes from Marks & Spencer, but I’d been up in Stillorgan and airily I’d said to Himself that I’d ‘pick up’ some dinner from Donnybrook Fair because I liked that picture of myself, of a woman who stands at a delicatessen counter, chatting with a white-attired chef/server person about the various different salads and things.
And I’d got – what I considered anyway to be – a FABLISS array of summery things: potato skins, lemongrass chicken, coleslaw, something called ‘summer salad’ and garlic bread, and ontra noo I’d only fecked in the garlic bread at the last minute because I sensed there might be a mini-revolution if I didn’t.
And let me tell you that it was the mercy of God that I DID get the two garlic breads, because when I dished up the lovely off-piste dinner, there were wild cries of disappointment – where were the pasta yokes? Why were they being fobbed off with this shite? Nervously I strove for airiness: ‘I thought we’d try something new!’
‘New?’ they cried. ‘Why would we want “new”? We like the pasta yokes!’
‘But it’s summer. These are summery things.’ Then I played my trump card. ‘They’re from Donnybrook Fair.’
‘I don’t care if they’re from Fossett’s Circus,’ Mam said. ‘I want the pasta yokes.’
‘Are these hash browns?’ RTE poked at the little cubes of chicken in deep-fried batter.
Sensing I could potentially form an alliance that would serve me well, I said stoutly, ‘Yes, YES, Redzer the Elder, they ARE hash browns!’ So he shoved about six into his mouth, gave a little chew, then spat them out again – and that was the moment that I knew I was sunk.
They divvied up the garlic bread among themselves and, giving me baleful looks, placed their allotted tiny slice on their otherwise empty dinner plates and ate in resentful silence. Even Dad, who under usual conditions would eat the leg of the chair, refused to partake of my lovely summery food. ‘Well, feck yiz,’ I said to them. ‘Feck the lot of yiz!’
‘Feck you,’ Dad said, ‘feck you right back.’
But then it was Magnum time and the mammy took everyone’s orders and while the rest of us went into the sitting room and flung ourselves on the couches, Mam went into the kitchen and began burrowing around in the freezer and now and again she’d come back into the room with bits of hoary frost in her eyebrows and say, ‘Where’s Oscar? Here’s your Mint Magnet*. And Rita-Anne? Here’s your Pink one.’ And someone would say, ‘Where’s mines?’ And Mam would say, in shrill tones, ‘I’m going as fast as I can! There’s only the wan of me!’ Then back into the kitchen she’d go and we’d hear the funny scraping noises that are made as a mother moves around bodily inside a freezer, burrowing her way into cardboard Magnum boxes and emerging with the correctly flavoured Magnum and bursting joyously to the surface with it held between her teeth.
‘The tea might have been a wash-out,’ Tadhg said, ‘but we’ll always have Magnums …’
The flight was uneventful, which is probably the best kind, and then we landed in Lisbon, and despite my great love for José Mourinho I’ve only been to Portugal once and that was donkey’s years ago, but I remember being struck by how LOVELY the people were. On that previous visit, myself and Himself spent about four days in a place called Sintra, which is atmospheric and sort of spooky and had lots of fabliss houses that – if I’m remembering correctly and I mightn’t be – Byron and his pals used to be taking drugs and stuff in, and there was a funny well and lots of overhanging trees and, like I said … atmospheric.
But the man was glum and downcast and could hardly bring himself to unfurl the map of the local area on to the counter and stab at our current location with a blue biro, so Himself and myself elected to go exploring on our own and these are my abiding memories of Lisbon: custard pies, a furniture shop run by a man called Senor Toucan, quare-flavoured Magnums, difficulty finding a public wees-facility, kindly people, custard pies … Oh! And custard pies!
And now we are on the quare little plane, flying to Madeira-land, and they have come around and given us FREE hang sangwidges and ‘drinks’ and they are SO nice and smiley and warm and friendly and I’m quite – still! – giddy! I mean, it’s nice when people are nice, no? Why can’t we all just be nice?’
… and there I’m afraid, my Madeira diary ends … I know! I know! I’m sorry! Tanken yew for all your kindnesses to me, and now I will sign off as I have to go and make the tay.
PS: I nearly forgot! I love this, so I do – on Friday at dinner time, I rang Mam’s from Madeira, just to see how they were all getting on, and Rita-Anne came on the phone and over the shrieking and crashing noises in the background managed to tell me that when she was driving the Redzers over, Oscar (Redzer the Younger, who is only five) said, in sudden high alarm, ‘What if Auntie Marian is doing the dinner again this week?!’ And it took a good bit of TLC and effusive promises that I was far away in another land before he calmed down.