prolific.org

7pm. Killing time in Dalkey. Fruit & Veg. Saltimbocco & Medaglioni Di Filetto. Batman & Robin. Chalk & Cheese.

The plaintive call of my mobile wakes me up early this morning, not quite 5 am.

I open my eyes and find myself gazing into my stalwart laptop still spinning my West Wing S2 DVD.

Closing the lid puts it to sleep. I crawl out of bed.

Pick up the mobile from my desk, crawl back into bed and open up the message.

Read it. Something about talking mickeys.

Don’t ask.

Sleepily I punch in a reply: “It’s 5am luv, watcher doin’ up? Zzz.”

And fall back asleep.

In the morning it turns out to be a delayed delivery, the tail end of this boy-girl argument that’s now spun out over two days.

He blames the Dutch.

He: Eat and sleep. Sunday is a day of rest! X

Me: Um… I’m going out! Just dinner but. Wid lots of sake 2 wash down d raw fish.

He: Oh no. Dislike raw fish and hate sake. Very bad for the mental state.

Me: Dats coz u a paddy n me is wise and from d east.

He: I am wise enough 2 knw wats good 4 me and u havent heard of the fish flu. Its worse than bird flu. Dutch would eat their granny and knock back a sake. X

[...]

He: That was a joke!

Me: Sorry, my granny has arrived. Yum.

I was starting to wonder if things would ever go back to normal and ding, HRM livens up the morning with a typical ‘I’m back and in a moody’. And just like that, things ARE back to normal in a ‘jump’/'how high?’ way. And I’m texting the entire lyrics to a song (just the verses, natch) till my thumbs ache and my dinner goes cold.

Loving it.

And if you get all that, then you know too much and I have to kill you.

He: “So, I’m doing this thing about Jesus, that’s gonna stir things up, don’t you think?”

Me: “I’m a Prod, that stuff doesn’t really affect me. This isn’t Holy Catholic Ireland.”

He: “Well, Catholics are the BEST people!”

Me: “OH YEAH? So that’s why ALL your best friends are PRODS then, eh?”

He: …

Quiet start of the new year here in Amsterdam, well, except for the deafening noise of the fireworks outside. Nothing compared to the display in London, but still pretty amazing as usual.

I’m alone, but not lonesome and the virtual ‘X’ that was sent to me as the clock struck midnight CET gives me much to think about.

Now I’m watching Jools’s Hootenanny and I’m thinking:

Shut. Up. Jamie. Cullum.

Grab a loved one, people, happy new year!

[Read more]

Hello?
Hmmrrvvw
Is that you?
MwwImmmmtrappednerveinmebackgrrheavypainkillerzz.
That sounds bad.
RvvrvwoarrestingthenflyinintoDingletuesdaynightcantriskdaroads.
Oh dear.
Whenaayoucommenin?
Tuesday evening, coach from Cork to Tralee then on to Dingle.
Isziscostinyouaforchune?
Yeah. It’s ok, it’s my Christmas holiday.
Waahtwonightsinbloodydingle?
I’ll go to Dublin after.
Hrrmhayoushomewhedastay.
Sorry?
Mmmindingle?
…
//sigh// Have. you. a. hotel. to. stay. at?
Um, yeah… B&B.
Hmmthacoubequaint
It’s overlooking the harbour.
Deesounchuksat12comealongtotha’
Ok, yeah, I will.
Wellah.. ahmeetchu… ahtexchuwhenIcomein…
OK, take care now, look after yourself.
Moutamahhead. Mgonnasleep. Ahmonheavymedicashun…
I know. Go to bed now.
Mmkaybyeiwillseeyoutuesdaynigh…

Me sad, says he.

Delayed shock, the loss of someone who should still be a friend, the confrontation with mortality. I know how he feels.

All I have is words and the words are not my own.

Write his name on paper. Put it in the ground or a pot. Plant a vegetable or tree. When you see or eat the plant, he will be beside, or inside you.

This I offer. Send and receive. Sealed with a X.

I can see him now, in Eden, with a shovel and an apple tree. Digging a hole. In the rain. Cap on, trousers hanging off the bony hips. Wellies. Puts a smile on my face. And I can’t lose that.

A very wise, famous man once wrote to me: I am he and he is she and we are all together. We’re all in this together. Long distance be damned.

Here, softened up by breakfast, but still a holy terror in the morn, Herr Flick Friday, green leather long coated bane of my existence. A bottle to the head and flowers up. Is he gonna kiss, or is he gonna kill? Gets two glasses of coca cola, not one. Wants the best table. Encore du chips. And a paracetamol, with sugar on top.

We’re dependant on the network’s reach.

It’s been a while, a week, or more, or less. My head’s been killing me and my shoulders ache in synch. I got a signal outside, he says. How are ya? OK, I say and pause. Continue: moody, up and down like usual.

He says I need a break. I know, I say. I’ve got one coming up in August.

What are my plans, he wants to know. I stretch out on the sofa and listen to his footsteps and the wind blowing as he walks the road to Mizen head. Any further out West and he’d be in Americay.

Marseille, ’cause I like harbours, I proclaim, or maybe Nice, the flights are cheaper. I don’t know and I’ve no money either. It’s tough on your own, I confess.

That’s life, baby.

I remember Mizen head and the journey home — how that man and I listened to the radio as they took Diana to Westminster Abbey. That was the end of that, the golden girl and our tryst laid to rest in one sad week.

Take a train, he says, like he’s read my mind. Like he always does. (“Why don’t you move to Amsterdam?”) I might just do that. Take a train. Travel.

There’s no train to Mizen head.