Niamh Greene

Every Sofa Tells a Story

2011-10-06T06:31:00.000-07:00

It had begun innocently enough, as these sorts of infatuations often do.
They’d only wandered into the furniture salesroom to have a look, not to buy, but when Monica spotted the gold velvet sofa standing coyly in the centre of the store, it was love at first sight. She’d collapsed into the welcoming squishiness with a sigh of contentment and when Paul joined her and they found themselves kissing enthusiastically, transported by passion as only newlyweds can be, she knew it would be exactly right.
When they eventually came up for air, giggling at their own nerve, they saw the salesman standing over them, looking distinctly unimpressed. Monica had never laughed so hard, especially when Paul pulled out his wallet and announced flamboyantly that his gorgeous wife loved this sofa and therefore he was going to buy it for her on the spot! It had been so romantic.

In the seventeen years that followed, Monica recounted this story to anyone who ever admired the sofa. She loved telling the tale because it brought her back to a different era, before the kids were born and Paul began to work such long hours. Back then, all it took to be deliriously happy was to lie cuddling together in front of the TV, Paul rubbing her feet, she feeding him ice-cream. It had been such a happy time and the gold velvet sofa had been at the heart of it.
Over the years, the sofa had sat quietly and loyally in their lives: it was where the kids napped when they were ill, where the dog loved to curl in the afternoon sun, even where the weekend newspapers lay heaped on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It was also, one grey autumnal day, where Monica found the receipt.
She’d been plumping up the threadbare cushions that afternoon, wondering vaguely if getting the old sofa recovered in a fresh fabric would be a good idea. Paul had started to grumble that it was time it should be replaced – its shabbiness embarrassed him when they threw one of their many dinner parties. He wanted some leather monstrosity he’d seen in the designer furniture shop – the one with the matching hideous footstool that Monica hated.
The receipt fluttered to the ground just as Monica lifted the old cushions and bashed the feather filling into shape. Picking it up, she saw it was for a pair of very expensive diamond earrings, bought only days before in the high-end jewellers in town.
Happy tears sprang to her eyes immediately – so Paul did still have a romantic streak after all these years. He was obviously going to surprise her on their wedding anniversary. The thought made her heart soar with delight as she quickly shoved it back into its hiding place. Better he didn’t suspect that she knew – that would spoil the surprise.

Their anniversary dinner party the next week was a fun affair. Monica had to cook for everyone, of course, which meant she was rather red faced and flustered at the table, but she didn’t mind, mostly because she knew what was coming – Paul was going to present her with those earrings over dessert. She could hardly eat for excitement – she’d already practised her “surprised and delighted” face half a dozen times in the reflective oven door.
“Where did you get that lovely old sofa Monica?” her good friend Rita asked as she reached out for the gravy and carefully drizzled just a drop on her seared beef. Rita was fastidious about her figure – gravy was only ever to be eaten sparingly, if at all.
Monica was surprised Rita didn’t remember the story – after all she’d told it often enough. But then, ever since Rita had left her husband Dan she’d been very preoccupied. Monica had been so sad when they split – Dan was a very nice guy, but Rita had inexplicably become increasingly irritated by everything he did and said. But then Dan was definitely not the romantic type. Not like Paul.
Monica smiled fondly across the table at her wonderfully devoted husband as she began the story of how he had snapped up the sofa on a romantic whim all those years ago. Paul didn’t smile back though – instead he scowled that the salesman had persuaded them to buy the sofa against his better judgment and he’d been a fool ever to part with a bean for the great lump in the first place. Then he poured himself another enormous glass of red wine and pulled at the tie round his neck, like it was choking him.
The table had gone very quiet then and Monica had felt her cheeks burn. Rita kindly rescued her by piping up that a fool and his money were easily parted, or something along those lines, and they’d all laughed half heartedly, but there was no denying that the atmosphere had been strained for the rest of the evening. Everyone had made their excuses and left early, before Monica even had a chance to serve the petits fours she’d arranged so carefully on her mother’s inherited china.
It was when she hugged Rita goodbye at the front door that she noticed the new diamond earrings glittering at her friend’s ears. A present from an old acquaintance, Rita explained, glancing surreptitiously at Paul when she thought Monica wasn’t looking. It had all become clear to Monica then, in that moment.
Reclining on the sofa now, over a year later, Monica reflected that she was very glad she had never gotten rid of it. Finally getting it recovered had made it feel almost new again and now it fitted perfectly in the living room of the bright flat she’d bought when she left her not so devoted husband behind. Nestled right here, in the scoop of the old bay window, she could happily watch the world go by and reflect how lucky she really was to know her own mind.
It simply was the perfect place to be.

A Short Story

2011-08-02T09:41:00.000-07:00

This short story was first published in the RTE Guide last year. I hope you enjoy it!

A Small World by Niamh Greene

“Anna Reilly! Is that you?”
Anna was perusing the pizzas in aisle three when she heard the high pitched voice call her name. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was – she recognized the shrill shriek immediately: it was Ginny O’Brien. The dreaded Ginny O’Brien.
In the split second that followed, Anna weighed up her options. Would it be too late to pretend that she hadn’t heard and make a run for it maybe? But no, one glance to her left proved that her very worst fears were about to be realized – Ginny was bearing down on her, like a predator on its prey, her mouth an enormous O of feigned surprise, her large white teeth glinting under the fluorescent supermarket strip lighting. There was no escape. Not unless she threw herself head first into the freezer and tried to hide underneath the icy piles of thin crust specials. It didn’t seem like such a bad idea, faced with the alternative.
“Oh hi there,” Anna said, trying to fix a smile on her face, all the while silently cursing that she hadn’t taken just an extra thirty seconds to apply some tinted moisturizer before she’d ventured into the supermarket in the first place. Why, after so many months, did she have to bump into Ginny here and now? Her face was bare, her hair was lank and she was wearing a fleece that smelled strongly of wet dog. It was a disaster. Especially when Ginny looked as if she’d just stepped out of a beauty salon. Everything about her gleamed.
“Oh my God, it is you! What a small world!” Ginny gasped, looming ever closer. In one final step she clasped Anna dramatically to her bosoms and hugged her tightly, like a long lost friend. Ginny had always been one for grand gestures – she prided herself on her longstanding commitment to the local drama society.
“Yes. It’s me,” Anna squeaked as she lay pressed against Ginny’s sizeable chest, struggling to breathe. Had Ginny’s bosoms somehow increased in size since she’d last seen her? She couldn’t remember them being quite so….buoyant.
“So, how have you been keeping?” Ginny’s face creased into an expression of concern as Anna came up for air. It was the same look that everyone had pulled round her these past few months - ever since Edward had left her for the slip of a girl young enough to be his daughter.
“I’m good,” Anna replied evenly.
“Really?” Ginny raised two perfectly plucked brows, like she didn’t believe that this could be in any way true. Then she blatantly peered into Anna’s basket, clocking the pizza, bottle of wine, and tub of ice-cream. Everything about it screamed “shopping for lonely singleton.”
“Honestly, I’m fine,” Anna said, hugging the basket protectively to her. Trust Ginny to be so obvious – she’d never been much of an actress, which was why she was usually relegated to small, walk-on parts in all those drama society productions.
“You can confide in me,” Ginny went on, clutching Anna’s arm in what she clearly felt was a kind gesture of comfort. “There’s no need to keep up this pretence.”
Anna thought about this for a moment. Was she pretending to be fine? No, she didn’t think so. Of course, she hadn’t been fine at first, back when Edward announced that he was leaving her. It had all been so out of the blue - it had come as quite a shock.
But, once Anna recovered a little, she realized that it was the idea of Edward that she missed more than anything. Now that he was gone, she was quite enjoying herself. For one thing, he’d always hated pizza. How he would frown if he could see her now – the idea tickled her, just a little.
“Have you been getting out much?” Ginny went on. She was eager to get to the nitty gritty of the situation, that was obvious. If there were juicy details to be had, preferably tales of Anna wailing inconsolably in bed through the long, lonely nights, then Ginny would ferret them out.
“Not so much,” Anna admitted.
This was true. She’d been staying in quite a lot these past few months, but that was no torture because she’d found she quite enjoyed her own company. And when it did get lonely she just chatted on-line. She’d met some wonderful friends there, which was lucky because quite a few of the old gang had fallen by the wayside since Edward had left. It was almost as if they were afraid their own marriages would be tarnished with failure by what had happened so they kept a very safe distance.
“You should take up walking,” Ginny said, looking her over appraisingly. Anna knew she was trying to decide if she’d lost or gained weight. At least the smelly fleece wasn’t making it easy for her to see – even if the doggy fumes were pretty potent.
“Maybe,” Anna was non-committal. She already walked plenty with the dog - it was another one of her new pastimes. She didn’t want to divulge that to Ginny though - heaven forbid she suggested joining her.
“It takes discipline of course. I walk five miles a day,” Ginny said proudly.
“Do you?” That was impressive to be fair.
“Yes, I did a half marathon last year. Jack can’t keep up with me these days!”
There was that little tinkle – the same one that had driven Anna slowly crazy during so many dinner parties. Of course, she hadn’t been invited to any of those recently. Apparently, it was extremely inconvenient for seating arrangements when your husband ran off with another woman. It had rendered her almost invisible in some social circles. But that was OK – Anna had lots of other pursuits to keep her occupied these days.
“It keeps me really toned,” Ginny continued. “Once you get to our age you have to work so much harder to look good, don’t you?” She sighed then.
“Well, yes. If you don’t then your husband might swap you for a younger model!”
Anna wished she had the nerve to say this aloud, but she didn’t so she just nodded sagely instead. Ginny didn’t have a sense of humor about the aging process – it was pointless to joke.
“That’s why I got some work done,” Ginny whispered, glancing about to make sure none of the other shoppers could overhear.
Anna looked at Ginny’s bosoms – was she admitting it then? But no, Ginny was pointing to her teeth.
“I got veneers!” she whispered, triumphant now.
“Right,” Anna said. So that’s why they were so alien looking – it was as if they didn’t really belong in her mouth at all.
“Best investment I ever made!” Ginny continued. “I went to Bulgaria, far cheaper over there. Not that money’s an issue of course.”
“Of course not,” Anna murmured. She knew the truth was far different, if even half of what she’d read in the papers was true. Ginny’s husband Jack had been involved in some sort of pyramid scheme and charges were pending. But Anna didn’t want to mention that, it seemed rude to.
“Yes, I decided to kill two birds with one stone: get the teeth done, have a holiday at the same time – it was absolutely fabulous – you really should consider it.”
The idea didn’t appeal to Anna, but she didn’t say that either.
“Anyway, now that I’ve found you, we must keep in contact.” Ginny was all business, searching in her bag for her phone.
Anna cringed. Now there would be the swapping of phone numbers, the hollow promises to meet for coffee. It was all so false and exhausting.
Ginny paused, mid rummage. “I don’t suppose you’re on Facebook yet?” she asked. Then she rattled on as before, not bothering to wait for an answer. “It’s simply fantastic! I’ve caught up with people I haven’t seen in years.”
“Really?” Anna started to edge away, sensing the time might be ripe to escape.
“Oh yes, it’s a blast. You’ll never guess who I “poked” last week – Barry Cox! Do you remember him?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Anna replied.
“God, he was so gorgeous wasn’t he? He hasn’t replied to my message yet, but I live in hope! Didn’t you two used to go out, years ago?”
Anna felt her cheeks redden slightly. “I’d better fly,” she said quickly. “I don’t want my pizza to melt!”
“Oh, OK,” Ginny was taken aback. “Well, keep in touch!”
Anna nodded wordlessly and then sprinted away, trying to suppress tears of laughter. Just wait till Barry heard. He’d told her all about Ginny’s Facebook “friend request” last week when he’d called over. They’d had such a giggle as they’d curled up in front of the fire with their wine and pizza, as they would again tonight. Then they’d thanked their lucky stars that they’d found each other again on-line after all these years. It really was a small world.........
The End

2011-07-25T12:49:00.000-07:00

I wrote this piece for a magazine just after I joined Twitter. A year has passed since then and, like all relationships, Twitter and I have had our ups and downs: there was the passionate honeymoon phase, followed by the ambivalent plateau stage and then the "even the way you chew drives me crazy" period but, as we celebrate our first anniversary together, I want to pause and look back at how it all started.....

I Tweet, Therefore I Am

In the time-honoured tradition of my conflicted relationship with all things technological, I came late to Twitter. Informed by those in the know that tweeting was the latest “big thing,” I decided it would be best to bury my head firmly in the sand and ignore it for as long as possible. What was the point of embracing this new media phenomenon sweeping the world when I could simply pretend it didn’t exist instead? After all, this was a policy that had worked perfectly well for me in the past. I was already successfully blanking Facebook, Bebo and all those other convoluted social networking tools - I wasn’t about to be seduced by this new kid on the block. Besides, if I wanted to talk to people without having to go to the trouble of actually speaking to them I still had my dear friends - email and texting - to rely on.
But, as time rolled on, I began to get curious. Just a little. And so one night, I logged on to see what all the fuss was about. I wasn’t going to get sucked in of course, I was just going to look, prove to myself that I was right to avoid this Twitter like the rabid plague it surely was. But before I could say jeepers tweepers, I found I’d opened an account (twitter.com/niamh_greene), and uploaded a dodgy photo to accompany it. It had all been so incredibly easy, even for a tech dinosaur like me – either this tweeting thing was a piece of cake or I was a computer genius and I just hadn’t realised it before.
“What’s happening?” my new page asked me flirtatiously that fateful night. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I dithered about how I should reply, a wave of sudden uncertainty washing over me. What should I say? I could hardly admit “Em, not very much to be honest.”
Foolish pride prevents me from revealing here just how long it took to compose that first tweet. Let’s just say my husband asked me, more than once, if I was feeling all right as he ferried cups of tea up and down the stairs to me.
The trouble was, the truth was dawning: My tweets had to be witty and relevant. They also had to be concise - I had just 140 characters to play with. Not only that, I had to reach out into the abyss to other tweeps – “follow” people, get them to “follow” me. This made me feel quite ill with fright. It was the nail-biting cyberspace equivalent of going to a party where I knew no-one and standing at the edge of the room, nervously plucking up the courage to join in the conversation, hoping someone, anyone, would talk to me. (On the upside, I didn’t have to roll out the Spanx to squeeze into my little black dress - pyjama wearing and tweeting go hand in hand.)
Then there was the lingo to contend with: what were tags, RTs, abbreviations like LMAO? When someone #FF me, I didn’t know whether to thank them or run and hide. It was all so strange and unknown. But the conversations - as people shared information, interesting websites, personal angst - were fascinating.
Within days, and against all the odds, I was hooked. Before I knew it, I was refreshing my page constantly to check for new messages. I was also sneaking away from the dinner table to consort with my PC like some sort of Twitter junkie. Where was the harm? It was all such fun right?
But Twitter has its downsides too, as I would soon sadly learn. Just like at parties, there were people on-line who wanted to corner me near the cold meat buffet and tell me their every waking thought – like they were thinking about cutting their toenails soon – yes, really.
There were also lots of fakers. Take a new follower of mine – let’s call her Julie. Julie seemed perfectly nice to begin with. Until, that is, she kept asking me to look at naked photos of her. You see, Julie didn’t want to befriend me at all – she wasn’t even a real person - she was spam.
But, despite the negatives, I keep going back for more. Mostly because, although I’m still a newbie, I have already found real connections on-line – Twitter is a wonderland for writers like me. I’ve even met some famous faces. My claim to Twitter fame - and a story I hope to dine out on for many years to come - is that I am one very well known person’s 666th follower. When I pointed this out to him, as I felt duly obliged to, he kindly tweeted back, wanting to know if this meant that if he read one of my novels backwards it would be Satanic text. I’m taking it as a compliment - after all, chick lit has been called lots worse. Now, I really must go, I haven’t checked my account in, oh, at least twenty minutes. Who knows what I’ve missed….

The Super Mammy

2011-07-19T10:40:00.000-07:00

I wrote this for a charity anthology a few years ago. Not much has changed since!

The Super Mammy
Before I had children, I had a very clear picture in my mind of the perfect parent I was going to be. For starters, I definitely wasn’t going to be uptight. There’s nothing worse than a Mammy who won’t get on the floor to play or have a go on the bouncy castle, just because she thinks she might look idiotic. Well, there are lots of worse things, of course there are, but I knew I wanted to retain a sense of fun, even if, as a parent, I would be obliged to pretend to be a responsible adult most of the time. Anyway, I was used to looking idiotic, so that wasn’t going to be a problem for me. So, I’d be jovial, but I’d also be careful about setting rules and boundaries. There would be no somersaults or risky manoeuvres on the bouncy castle for example - that would be totally off limits. There’d also be no jumping off kitchen countertops, no running with scissors and no poking eyes out with forks.
As well as being a barrel of laughs, I’d be really nurturing. Not in an overbearing or scary stage-school mother way of course. Yes, I’d encourage my children to shoot for the stars and use their talents (which would be too many to count, obviously), but I’d also teach them to be kind and not step on others’ dreams on the way. I definitely wouldn’t suggest that they injure another child accidentally on purpose to land the lead role in the school Nativity Play, for instance. Ahem.
I’d be a counsellor and friend and the first person they would turn to in trouble - not that they would ever get into any trouble in the first place, because, in my infinite wisdom, I would steer them away from making any bad choices. And, while I was doing all that, I’d also cultivate an herb garden, grow my own fruits and vegetables and cook delicious, nutritious meals from scratch every day. My Mensa children would be poster kids for healthy living and I, in turn, would be feted by everyone from Jamie Oliver to Supernanny. I’d be a cross between Ma Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie and Nigella Lawson. In short, I’d be a Super Mammy.
It has been more than eight years since my first child was born and there are some days when, very briefly, I start to think I am Super Mammy. OK, so I may not be an award-winning chef (I’ve got the licking-your-fingers-suggestively bit down pat, it’s the baking I struggle with) and I have yet to plant any herbs or vegetables but there are times I can believe I’m doing a good job. The goal posts have shifted a bit of course, because, these days, meeting my parenting ideals doesn’t mean growing dinner from scratch. It means negotiating a whole host of little hurdles with as much good humour and as few calamities as possible along the way. A good morning, for example, means not forgetting the children’s school bags. A very good morning means remembering their hats, music and football boots too. If I can accomplish that and everyone is still smiling then I can start to feel smug and think, for a split second, that I have the measure of this parenting lark. It’s then of course, right when I’m patting myself on the back for a job well done, that a shining example of award-winning motherhood will pop up from nowhere, burst my perfect-parent bubble and remind me, swiftly and without mercy, that just because I can manage a measly task or two without disaster striking, a Super Mammy I am not.
A true Super Mammy is easy to spot. For a start, she’s on time - or early - for everything. She doesn’t struggle up to the school gates, miles late and red in the face, vexed with the exertion of a morning spent unsuccessfully trying to bribe a child to eat something, anything, before school. She’s also never less than impeccably dressed – she wouldn’t dream of wearing pyjama bottoms under her coat to do the school run and she never pulls on a hat to hide the fact that her hair hasn’t been washed in a week. She’s always perfectly groomed – and so are her children. Not for them a school jumper that has never seen an iron or a pair of shoes that are only ever cleaned with a baby wipe in the car just before reaching the school gates. Not for them hair that hasn’t been brushed properly or socks that don’t match. Super Mammy prides herself on ironing even her children’s underwear and polishing their shoes every single night before bed. All her progeny brush their own hair before they leave the house every morning – a habit she instilled in them from toddlerhood. And she couldn’t imagine how any mother would let a child loose in mismatched socks. All it takes is preparation. Preparation is key and she, for one, can’t sleep easy until everything necessary for the school day is organised and neatly laid out the night before – that prevents delay in the mornings, meaning her children have sufficient time to eat the organic porridge she lovingly prepares for them at their leisure. It is this commitment to preparation that sets a Super Mammy apart from the likes of me (purely a pretender).
Super Mammy is supremely organised. She does not forget which child has a play date and which had a keyboard lesson. She never mislays a child’s homework and then bribes that child to tell the teacher the dog ate it. She never arrives at school to find the yard deserted because she didn’t read the note announcing a staff training day. She does not have “trouble” with notes. She does not have trouble with anything.
She walks everywhere with purpose, her diligently organised handbag tucked neatly under her arm. This handbag is her portable office, and in it are the tools that allow her perfect existence to operate without a hitch. An endless supply of antiseptic wipes, nutritious snacks and bottled water is only the start of what the handbag can hold. Super Mammy loves nothing more than a pseudo emergency situation so she can really demonstrate her worth and the extent of her organisational capabilities.
Your child has a nosebleed? Good news! Super Mammy will come to the rescue in a jiffy with an icepack she just happened to have to hand! Your child falls and rips the knee of his trousers? Don’t panic! Super Mammy has a sewing kit to hand and will carry out an instant repair. (Her new motto for these credit crunch times is mend and make-do – she’s even learning embroidery in her very limited spare time.) Your child forgets his lunchbox? Never fear, Super Mammy always makes a spare, just in case.
Super Mammy does not try to keep track of her life by writing notes to herself on scraps of paper and the backs of supermarket till receipts and then promptly losing them. Super Mammy’s pride and joy is her To-Do list. She keeps one copy in the handbag (in its own special pouch) and a carbon copy on the cork notice board at home, where an intricate colour coded system alerts her to any possible hiccup in her finely tuned and expertly timed day. Super Mammy updates this list hourly without fail so she can keep one step ahead of her hectic schedule. She never misses a parent-teacher meeting, forgets to make a child’s dance-recital costume or is caught unawares by a school bake sale. She meticulously files past medical appointments in chronological order so she knows exactly when her child received each jab. She does not shove medical receipts into a kitchen drawer and hope they will somehow sort themselves out.
Super Mammy is confident she is prepared for every eventuality. A last minute birthday invitation? No problem! Super Mammy always bulk-buys greeting cards and an assortment of kids’ gifts – she keeps a stash in her boot specially. She does not skid to a halt in front of the supermarket five minutes ahead of a child’s party and then race inside to choose a random present. She carries a roll of Sellotape everywhere – she has never resorted to using Winnie the Pooh plasters to wrap gifts. She also keeps spare clothes, neatly ironed and folded in a recycled bag, in the car just in case her child ever throws up on her pristine upholstery after consuming too may sugary goodies while he has been away from her watchful eye. She could not contemplate having to mop up a child’s vomit with pages torn from a woman’s magazine, and she has never been forced to ask a child to wipe his dripping nose on his sleeve because she always has a pack of pre-softened Aloe Vera tissues in her purse. She brings her child’s borrowed books back on time. She has never received a notice from the library to inform her that if she doesn’t return The Gruffalo within a week she will have a nice day out in court.
Super Mammy has an herb garden. And a vegetable patch. She never serves her family fish fingers that may be past their sell by date or tries to pass off spaghetti hoops as vegetables. Instead, she clips wholesome recipes from magazines and involves her child in meal preparation (Little Johnny just loves to roll homemade pasta!). She does not watch Rachel bake on TV with a glass of wine in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other. She does not vow that she will cook like Rachel some day. She could give Rachel a run for her money right now if the mood took her. She has been buying exclusively organic produce for years. Actually, she’s recently acquired a few hens of her own (little Johnny likes nothing better than to collect the fresh eggs every morning). She does not buy supermarket spaghetti sauce and pretend it’s her own.
Super Mammy’s child is extra special. Little Johnny slept through the night from birth, smiled at four days, rolled over at three weeks, sat at two months, walked at six months and wrote his first sentence at one year. Super Mammy now enrols him in every available after-school activity to help him reach his potential and she encourages others to do the same because everyone knows children are sponges and it’s up to parents to expand their inquisitive minds. Super Mammy floats from one hellish activity to another serenely. She doesn’t develop a hunted look or a serious coffee addiction because every afternoon is now filled with a soul-destroying round of never-ending extra-curricular past-times that sucks her soul dry. She relishes the challenge of being in two places at once – especially when flute clashes with violin on a Tuesday.
So, there you have it. All the evidence adds up to one irrefutable, conclusive fact: I am not a Super Mammy and I never will be. I am not organised, I am not focused, and I probably will never have an herb garden or a vegetable patch. But I am also not losing precious sleep over it because, luckily for me, I don’t have to be a Super Mammy to have Super Kids. And they are what make me Super Happy.

Reality Bites

2010-05-05T14:09:00.000-07:00

"Do I have to go to school forever Mum?" my young son asked me today.
"No. Not forever," I replied.
"But for a long time?"
"Yes, for quite a long time," I admitted.
He paused to consider this, looking off into the middle distance, his brow scrunched as he pondered the possible implications.
"It's a cruel world Mum," he said at last.
How right he is. And he hasn't even started watching Eastenders yet.

Confessions of a Demented Bag Packer

2010-04-10T13:05:00.000-07:00

On any given day, I am not very good at packing groceries. If truth be told, I often completely bypass the entire bag packing thing altogether in favour of simply chucking my shopping from the conveyor belt thingy back into the trolley, sans bags.

Not out of pure laziness you understand (although that may come into it). It's just that I somehow nearly always forget to bring my sturdy reusable bags with me - a shame as I now have so many I could happily sell them and make a tidy profit.

If I do remember bags, I'm one of those people who simply stuff everything in wily nily. I admit it, I have no system - a failing considered a very serious offence by right-minded housekeepers who know their raw meats from their honey roasted turkey slices.

I know, deep down that I should separate the frozen goods from the dairy etc etc. so that it's all far more efficient when it comes to unpacking at the other end, but there is something (I suspect it's hardwired in my DNA) which always prevents me from pulling off such a feat of organisational supremacy.

Bearing all this in mind then, being asked to pack groceries in my local supermarket for a Very Good Cause was not something I was looking forward to.

Bloggers, I was dreading it, and with very good reason as it turns out because to say I was appalling doesn't even come close.

Trouble was, besides the fact that my butter fingers became even more buttery than usual, I also talked too much and paid too little attention to what I was doing.
Thus a packet of firelighters somehow became wedged in with fruit - cue gasps from righteous housekeepers everywhere. Not content with committing the cardinal sin of good bag packing, I also perpetrated possibly the worst abomination of all: I dropped a chicken on the floor. In my defence, I still think the poor anemic bird might have been making a last, doomed break for freedom.

So, next year, when someone mentions bag packing for charity I'm going to make a suggestion: nude calendar anyone? It's bound to be less painful. And that chicken could come in very handy to hide behind if I place it just so......

Revenge of the Goldfish

2010-04-06T03:59:00.000-07:00

Watched Marley and Me last night and have realised, too late alas, that instead of berating my own mini Marley / aka Charlie the chocoholic Yorkie I should been chronicling his antics and turning the lot into a feelgood movie!!
But all is not lost because we still have two goldfish - Pixie and Lily - to shamelessly exploit.
All I have to do is get them to caper mischievously and I could be in the money this time next year.
I'm thinking "Pixie and Lily on the Loose: The Movie."
Watch this space........

Chocolate Remorse

2010-04-05T03:28:00.000-07:00

This morning, I found the dog lying in his bed, looking bloated and mournful.
The air was thick with remorse and there were five, yes five, Thornton's Praline Melts wrappers scattered by his side (significant as he is a Miniature Yorkshire Terrier and his stomach is probably the size of just one praline).
He had somehow managed to break into the packet and help himself. (This sort of thing is a peculiar talent of his - one Christmas he wrestled the lid off a tin of Roses. He was sicking up gilt wrappers for days.)
I hadn't the heart to remonstrate with him today though - after all, I know exactly how he feels: yesterday my own personal choc-fest began with a Creme Egg for breakfast and ended with a Twirl before bed....... Happy Easter everyone.

Hips on Tour

2010-03-10T12:53:00.000-08:00

Today is my fabulous friend Susan's birthday and to celebrate we went for brunch. Just me, her and her Abercrombie and Fitch paper carrier bag - the one with the half naked hunk on the front who is probably, bless him, half our age but who brightened our morning no end. After all, what woman wouldn't want some man candy on her arm for her birthday?
After devouring a massive plate of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, followed by a Mars Bar krispie slice and two lattes, I was pretty stuffed. Happy, but stuffed.
Off I waddled to a physio appointment for my back, neck and shoulders (many hours spent hunched over a computer means I am a tad on the Quasimodo side).
"Hmmmm....." the physio said as I lay, beached whale like, on the table. "Your right hip is very, very inflamed, did you twist it by any chance?"
"No," I said. "Not unless I pulled something reaching for the remote control."
"That's odd," she replied, puzzled.
And then it came to me.
I hadn't twisted anything: the pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, Mars Bar krispie and two lattes from brunch had simply bypassed my digestive system and gone straight to my right hip, where they nestled comfortably among the sizeable acres of flesh already enjoying a little R&R in that area.
"Ahhhhhh," they probably sighed as they settled in, "home sweet home."

No Nibbling Allowed

2010-03-03T12:32:00.000-08:00

I went to a lovely "drinks and nibbles do" last night with a group of Irish booksellers, courtesy of Penguin Ireland. I was looking forward to it very much (a rare night out? yay!) and, to begin with, all went swimmingly.
There I was dolled up, nibbling on divine food and sipping champers (yes, really). It was just like a scene from Sex and the City, except I didn't have a designer handbag and I wasn't wearing couture.
The only fly in the ointment, if there was one, was the poor waiter. Every time he arrived with a new platter of food for us to enjoy, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack with the stress of trying to figure out where to put it. At one point I found myself volunteering to balance a platter on my knees just to calm him down. It didn't seem to occur to him to simply take some of the empty plates away to make some space.
Anyway, I excused myself to go to the loo (which was miles and miles away of course and meant a lot of wobbling on heels I hadn't worn in ages, but I tried not to mind because after all I was a gal about town for the night and the little things don't bother us).
When I eventually got there I did that quick check in the mirror, you know the one to make sure all the makeup hadn't slid off my face.
And that's when I noticed it. Something was winking back at me under the (frankly, very unbecoming) fluorescent lights. Something green.
In a flash, my Sex and the City fantasy came crashing down around my ears.
It was a gherkin. There was a large piece of gherkin lodged firmly between my two front teeth and there was no possible way people hadn't spotted it. I had been chatting to everyone with half a vegetable patch in my gnashers.
Bloggers, I almost locked myself in the cubicle with the utter mortification.
And so the moral of that story is - when you go to a drinks and nibbles reception do not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, think you can actually eat anything.

Fairy Cakes Taste Sensation

2010-02-28T12:33:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is my birthday and tonight my darling daughter, ably assisted by my lovely hubby, baked some pre-birthday fairy cakes to celebrate. This pre-birthday treat is a new tradition here, but one I will definitely be encouraging going forward. (Fairy cakes tonight followed by Rice Krispie buns and Victoria sponge tomorrow. What's not to love about that sort of delicious tradition?)
The topping on these little moues of perfection was icing mixed with strawberry jam (a new taste sensation - you heard it here first).
Bloggers, they were DIVINE. So divine I ate three in a row. Ooops. I just couldn't help myself - you're never too old for fairy cakes, that's what I say. Of course, my hips might disagree, but I'm well used to ignoring what they think. That's another advantage of getting older - you can simply tune out what you don't want to hear..............It's a skill I have just about perfected.

Toffy Pops Escape Unharmed

2010-02-24T01:43:00.000-08:00

I dropped my lovely friend Lol to the airport the other day for her flight back to Oz. I dread going to the airport. It's such a cruel place: the goodbyes are always "Love, Actually" heart wrenching and if that isn't enough to traumatise you, now there's the possibility of a full body pat down to contend with too.
"I hope they don't search me," Lol said as we stood forlornly at the Departure Gates. "If they take my Toffy Pops, I'll crack up. "
"Stick out your bump and look hassled," I advised, snuffling sadly into my sleeve. "They might take pity on you."
In fairness, this wasn't going to be much of a stretch: six months pregnant, with an active toddler in tow and a 24 hour flight to face, she was pretty hassled already.
Laughing through our tears at the thought of security wrestling her to the ground and confiscating the precious stash of Toffy Pops smuggled in her carry-on, we said our goodbyes.
A few minutes later, I got a text to say she had sobbed the whole way through luggage check and the kind staff had felt so sorry for her that they had given her a wheelchair for her bags and the toddler, so she could navigate her way through Duty Free. Even better, the Toffy Pops had escaped unharmed.
I am delighted to report that they went on to survive the flight and are, as I write, being carefully dunked into steaming mugs of Barrys Tea in a Sydney townhouse. Now there's a happy ending if ever I heard one.

Three Questions

2010-02-07T01:20:00.000-08:00

Over breakfast today, my six year old carefully munched his bagel and asked:
a) Why is cookbook one word, not two? (There was a cookbook on the table. An unused cookbook I should add.)
b) Why can you see the veins on the inside of your wrists so clearly and not on your tummy?
(I suspect he would like to have wormy veins visible everywhere if he could)
c) Do rabbits ever get tired hopping? (That one was just random)
All this and I hadn't even had my coffee yet..........

I am not It

2010-02-01T09:34:00.000-08:00

In a hotel lobby this weekend, I momentarily dropped my precious bag of Maltesers when a stunning leggy redhead swept through the foyer. What was it about her that had everyone, including me, transfixed? Was it her magnificent camel coloured cashmere coat with its cutting edge angular jutting pockets? Her gleaming over-the-knee boots that were the length of my entire leg? The amazing mane of glossy red locks that tumbled down her back?
Who knows. But the girl had "it" and, as I watched her, with my scuffed high street boots and chipped nails, I fleetingly wished I had "it" too. Sadly, I know only too well that sweeping grandly about is impossible when you're five foot two and your hair has never seen a glossy day in its frizzy life. I will never have "it".
But a half-eaten bag of melted Maltesers in my pocket? Now that I have.

Middle Aged

2010-01-27T10:46:00.000-08:00

How do you know you're middle aged?
a) On a road trip with your girlfriends you spend an inordinate amount of time seriously discussing how best to deal with grey hair, upper lip wisps and general all-over drooping of bits.
b) Your version of a road trip is now a day out to Ikea.
c) You get overly excited when you discover that coffee is free in the Ikea canteen (one of you does a little celebratory dance).
d) When you sit on a Martorp sofa you are tempted to have a quick nap. No-one laughs when you say this out loud.
e) A Lazy Susan seems like a brilliant idea.
f) You fall asleep in the car on the way home and no alcohol has been consumed.

The Difference Between the Sexes - Part One

2010-01-24T13:12:00.000-08:00

In the park today, Son's wobbly bottom tooth fell out while kicking his football.
"OMG, OMG! " Daughter cried, distraught at the very idea that her brother's tooth was now lost somewhere in the vast undergrowth and he wouldn't be able to leave it under his pillow for collection by the tooth fairy.
Much drama (plus much enforced scrabbling in undergrowth) ensued as Son looked on, nonplussed.
"If we don't find the tooth will I still get the money?" he asked.
"Yes, I should think so," I replied, picking through rotting leaves and broken twigs, hoping that wet pile of mud I just poked wasn't dog poop.
"OK," he shrugged. "Let's go."
Then he galloped away, kicking his football passionately and leaving his poor orphaned baby tooth behind without a second's thought.
Daughter fretted the whole way home in the car about the implications of all this. Would the tooth fairy find the tooth in the park? What if a hungry dog found it first? Should we write a note to someone and explain? Had this ever happened anyone ever before, in the history of the world?
Son meanwhile looked out the window, totally disinterested in all the female angst.
"Can I buy a new football with the money?" he asked.

Oldies but Goodies

2010-01-22T09:43:00.000-08:00

Don't you just love old friends? Maybe it's because you used to borrow each others' Max Factor eyeshadow and share your precious Constance Carroll frosted lipsticks at youth club discos, but there's something so easy and comforting about hanging out with people you've known almost your whole life.
A girlfriend who I haven't seen in over a year (she lives in Oz) arrived on my doorstep today.
"Howarya Horse," she said, cutting to the chase, "put the kettle on, I've got the Toffy Pops."
It was like music to my ears.

Quotes of the Year - 2

2010-01-20T03:14:00.000-08:00

Hubby was dancing cheerfully to a Madness tune in the kitchen when daughter walked in.
"This is how we used to dance in the good old days," he explained, doing his best Suggs impression.
"On my God Dad," she replied, covering her eyes in horror. "You were embarrassing me before I was even BORN."

A Hard Lesson

2010-01-18T01:54:00.000-08:00

I made apple crumble yesterday. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But this time, instead of carefully measuring out the flour, butter and sugar as always, I decided to just wing it. How hard could it be? After all, I'd made crumble a hundred times before, I was surely above all that weighing palaver, right? (Besides, getting the scales out would add another whole minute to the baking exercise and I was already pressed for time.)
And so I poured everything haphazardly into the bowl, supremely confident that all would be well. It was much more fun to do it like that too - I almost felt like Nigella for a few precious seconds, flinging ingredients about sexily, not a care in the world.
I knew the minute I took it out of the oven that I had made a huge mistake. The crumble was doughy and anemic looking. Frankly, it looked almost inedible.
But it was too late - everyone was already waiting for dessert. So, instead of starting from scratch, I simply covered the whole mess in as much custard as I could and served it anyway, pretending that nothing was amiss.
No one said anything as such, but the compliments were few and far between. And - tellingly- no-one went back for seconds (unheard of in these parts).
And so I've learned two hard and painful lessons:
1) The use of weighing scales is crucial to baking success
2) I am not Nigella and I never will be.

Me 'n Cheryl

2010-01-16T14:01:00.000-08:00

Did you know that Cheryl Cole has been voted the Most Photogenic Woman in the World?
I have to admit I was a little taken aback by this revelation to begin with.
Not because she beat Audrey Hepburn to the prize, but because I misread the headline and thought it said that Chazza was the Most Hygienic Woman in the World. Which has quite a different ring to it, don't you think?
Anyway, it got me thinking. If Cheryl is the most photogenic, then who is the least photogenic? Dear readers, the answer I suspect is...........me!
Now I don't want any fuss: no accolades or acres of press coverage thank you very much. It's simply enough to know I was even in the running.

Quote of the Year (so far)

2010-01-15T04:51:00.000-08:00

I am sitting in a cafe close to a young family: Mum, Dad, small child - aged approx three years.
Small child wants to go to the toilet. Daddy brings her.
Small child comes galloping back from the toilet, shouting at top of voice "Daddy got stuck in the loo! Daddy got stuck in the loo!"
Daddy lopes back, looking a little embarrassed but also quite pleased that half the cafe is now watching. He's clearly convinced that everyone is thinking "Isn't that little girl so cute? And my goodness, aren't her vocabulary and articulation extraordinary? She's obviously a child genius!"
All first time parents are guilty of this - thinking their own child is amazing in every way. I was guilty of it myself (except, of course, my own firstborn IS genuinely amazing).
Sadly, I can tell by the expression on everyone's faces that they are actually thinking: "Please be quiet - I want to eat my egg salad sandwich in peace and I don't need to know anything about your loo visit, even if it was spectacularly funny."
All is quiet for a moment.
Then Mum goes to toilet. Small child shouts "Mummy will get stuck in the loo too Daddy!"
Daddy replies "Getting stuck in the lavatory doesn't happen to everyone darling, it's not a ubiquitous rite of passage."
Small child (age approx three, remember) looks very confused.
Dad duly ignores confusion, catches my eye and gives me the very smug "see how vastly superior my child's intellect is compared to the average ?" look.
I know it's very bad but I really, really wanted to say "OK, but can she SPELL ubiquitous mate? Now THAT would impress me."

Gleeful!

2010-01-13T03:26:00.001-08:00

Things have been looking bleak on the TV front since X Factor ended.
I was slightly obsessive about X Factor. I watched every single show. I also recorded every single show, just in case. (In case of what you ask? Let's not go there).
I turned down invites (not that many in fairness, I have no social life to speak of) to stay in and cheer on my faves (Olly if you must know). It was all very sad and anti social, but then I am of an age where cuddling up with a jumbo pack of Maltesers on the sofa on a Saturday night is about as lively as it gets.
Anyway, when X (as I like to call it) ended, I was quite bereft. The only thing that kept me going in the telly stakes over the festive period was Gavin and Stacey, but then I discovered that Series Three was the last one! It's like when your favourite lipstick, the one that makes you look five years younger than you actually are and doesn't bleed into the puckered wrinkly skin round your mouth, gets discontinued without warning.
I wept bitter tears of disappointment over that news, let me tell you. Bitter tears.
But then I discovered Glee and, just like the joy you feel when the lady at the makeup counter says she has an even better lipstick, one that's guaranteed to make your shrivelled lips look just like Angelina Jolie's, I cheered right up.
I've always been a sucker for a cheesy song n dance number, but throw in dark, edgy humour as well and I'm hooked! Glee is like a perverse High School Musical - TV gold.
Now, I 'm trying not to get too carried away just yet. In fact, I have vowed to keep a bit of distance between me and Glee because I know only too well how it could pan out.
Could it go the way of ER? I was committed to that until Doug and the Dr. Greene left. I fell out of love with ER pretty quickly after that.
Then there was Lost....I was an ardent fan until it all got far too complicated and I started to forget who was supposed to fancy who. And of course there was the Polar Bear thing. Was it real? A hologram? A metaphor? Far too confusing for someone of my advancing years.
But I have high hopes for Glee - it could be another Friends. It could even be another SATC!
Easy now. Let's not get too excited.

Sad News

2010-01-11T10:30:00.000-08:00

A sad day for a few reasons.
1. The heads fell off all but one of the snowmen we built in the field in front of our house - tragic to see them melt and disappear into the grass.
2. I polished off the very last Selection Box (why can't they make Selection Boxes all year round? Why?)
3. I began to take down the Christmas decorations. (Was forced to - only because our tree is in danger of collapsing on us any minute now though).
4. Michael Buble confirmed his engagement (to the gorgeous girl in "I Just Haven't Met You Yet" video). Poor Michael, he's still smarting that I turned him down. Obviously this relationship with some Argentinian beauty with the face of a goddess and a body to match is a rebound thing. Bless him.

My new blog

2010-01-10T04:02:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone and Happy New Year!

One of my New Year's resolutions was to start a blog so.. .....ta dah!!

I'm a bit of a techie dinosaur really - I don't blog, Twitter, Facebook etc etc so this is my first shaky step towards a new, improved tech savvy me. OK, I will never be tech savvy, but you know what I mean.

If I'm honest, the dreadful weather has given me the extra little nudge I needed......we are currently housebound, which isn't all bad because I'm wrapping up book four and need to stay at my desk. It's also an excellent excuse to polish off all the chocolate and goodies still lying around. I ate three slices of Christmas cake last night - and I don't even like Christmas cake.

I told myself it was OK because it's a well known fact that in cold weather we need to lay down extra stores of fat. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it....bring on the crusty marzipan, that's what I say!