chapter 2 - 4

chapter 2  i am

OK OK let's just forget about last night, let's erase it like it never happened. It didn't happen, so. See? All gone, already forgotten! Nothing happened last night and certainly not to the sound of squishy vinyl ("creak, creak, creak, creak"). Herself has blanked it out and sent it straight to the recycle bin (Ping!). Some things in life are the exclusive property of night-time, their memory not allowed in the harsh light of day.
Or at least that's what I wish for.
Sadly it's one thing to make a wish, and quite another to force your body to comply.
Right now my body's not complying, hell no. My throbbing skull has developed a life of its own and is not -repeat not- playing ball. Quite the contrary. It is refusing to obey my desperate pleas to calm down, calm down, and please turn it down a notch or ten. Nope, nothing doing. If anything, it's like it's invited the Earth to come rotate inside my head. Right behind my eyes. ... One would have thought taking it easy would be the simplest thing to do, but no! It'd be too simple! Instead, our brain can't help firing off fireworks we least have needs for. That's "synapses" I think they're called: thoughts and feelings and dreams and regrets and wishes and ideas and-Stop! Gizzas a break for the love of God! The more I ought to relax, the more it seems I churn adrenalin over. Churn, churn, churn like a washing machine (a washing machine inside my head, that is). ...And that's before I even try to get up.

Right now balance is just a word. There is no way I can stand up unassisted. Waaaow! the wall comes to my rescue. All at onceI feel cold and feverish, cream-crackered and shaky, unquestionably awake and yet not able to form a coherent thought. It's a bother alright. Oh Solpadine / miracle / work / your! -These words to be combined  in a sentence ASAP.
Calm down, calm down, all you need now is:
A) a hot bath-tub
B) some cold O.J.
C) and a nice nap to recover from, er... resting.

I drag my sorry arse to the bathroom and unleash the Niagara falls. 'Think I'll go easy on the salts this time; I only pour a thimble of DaphnAlgae and two measures of Violet Du Jour. I down a large glass of water and two miracle pills for good measure.
I have hardly lowered myself inside the tub that the phone rings. Should have expected it. Definition of electronic appliances? Require your attention as soon as you have your hands wet.
Against my better judgement, I expose my traumatised self to the cold and tiptoe back to fetch the damn thing: could-be-important, could-be-work-related... Of course it's neither. It's only my best friend.

-"Hey there!" explodes Georgina's voice "How 'you feeling today? Made it back alright?"
-"Wow wow -Not so loud babe, please no shouting..." I ease myself back into the warmth. "Do you know what time it is?"
Her voice drops an octave.
-"Oh. I see. Someone's having a difficult morning have they, feeling vulnerable are we? Well, since you wanna know it's actually... half-past one now -so technically it's afternoon. So how d'you feel then? How bad's the head?"
Georgie's cute, she can always tell.
-"The head's not too proud, the rest not feeling too bright either... I'm only at death's door y'know?"
-"Maybe you should cut on the moaning -it'll make you feel better."
-"Feck off, you!"
-"Ah, poor Lily... Only messin'. Just got up then, I take it? Oh don't tell me. Don't tell me. I woke you up -Did I?"
-"No no I was er, already up, been up and about for quite a while... a good five minutes. Am in the bath right now. Re-absorbing water as it were..."
-"That's the spirit. Fair play to you! Well, 'just wanted to check on you like, after you left so sudden and wouldn't answer your phone later, was just wondering... You switched it off."
-"Last night? Oh no, nothing to report, everything peachy. Suddenly 'felt I had enough that's all... Suddenly felt out of it. I wanted to go home, y'know"

-"And so you did..."

-"And so I did, went straight back home."
-"Right you are."
When Georgie says "right you are" in that tone of voice, she actually tells you she knows better. She may say one thing but means another. The damn girl can always tell.
"If you say so." (pause) "'You sure you alright, then?"
-"Oh yeah, absolutely! Fine and dandy, gimme a couple of hours and I'll be grand, 'just need to soak for a moment, evacuate..."
-"OK so, you go and do that"
-"Listen, l promise to ask you about your night later -I'm sure you scored, right?- but not right now. Just not right now -Me head is killing me, I feel like death warmed up"

-"Ah poor Lily, you poor baby; I'll let you enjoy your bath then... You go ahead and do that. Just call me back when you look like a shrivelled prune OK? Gizzus a bell when you feel better, don't hesitate."
-"Sure thing will do. Bye now Georgie. Bye bye bye"
-"Bye."

Exhausted, I switch off the bleeding thing. Now was that an ordeal! The cheek of the girl! Well intentioned as she is, Georgie can be an absolute pain in the butt sometime! ("Sometimes, you're always the same.") Fair play to her for finally getting in touch (Did I really switch off my mobile last night? Huh, that'd be just like me to do such a thing!), the problem is, right now I'm in no mood for questioning. In no physical shape. I'm not ready to face the world just yet, it can just go on turning with my help (Oh no, better not bang on about the Earth turning...). I switch my phone off once more (Click!) and then I close my eyes. I close my eyes and I let myself sink to the bottom of the tub.

(...)

When I come to, the water has gone distinctly lukewarm and I have no choice but to get out. Get out get dressed -I take a deep breath and hope for the best. I shiver all the way to my fluffy bathrobe back in the bedroom, dripping over the carpet in a tried and tested way of cleaning it -and then remember to maybe lower the blind. Oops. Must say I feel much better now and even feel pangs of hunger: the growls emanating from my stomach are getting harder to ignore. They're a good sign. I descend upon the fridge and nope, it's not empty - we'll have none of these lame clichés thank you.
I fit everything I can find between two slices of bread and try to remember when I last had a bite... Would have been around the time " The Simpsons" turned into "Home And Away": crisps and sambo. Unless I sacrificed to the student ritual and had me on a kebab on the way back last night which is highly unlikely. For one, I would have reeked of lamb all over my hair fingers and clothes (ewww); for second, I'm no longer a student. Not for an eternity (a couple of years), that is.

Ah yes these student years... good times. Highlights are many, and they're all more unpredictable than the other:

the greedy landlord the chips and Pro-Plus diet the beans on toast the cheap cider the leaking tap the defective burner the traffic cones stolen the poxy haircuts the Third World headgear the traffic cones stuck in the toilet the Snakebite at the disco the subsidised bar at the Union. Special mention for the Union bar, it truly was the pillar of our world back then. Pretty much laid the foundation for our most cunning Earth-conquering schemes and totally blasé episodic dalliances, it did. Oh was it gas...

Burning incense sticks wearing a keffieh in support of the Palestinians pretending to enjoy "jungle" aciiiiid faceless techno bollix denouncing this and marching in favour of that debating Northern Ireland counting our change fallen down the back of the sofa getting an eighth off "Nick the Greek" following "Countdown" religiously -Incredible stuff, I know. All we seemed to be doing back then was partying and drinking. I'm still riding on that high.

"How can you call yourself a vegetarian when you eat fish? Answer that!"

I remember the debates how to best set the world to rights, which I always seemed to win (until someone reminded me of what actually happened the next day). They were usually conducted in the Union bar. How many battles got waged there, how many fiendish plots got hatched... entire soap operas. Yikes, we really cared back then! That, and crushes on foreign exchange students -another classic. Weren't they fab though? Back then, foreign exchangists always came across like they had everything we didn't, they always gave the impression they enjoyed back home what we only could dream of here. They had class, funny haircuts, they offered mystery. They spelled danger, they positively hummed with exoticism. Only five years on and lo-cost flights later, you realise we're all the same.

I remember the piss-ups, I remember the midnight snacks; the shared duvets in winter, the flat tires on the bike; the mandatory Klimmt or Monet on the wall. And there always had to be someone that dumped their tea-bag in the sink (ewww). I remember stay hairs in the bath-tub (double ewww).

Blokes, of course, had to act different, they had to make themselves daring and dangerous; they would put up the "Betty Blue" poster, a tasteful black and white photo of Muhammad Ali towering over his vanquished opponent, or else that tennis player scratching her arse. But that was then and this is now. I've got my own fridge at last and don't have to label my food; I don't have to shift someone else's sauce encrusted plates to get to the faucet; I haven't tasted fish fingers for weeks.

The financial front hasn't terrifically improved, though.
I haven't made much progress, to be honest; student loans have a nasty habit of remaining legally enforceable. But I suppose I can't complain: in the great scheme of things and all that jazz... could be much worse / things will look up. Plus in the end, got my degree. That was the degree I craved, were I to follow my vocation and make it on my own terms: journalism at Trinity it was, so. Might as well go for le cream de le cream, no? "Graduated at TCD", that ought to stand out on the CV I reckoned -isn't it what power wielding squares look for? The illustrious reference, the proof of overdraft that needs to get paid up. You could be the most talented whatever, you could shoot verses out of your arse like nobody's business, if you can't boast a prestigious education employers won't give you a second glance. And so I did my time. Duly collected my degree.
The graduation ceremony was a right scream.
It's not every day you can share a spliff with your old man at the Trinners' ball in full regalia, in front of everyone, and nobody will dare touch him. Instead, people came forth to get their photo taken with him! Oh what a night...

Anyway. That hurdle dealt with, then it was up to me. It was up to me to get my thumb out and go get some (some work, that is). I was desperate to land me one all by myself -anything but the kind of leg-up rich kids can rely on thanks to a few phonecalls made by their genitor. That's not for me. Myself and Da are not exactly starving, but I wouldn't say we are loaded -certainly not by today's standards. Oh no, I'd hate being considered a rich kid who's had it all handed on a plate, no chance of that! If I look at my cute little car, I'm proud to say that I earned it. I paid for it. And the name on the mortgage is mine, not Da's.

Jobs, then. There's always jobs, they're in the air, wafting about, it's up to you to set them up or reply to already formulated offers. You have to get off the sofa and go out there, go hunt them down. Do the leg work. Propose, insist, big up, show off, seduce, hassle, (threaten), pitch, boast, make up, (bribe), suggest, lobby, (blackmail), sketch up, hint at, advance, drop hints, underline, stress, (put out). Pester the Ed. who's always "out of the office right now"; call unannounced; present with demos, demos and propositions, sketches, synopsis (synopsises??), tapes, interviews, reviews, recycled ideas, variations of successful formulas, unsolicited reports, tips -with anything really; show them the beef; go for the kill. Just get in there and do the pitch before anyone else does. Spot the niche. Create one if you have to.

There really is no end of subjects that won't appeal to The Great Public: TDs caught at the races instead of being at work? Drunken GAA players? Celebrity children? Soap stars' political opinions? Immigrants who hold three jobs to make ends meet? The Truth Behind Hen Nights? What exactly is a Yummy Mammy? Aren't we so much better than the Brits? Petrol station nightshift tales? Monkey tennis?...Anything goes, in this day 'n age of sensory overload. People want to be entertained 24/7, gone is the time when they only had two/three morning papers to compete for their attention. Now it's news-flashes every hour, websites refreshed every five minutes, ticker tapes at the bottom of the screen.

I draw the line at photos though. Don't wanna be turning into a paparazzi (paparazzo??). I may make a point of attending all sorts of functions and shaking hands with the great and the good -as well as politicians- but I won't snap, I won't catch unawares. It would be cheap and -like- totally beneath me. Paparazzi, charitables Lily, are nothing but a bunch of bottom feeders. Their lot's always made me sore: talk about hard work rewarded! Where's the studying and craft involved? All they have to do is raise their camera and fire away at their victim to their heart's content! A propitious gust of wind under a skirt lands them a scoop :-((. That can't be right or proper! Distasteful "stories" of theirs may have recently included:

"Gaybo the man, the legend -Relieving himself on a comatose tramp!*"; "Who could it be, leaving the Four Seasons at 2 a.m. wearing sunglasses and her hair a mess, readers?"; "This is the sick moment when a cyclist crashed into a car door -and broke two ribs"; "Stapleton Sausages heiress Moira McGuire, looking extremely relaxed, sitting in the gutter last Friday night in Temple Bar"; "Caught in Marks and Spencer's yesterday, fresh shaved and slick combed -Geldof!**"; "Say "cheese" to the camera Colin -You're on the wrong side of the Liffey!"; "How to get down the stairs in one go -Or maybe not"; "When foundation runs dry -Boyband pips and warts exposed!"

*The authors would like to make clear they do not seriously suggest that the honourable Mr. Byrne has ever taken to urinate on any homeless person. They were merely being facetious here.
**The authors would like to make clear they do not seriously suggest that Sir Bob Geldof has ever been witnessed wearing an unslept-in shirt.

So no no no no no, I won't go down that road. Fair play to the shameless heartless rotten sicko ambulance chasers if they can make a few bucks out of it -we all have to make a living after all- but, all the same, it's not for me. I like to think I aim higher. You need standards in life, right? You need fecking manners.
It's not simply a question of stabbing people in the back, it's also about compromising your potential contacts. Think about it. It's dead simple, really: You betray someone's confidence, you're burnt for life. Dublin's a small enough place, only morons would gamble with their sources -it's just not worth the risk. Considering all the effort I put into getting there in the first place... I'd have shit for brains to take that chance.

So how does one get their metaphorical foot in the door, some may ask. Well, adjusts on her nose her bifocal glasses Lily, you need to play the game. Get cute and get busy. Work the place. Frequent these parties, attend these openings, nod in time with the rest of the audience, remain awake during the speeches, don't make free with the free booze on offer, smile when you're talked to, suffer the blow-hards, don't loudly gasp at the extravagant claims, by all means don't tell them to pull the other one but instead exchange these phone numbers, express interest, stand close to the big cheese, and -more importantly- do your homework on who is who. As a general rule, politicians don't like to be mistaken for personal secretaries (oops), and industrialists like to inspire envy in people's eyes -so play up to their soft spots. Sheer common sense, I would have thought. The first tactical goal is to get recognised, the second to become a familiar face. You want them to place you in relation to another social function yous will have both attended; this will take you a step closer to the usually delish finger food buffet ("Why yes, a glass of white wine, thank you" -but only one). It's the old foot in the door, followed by the don't bite the hand that feeds.

Back when I started, I first needed to gain in confidence. Not from me -I've got confidence bursting out of me ears!- but from people that matter. People who decide on who's getting the gig. There are two kinds of movers and shakers: the ones in the general business, and those in the media proper. Or put another way, the brains behind the camera, and the pretty faces in front / the editors behind their desks, and the journos themselves. I longed to be welcome into the fold, I was intent on making a name for myself,

and not just be JohnnyRay Maddixx's daughter.

"Poor old JohnnyRay" (The JohnnyRay story)

Interlude:

Car-crash scene around the corner, 'woman passes by:
"What's the stooory here?"
-Witness: "There's been an accident, see. These two knackers were after racing for the light: Bang! Straight on!""
-Woman: "Aaah serve them right like the whole lot of 'em -What were these bollix thinking racing in the street!!"
-Witness: "There was a baby in one of the cars."
-Woman, signing herself: "Ah Jaysus love 'em!"

End of interlude.

Weekend at Hampton's, Tuesday at Crumlin. Today's Saturday and I suppose I really ought to go and see Da. 'Would be the done thing, like. Not that it's strictly necessary but. I might as well, him getting on and all... We'll go by the usual pretence ("Just a fleeting visit, was driving by"), I reckon it's about time I went and checked on him -and incidentally the house. Re-introduce to these things called fruit, pick the plates off the sofa (wash them while I'm at it), air out the living room, beat down the crusty cushions -perform the minimum health and safety requirements. By now we both know the score: Dutiful daughter breezes in (first stage), emits cry of horror (she gets into character), finally slaps on the marigolds (the show gets on the road). From experience, there'll be open tins in the fridge that need chucking out before the master of the house succumbs to botulism. There'll be also take-away cartons, cans and bottles, pizza crusts, yoghurt that once was milk, makeshift ashtrays, all-purpose hankies -all sorts, liberally strewn about the place. I also need to keep an eye on the bills situation -The living legend's not too hot on settling his various invoices. Then I'll probably end up taking the vacuum cleaner out of its permanent residence: that will be from under the stairs where it gathers dust, albeit in a different manner than the one it was bought for.

Mostly, I want to check that my genitor hasn't passed out in his back garden five days ago to be eaten by a pack of stray poodles. In-this-day-n-age when there's "no such thing as society", one regularly comes across this type of distressing story in the paper:

"Imagine the emergency services' surprise yesterday when, upon entering a flat, they discovered the body of Mr. P*** S*****, a quiet pensioner of (whatever) years of age, residing at 83 Old K******** V*****, in a state of nearly complete mummification! The deceased, a WW2 hero / a retired postman / a failed bookmaker, was described as the quiet type, kept-himself-to-himself, never a fart higher than the other, always had a smile for everyone." Yadda yadda yadda, cut to the chase. "...and so nobody noticed nuffink. When contacted by our reporter, Mr. S*****'s neighbours refused to make any comment.
Given the advanced state of decomposition, the State Coroner surmised that Mr. S**** must have been dead for at least six months (not counting bank holidays). The gruesome discovery was only made possible thanks to Mr. S*****'s landlord who had got increasingly concerned. Explained the landlord:

"Your man was turning into a right fecking waste of investment space! See, I had plans for the place! Plans and vision! So I wrote him, what, ten times at least, told him I needed him out but, would you believe it, the old (incomprehensible word here) wouldn't budge, wouldn't even have the basic courtesy to respond!"

As Mr. S***** repeatedly failed to react to reminders that rentwasdue, his landlord grew understandably concerned and sollicited assistance (not to mention emotional support) from the bailiff. It was then that the macabre discovery was made; luckily, the landlord saw the funny side of it and revealed to our reporter that that he had never liked confirmed bachelor Mr. S***** anyway."

Hopefully things will never get as desperate with Da. For one thing he owns his house, and secondly he's not exactly the shrinking violet type. ...Me old man was a rock and roller, see, and don't yous kids of today forget it!

Introducing Eamon Monaghan, better known as JohnnyRay Maddixx, lead singer with ColdHeat. ColdHeat was a "new wave" musical ensemble from Dublin (Republic of Ireland) that performed between the mid-eighties to the early-nineties. "New Wave": cf. "Punk": cf. "Rock Music": cf. "Ways Of Annoying Your Parents" or in this case... your daughter. The thing is, I can't get much perspective on the ColdHeat experience, I am the last one to judge really, having been drenched in it since my earliest age. Knowing them inside out, it's hard to be impartial and pass judgement on how good they may have been. I suppose they filled a gap, they answered expectations. Hip, they certainly were, I can testify to that, but good... I'd say they had their moments, yeah. They had their day for, what, the best part of a decade and then... and then they ran their course. They would probably sound daft now ...they certainly look it. Imagine your Da in "understated" racoon eyes make-up and leather trousers, jumping about half-naked on a stage spouting off apocalyptic sermons about this, that and the other... this is a an acquired taste. It may have been great craic to a nipper full of wonder and amusement ...but I'm no longer this nipper; I'm all grown up and the eighties are long gone.
Not for everyone though. "JohnnyRay" still has a lot to say about the eighties. The eighties ...and a fair few other subjects.

"Can't be doing with these upstarts, these little thieves -whatcha call them again? ... Snackpatrol, that's the one! Swiped everything from us you hear! It's like this Interpol combo yeah, these Killers yanks -Just who do they think they are fooling? Excitable twelve year olds?? I'll tell you what, luv': the repetitive riff, the ominous bass, the rising middle-eight, the tight black jeans, the half-fringe, the black and white moody portraits -Been there done it, mate! And twenty years before, too!! We wrote the book -They xerox it! Myself and Gavin what we should do really, we should never indulge them, we should never accept to go to their awards cerremonies and hand them their chocolate gongs -We should sue them! Like Killing Joke and Nirvana yeah!"
I know the drill by now, I'm not getting involved. Been there and heard it all, no point in encouraging him. I go about the room, gathering mouldy plates.
"Their stage presence? What stage presence?? See these so-called frontmen -Can't even do nothing!! Can't move, can't dance! Liam Gallagher for crying out loud, Liam Galllllagher sweet Jaysus a lamb -What's he ever done onstage eh? Managed to stand?? Lemme tell you, when your old man used to go down at the end of our set, I didn't feckin' slide to the ground all lah-di-da pass me the smelling salts Rupert -I went for it head first! Might as well make them wonder! Get the newbies worried! (The boys and roadies will have seen me act the night before ha ha!) You take Nick Cave, yeah? You take James Brown -He used to take his boots off afterward and they'd be filled with blood from both his knees! Now THAT's what I call a front-man! (Fecking nancies gumble grumble grumble what do they know etc.)"
Ah yes, whether it be anything music business related, the state-of-Irish-youth-today, the nouveaux-rich of Dublin, recycling, council taxes, spineless comformism, the (continued p. 95) -JohnnyRay Maddixx is never short of opinions.

"Now the 80s... oh they were harsh alright -I remember seeing taxi drivers pushing their cars, literally pushing them, at the taxi ranks to save themselves twenty seconds of petrol. Fast-forward twenty years and now we have twice as many cabs as New York! Crazy! Oh I tell you, in those days we had something to moan about! Kids nowadays, what exactly are they rebelling against? That the remote to their statellite TV's run out of batteries??"

A reasonably successful rockstar, if only for a dozen years, JohnnyRay never quite mastered the art of returning to civilian life. He never learned how to tone down but then, how's one supposed to? There's no "Rockstar User Manual" that I know of, no "How To Readjust For Dummies". No "Game Over" sign flashes to indicate the end of your turn. That's what JohnnyRay badly suffered from, and what he could do with. True, who decides when writing abilities are all dried up? Is it really the audience or the business that re-adjusts its sights? Eventually dropped by his third record company -"despite still selling more than The Fall"-, JohnnyRay settled down to an existence mainly fuelled by rage. He's not in a nice place. Mainly, he's been raging non-stop against his final record company ("clueless bean counters"), successive new genres ("Baggy? Bag o'shite more like! Mark my words, noone will remember Bleurgh in five years' time!"), Charlie Haughey ("I met the man... -He would take the eye out of your head and come back for the other one!"), the machine ("Poxy coffee machine! What is so hard about making a simple cappa these days! You'd think they'd be able to manage that after putting a man on the Moon!"), and more generally against the soul draining hellish mundane tedium that everyday life is -his words, not mine. ...I think he's trying to tell us something here.

It must have been around the mid-nineties really, when he finally "resigned" himself to his new lot in life -with herself the privileged audience for each and every one of his rantings. Now I love Da to bits but... already at a very early age I knew I'd have to move out if I wanted to preserve my sanity.
After all, you can only take so much verbal nonsense, right?

And so I did. I flew the nest, opting for more sedate student digs (!); I created a safe distance between myself and the perpetual storm that is JR Maddixx. Escaping the paternal shadow, I was able to claim a life for myself and was no longer "JohnnyRay's daughter". I took back our name (Monaghan) and did away with my cringing official moniker. Because "Lily"'s not how I was originally christened oh no. "Lily"'s in fact my second name,
...my real name is Pandora. 
Now how did my genitors ever come up with that is a good one. ...Thanks to rock n'roll of course. "Pandora" is the title of a song by Scottish band the Cocteau Twins. Me Da just loooved the Cocteau Twins: "The sound of galaxies dying! The alpha and omega of ephemeral effervescence! Another dimension altogether, that only deigns manifest itself to us lesser mortals in stolen glimpses of majesty -The dog's bollox, that." I obviously didn't know any better at the time, 'took me some years to cop on, and that would be around the time I started school -children can be so cruel. Children are ruthless about any deviancy from the norm, anyone different. They pick on them and won't let go. Oh but to have been called Keira like everyone else! I know at least five Keiras/Kieras, four Eimears, three Aishlings, two Bernadettes and one Aoife.

In retrospect though, Pandora is not even the worst name they could have hit upon... Just like everything else, there's always worse. Now no disrespect intended to all concerned here, but I'm thinking let's go the whole nine yards, I am thinking Zowie (Bowie), Moon Unit (Zappa), Dweezil (Zappa again), Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen (yes, Zappa), Astrella Celeste (Donovan), Bluebell Madonna (Halliwell), Sage Moonblood (Stallone), Rayn Lee Amethyst (Ryan), Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha Momoa (Bonet), Seraphina (Affleck-Garner), Bronx Mowgli (Simpson), Kal-El (Cage), and of course Peaches  Honeyblossom and Fifi Trixibell (Geldof).
I'm not envious of Pilot Inspektor (Lee) and Moxie CrimeFighter (Jillette) either.

I moved out of the house so, determined to pursue my studies in peace and, like, y'know, "find myself". Whether or not it proved a success and I managed to keep my sanity is for other people to judge. Georgie may not be consulted on that, thank you.

Ma... what about Ma? ....... We haven't seen her for twenty-odd years. Twenty-two and six months to be precise (funny how precise I can be on this subject). The devoted ColdHeat Number One Fan took off one bright summer morning with the drummer of The Nothing who was off to tour America and hasn't been back since. True to form, the drummer in question was one of Da's best pals, the two having shared a few line-ups before going on to form their separate bands. The popular press duly noted with its usual restraint that they had deffo shared a lot ...and not just musical matters wink wink -JohnnyRay's reply to that was something my young ears were spared from hearing.
In any case, from what was later reported, Ma's new relationship turned out to be short-lived. Many twists and turns later, she somehow ended up in New Zealand where she's been living ever since, earning her keep as an aromatherapist or some such thing. Something to do massages, "alternative therapy", yoga -the full menu is easy to imagine: incense sticks galore, posters of dolphins and acupuncture bodymaps, audiotapes of ocean waves and whale calls, sauna maybe?, meditation an obligation.
To this day, the subject of drummers hardly ever comes up chez Monaghan.

Da "hadn't quite" expected Ma's sudden departure -I am led to understand that a number of guitars came to a sudden end as a result during that period. It certainly was bad timing, being engaged as he was in grandiose schemes to conquer the world and "light it the ColdHeat way" as one of his tour programmes' least bombastic slogans promised. My various "uncles" in the band filled me in many moons later. At first, "Marino's Merchant of Anguish" didn't know how to react -it sure wasn't part of the plan! Out of nowhere, the "Dub Dandy" found himself lumped with a baffled little bundle who simply would not listen to his Marshall amp and big fat joint expanded lines of thoughts. Difference of opinion alert! Variation of logic required! What should he do? Some kind of solution had to be found, and found quickly.
The old ones are always the best -I got dispatched to me nan's for "the time being".

For the next few years ColdHeat went on their merry way of torch songs, apocalyptic anthems and ozone unfriendly smoke machines. Then they didn't. The band gradually fell out of fashion with the passing of fads and as it did so, a funny thing happened. As his career hit the skids, the Great Leader Of The Doomed took to spend an increasingly amount looking after me. A bit more often, a bit more often still, then another bit, and pretty soon he ended up raising me full-time. Yes, the Crumlin Creeper had turned doting father. Aged nine or ten, I was moved back and here we were, me and me Da together again against the world! Crazy days... Off we went, on this mad adventure called life!
Eventful it certainly was.

Da's omelettes were a constant source of surprise, a true journey into culinary discovery: What would I discover inside this time? What residue from which package? A piece of shell of unknown origin maybe? a whole nut? an unfrozen onion? some chips from the previous meal? Or just his lighter. "'Ah don't be giving me the drama queen treatment now, 'makes it more crunchy!" your man would retort with an admirably straight face. I ate them up as instructed.
And school uniforms, ah school uniforms... When ironed under the great man's direction, they would unerringly find ways to rearrange themselves in stunningly original shapes, none of them originally intended by their manufacturers. Check the notorious Monaghan crisscrossing double creased sleeves -Bondage trousers had nothing on them! And what about homework? The Northern Counties history would be helpfully illustrated by comparative blasts of Stiff Little Fingers and The Undertones. "Alternative Ulster", see? Alternative... opposite point of view! Polarity, conflict! Hang on hang on, let me play you "Barbed Wire Kisses" now!"

I can't possibly let him down now.

It was a grand aul' time to be sure. In our own Monaghan way, it was the best of times, it was the worst of etc. (-Groaaan...) At first my friends used to be jealous: a rockstar for a dad! 'Beats an estate agent or investment banker any day of the week, so they felt at the time. Parents would foist their daughter upon me in order to secure an invitation to my birthday parties which were the stuff of legend, what with proper celebs in attendance: usually the rest of the band ...they didn't have much else to do. Who knew? Maybe Gerry Ryan In Person would put in an appearance, they imagined; funnily enough, he never did -JohnnyRay would have set the dogs on him. The school plays themselves would regularly turn into these massive shenanigans, expressly contrived to lure the wildman back onstage for a special performance as Rudolf the drunken deer or something. It was all good.

As ColdHeat started to unravel, "gas ticket" turned to "the usual" turned to "good times eh" turned to "oh, them..." turned to "what name, you say?". Time's pendulum can be a bitch alright. In my own way, I was the first in line to bear witness to his fall from grace: Da would turn up at the school gates more often; Da wouldn't smell as bad as he used to coming back from a "session" (exactly what kind of session it was, even now I wouldn't want to ask); Da would generally be more patient with me. People no longer automatically mentioned him when talking to me and I got a welcome break from the insincere and the fake. In due time, so-called friends disappeared, leaving only genuine pals to stick around. As JohnnyRay endured his descent into relative obscurity, I was allowed to step out of his fading aura and come into my own. I became a kid amongst others, Lily full-stop rather than Lily daughter-of. Over the years, parents stopped recognising "JohnnyRay" on the school run and he became just "Lily's dad".

Here is a terrible confession: I was secretly delighted.

I had lost me Ma, and now I had me Da all to myself. Sure, the randy old goat would regularly go and shack up with a bimbo or two, but his dalliances never lasted long: I suspect he had become wary of them. Deep inside, I knew I had my father back, and there was no chance I'd lose him again -no groupie stands a chance against a 10 year old. Obviously I couldn't demonstrate my joy too visibly, I could see he was still sore with the public in general and women in particular. Instead, I stood witness as he underwent the long arduous journey to apparent normality. The traveller returneth home, the night-bird now hits the sack after "The Late Late Show" ("which never was any good anyway, 'bunch of M.O.R. shite and irrelevant squares who have nothing to say about our lives" and so on).

And now "JohnnyRay Maddixx" is history. He no longer goes by this name. To his Polish postman he is Mr. Monaghan, to his Chinese neighbours an argumentative pain in the neck.

Insightfuls JohnnyRay:
"That generation that's gone up, what do they know about anything? I'll tell you what: They know feck all! They have no sense of history, no perspective -if it's not available for download, it doesn't exist for them! All they're interested in is pirating other people's work, their records, their filums, and then it gets virile all over the Net, oh I despair sometime... And talk about the world before Google... they seem to think life was in black n white before the Internet!" (I pinch my nose and sweep up the napkin straight into the laundry basket, I'll sort out what was on it later.) "...think it owes them a living! Well I've got news for you sonny, and that's the problem with this generation, you hear, kids have no respect for their elders, no respect whatsoever! (Present company excluded obviously.) Our world's getting robbed blind by these big fuck-off off-shore corporations, we're being bled dry by these cowboys who answer to no-one and all they can think of, all they can think of is messin' about with their PlayStation! Well they can stick their PlayStation up their" (I change the water for the canary, sometime I change the canary too.) "...even know who Fergal Sharkey is? Sure they do -He'll be your man that sings the tune to "the Teletubbies", ain't he? Ten quid says the gobaloons have never even heard of The Undertones! "

I er... suppose he's right.

Da's place always lives up to expectation. There'll be heaps of crumbs reaching up to the toaster, a film of something oily over the plates in the sink and a layer of dust perfect for finger-printing. This is a house where spoons go missing after a week and where I'm regularly told to take extra care when vacuuming round the power sockets lest I should suck the electricity out. Some people entertain strange thoughts about domestic appliances and don't get me started about his washing-up technique: it's the bachelor way, one quick wipe under the tap and the job's done!

Expertlysurmises JohnnyRay some more:
"I see these Marilyn Bronson fans like to dye their hair every colour under the sun and wear it spiky... Well I certainly don't have a problem with that me -I think it's grand! Fair play to the little pricks if they wanna pierce their nose and what-have-you! But let me ask you this Lily, let me ask you right in the eye... Who was it again who did it first? Huh? Like twenty years ago and got beat in the street for his trouble? eh? eh??"

JohnnyRay has a lot to say for himself.

One thing the aul' rebel doesn't want to confront, though, is the existence of the bin tax and the purpose of the recyclable bin, both of which he is often reminded by the council: "Dear Mr./Mrs./Unspecified Monaghan, further to our previous communications...". It has become a running battle, and I'm often the one who has to tackle it. 'Don't want to blow me own trumpet but I'm becoming quite the expert at writing the apologetic reply: "My elderly father obviously misspoke himself, he certainly did not mean any of what got mistakenly mailed back to your highly respected department.")

Your man may no longer go by his stage name but that doesn't mean "JohnnyRay" is dead. Oh no he isn't. JohnnyRay is still very much present ...at least in his own house. Tubes of ColdHeat posters take up half of the attic, broken guitars are ingeniously recycled as coffee-table legs, and heaps of memorabilia back onto the living room armchairs ("Don't you be throwing them away, they might come in handy some time!"), spilling over boxes of limited edition singles dating back to a time when something called "vinyl" existed.

What truly transformed Da's life though ...was the arrival of Internet.

Thanks to the Net, a brand new lease of life got handed to him on a plate, like a door opening to a new dimension. Sure, it was a bit of a creaky door at first, and one that wouldn't open very wide and never fast enough -but a door nevertheless. A portal onto the whole wide world and into ColdHeat's legacy, a rebirth for the ageing has-been, and a brilliant way of short-circuiting any "parasite" label in his determination to reach out to the enduring fans out there. Past his totally unexpected initial mistrust ("How do I know there isn't one of these naughty cams that's filming me?"), his subtle querying of the terminology involved ("Why oh why do I have to go to "Start" when I want to switch the fecking thing off?") and general cussing ("What do you mean "illegal manoeuvre" ya useless piece a crap?? I'll give you illegal -right up the"), Da eventually got to grips with the technology. After all, he was no complete stranger to computers, having handled -and sometime booted- wah-wah pedals, mixing desks and drum machines for years. Yes, drum machines... funny how he took to them.

Ever the clever fox, Da soon realised how he could benefit from the damn invention. If cats or houses that looked like Hitler could become worldwide stars, he too could come up trumps, oh yes he would show 'em! The only problem being, of course, that every musician under the sun had had the same brainwave and was at it, basically perpetuating the eternal battle of the bands albeit in a more technologically advanced way. Every Tom Dick and (Deborah) Harry.
Having secured legal control over the "ColdHeat" name, JohnnyRay went in search of nerds who'd be able to build him a site. He soon hired two normal sixteen year olds. Before he knew it, the whiz kids set him up a top drawer site and he found himself at the helm of his own official World-wide Webthing.

-"Lilyyyyyy! Come 'ere darling, come 'ere till I show you what I 'just done! You godda see this... It's pretty lethal huh -Dead chuffed with it!"
-"Er can it wait, Da? I'm in the middle of something"
-"No no, it's gas, I swear! You'll love it, you'll see"
-"But Daaa, I'm reading something right now I can't"
-"Come over 'ere right this moment!! Your homework can wait its bleedin' turn!!"

The site dealt with everything band-related: selling off the home-choking memorabilia; keeping contact with fans; posting advantageous photos of I-wonder-who; putting across his obviously unbiased side of the story; tracking down pirate recordings; boosting reissues sales; slagging rivals; "and-so-much-more" -among which, I suspected, hooking up with groupies. (Eye roll and amused sigh...) Now it would obviously never enter my mind to pry but, checking the forum as I occasionally did, I did get the feeling that some topics were on the one-track minded side... know whorra mean like? I noticed in particular a certain contributor going under the moniker "DCD" (for Dead Can Die)... He caught my attention on more than one occasion, sounding as he did as one spectacularly well-informed cat and randy dude oh yes -No JCL he but ITK big time! Totally LOL, FYI IMHO naturally (sic QED). 


I wonder if he's at it now... giving his life-story one more rewrite. Once he gets started, he can't seem to let it go. Surfing the Net can be a pretty addictive activity, and for men living on their own... well.

I let out a satisfying yawn and stretch out, dead languorous. Can't make up my mind whether I should (pay him a visit). See, the prospect of another lecture cranked up to eleven... there must better ways to nurse one's hangover. What will it be this time? Ah JohnnyRay, he's not the one to ever knowingly undersell himself! "And another thing. Did I tell you about the time Marian Finucane and myself..." I pour myself another glass of water, I weigh the pros and cons. "...then it opened and I had to flip her over! Mental!!" I probably shouldn't drive in my present state, what with all that blood still sloshing about in my alcohol, excuses excuses...
But then what else is on offer, it's the weekend and I don't have a clue as to what to do.

Things I have seen

-a Japanese tourist cleaning up after Mr. and Mrs. Tracksuit simply dropped their KFC bucket in the street (not three yards away from a bin).
-the Liffey not brown.
-people swimming in the Liffey for the traditional autumn challenge. They were in full bodysuits, mind.
-kids riding horses in the streets. No saddles involved.
-a cavalcade of limousines ferrying foreign heads of state about, racing through red lights with not a care in the world.
-our finance minister (and next Taoiseach?) queuing up at the National Gallery canteen, carrying his own plastic tray and having lunch like everyone else. He drank from a can of Fanta.
-our defence minister walking to work in the morning, swinging his satchel about like a chirpy second-former.
-not one, not two, but three hen nights coming to blows in Temple Bar: "Learner" signs, sparkly cowboy hats and hair extensions flying about to the cheers of male spectators.
-a wheelchair sporting advertising on its back.
-Neil Hannon off the Divine Comedy checking the invoice outside a convenience store, one eyebrow raised in a resolutely non ironic way.
-Phil Oakley off The Human League walking past me in the street, looking every inch the rock god: seven feet, dressed from head to toe in leather.
-people walking around with giant pints of Guinness for hats.
-people stealing bin tags under cover of night (and that wasn't even JohnnyRay).
-more Che Guevara / Ramones / Celtic / Liverpool / Nike / Brazil / Quik(sic)Silver tops that I care to remember. Che Guevara, I asks you...!!
-a wall-sized promotional flag for Kylie covering the entire side of the building opposite the George -Er, naives Lily, who were they trying to target here?
-at least three chippies boasting the title of the "Official Best In The Country".
-flip-flops in the street. In all types of weather too -The one time I would positively cheer for cats and dogs, grrr...
-people at the supermarket checkout not bothering to unglue themselves from their mobile.
-people eating Chinese take-aways at bus stops.
-outgoing ladettes casually informing typical males in public houses that they happen to be celebrating their birthday this very night, with predictable consequences. Only to shamelessly repeat the trick the following weekend, usually in the very same drinking emporium -why not, with the visiting tourists' turn-over!
-Scottish soccer female supporters -well they'd have to be Scottish, right? since this is a Glaswegian club we're talking about- drunk as skunks, relieving themselves in the street itself between parked cars. Ewwwwwww...
-Our Colin -that's Farrell to yous- favourably commenting on Eric Cantona to an amused Cate Blanchett in the middle of Dame Lane. Apparently "He's da focken King loike!"  (...But other cinema lovers may have seen it too, on reflection.)
-gangs of exclamation mark addicted Italian students smoking the street out as they congregate outside private language school doorways; their denim rucksacks are usually covered with heartfelt graffiti ("Pace! The Doors! Nickelback! Andrea 4ever!"). Even from thirty paces, you can tell they're Italian: they always have lustrous raven black hair.
-fellas being refused promotional free fizzy drinks on Grafton Street because the cola's -naturally "revolutionary"- new formula had been developed "for girls and girls only". Needless to say, they took it in with their typical good grace.
-free chocolate bars, ice cream cones and sodas offered all round at one end of the same street ...and apples and plain yoghurt at the other in a government-sponsored drive to combat obesity. Now which one was the most popular, oh let me think...
-Nick Cave getting into a conversation in a pub with someone mistaking him for Nicolas Cage. Nick Cave opting to not disappoint your man and playing along, regaling him with high tales of derring-do and debauchery on these crazy crazy filum shoots oh yeah.
-radioactive looking men exiting suntan parlours.
-a rather impulsive -and somewhat amateurish- pickpocket snatching a handbag in the busiest Dub street (Dame Street, that was) at rush hour ...and running away straight into a dead-end. A dead-end that happens to host a Garda station.
-all four seasons within a day.

I've seen all this, but I still haven't glimpsed my future. Is so exciiiting!

Which reminds me of this well-thumbed quote involving The Bono and Boy George. A few people may have occasionally heard The Bono giving out about how much "he stiiiiill hasn't found what he's looking for". Comments Boy George: "Maybe he should turn around, he'll see who's sitting on the drum stool!"

chapter 3 Grabbing the Tiger by its tail

Monday. Must hurry, am in a rush: I have to meet with Sean, who's editor at The Herald. One of many editors there, he is in charge of a vaguely defined area that sits somewhere between Social Affairs and Social Calendar -note the use of "social". Of course, his official remit is wayyy more serious sounding on paper -this is The Herald we're talking about, where every commentator has to sound like he's carrying the weight of the world on his ethically farmed shoulders! Sean's official title must probably convey the idea he's a willing martyr for the great noble tradition of Propah Journalism -"Head of Something" it is, so.

I noted long time ago that there's nothing an organisation likes better than high faluting c.r.a.p. when it seeks to reassure itself about its place in the world. The more insecure, the more bombastic. They call it making a "Mission statement". They need to have a "credo" so that they can "feel passionately" about their business -ah sure they do. And then they pump out these business cards, half-term reports, minutes of meetings, appraisals, memos, print-outs... It's a good thing that the bleeding Rain Forest is not shrinking in front of our eyes but tens of thousands of miles away.

So The Herald doesn't half takes itself seriously. This suits Sean down to a T, what with his own expertise belonging to the grown-up category. That will be obviously supercrucial topics that involve men (they're always men) who pretty much sleep in their suits in-between meetings (if they ever take time to sleep at all), men who count in units of little brown envelopes -except "obviously" and "let's make it perfectly clear", they most certainly never would: all their transactions are naturally "overboard", "110% kosher", and anyway "covered by confidentiality agreements"-, men who never smile if they're not billed to. You can always rely on these guys to make use of expressions that are, paradoxically, as obscure as they are well known:

"The conjuncture being as it stands, the fact of the matter is our tried and trusted knowledge-management system is critical if we want to deliver a take-all content-driven result to our end-customers from a proactive angle, each and every one of our stakeholders expect nothing less than proven success factors: we have to strategise our user-based interactions in order to effect a synergy-rich empowerment drive. Now, in our fully integrated, fully diversified business at the cutting edge of our warm and caring environment, I'm gonna throw a figure in the ballpark here: the take-home message is that you have to look at the bigger picture and think outside the box -Meet the challenge, people! This is a window of opportunity here, not a level playing field!". Why... yes, of course.

So here's what's up concerning Sean and possibly me.
"As things stand right now", I happen to have been made privy to a certain impending make-over in his paper...
The word not on the street is that the hour of reckoning is upon them. The oft lampooned broadsheet has finally decided to tackle its sales nosedive and has been conducting a study of the competition. It has looked at its rivals, it has looked back at itself, and -lo- it has seen that it was crap. The Herald has been falling behind the times, and everyone knows it. It probably downed a large whisky at this stage, went on a nicotine funk for a few days, maybe even hired one of them consultants to confirm its own findings, and finally decided to fight back. Hell for leather! Full steam ahead! What the head honchos came up with, or so I'm told is to, is to "take a leaf" off the Stando, the Indo and the Journo. They'll meet them on their own cosmopolitan ground. The borrowed leaf will translate as a weekend "peepul" magazine -name as yet undecided- that will comprise a Polish section for our new socially active guests-slash-residents amongst other metrosexual arty-farty subjects. Ah sure this is painful redirectioning for the venerable institution, but ultimately necessary; I like the sound of that. This is godsent, that; this smells of o.p.p.o.r.t.u.n.i.t.y. -All aboard says I!

From what I hear, Sean will be involved in the expanded "entertainment slash slebs slash serious money slash A2 demographics" supplement. How do I know that? From Keira who's dating Noel who's going to the same gym as Michael who is "very close" to Damon D. who shares a flat with Ciara O'S. who's deputising for Sean. ...Let it not be said that I don't have my spies. In a town like ours, everybody knows everybody else. Remember the Kevin Bacon game? Well on a bigger scale, it's twice as mad: Statistically, we're all only supposed to be no more than six persons away from anyone else in the world, yes six persons! ...Make it four in Dublin, so.

-Joe Duffy and Enya? Joe Duffy works at RTE with Gerry Ryan who probably tips his binman once a year for Christmas, the same binman who may very well service our very own true queen of pop.
-Shane McGowan and Sinead O'Connor? Shane ventured in London, England, where he appeared on TV in the same programme as the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Kahn whose voice was featured on "Natural Born Killers" by Oliver Stone who made a film about Fidel Castro in Cuba near Jamaica where Sinead recorded an album.

-The Bono and The Edge? The Bono has been known to frequent the Shelbourne Hotel where rich Americans come to have tea before setting out to admire the yachts in Dun Laogheire harbour, that's Dun Laogheire harbour which happens to be served by the very road which eventually leads to The Edge's house (I'll keep his actual address confidential.)

-Gerry Adams and Bertie Ahern? Ivana Bacik and Eddie Hobbs? Panti Hose and George Hook? The Bono and Larry Mullen? Podge and Rodge? The possibilities are endless, and the result always the same.

So the Oldo's about to take a frank dive into sleb territory then, at long last it's going in... Who would have thought. O tempora o morons. After refusing to go beyond tipping its haughty tut-tutting toes for ages (surely a case of tip top, top tip boom boom!!), the respectable organ is finally moving in with the times / The Times (heh heh! I'm on fire today!). Fair play to the Posho, its future's at long last starting to look like our present.

You'd have to say though ...they took their fecking time. Nobody's forgotten the few occasions they totally sold out and featured a photo of someone under the age of fifty -shock horror all round. 1980s: Madonna shocks the world - The Herald pontificates about the European currency defence mechanism. 1990s: the videogame industry overtakes cinema to become the world's biggest entertainment business - The Herald ponders the prospect of the UK joining the Euro. Now that's what I call edgy and down with da kids! Seriouslythough, they did indulge in "people" subjects from time to time. That would have been when a financial story strayed into water-cooler territory, like when a captain of industry got married to the comely daughter of a politician maybe, or when a showbiz related promoter popped his clogs. They'd also make the odd cross-reference to popular culture when analysing the financial impact on the GNP of globe-trotting Irish acts. Nothing remotely radical then, everything very much buttoned up and freshly shaved. The Herald only ever got off their high horse when there was a story too big to ignore such as, er... let's see... ......... No, not that one, don't think they mentioned it. ... Not that one either. ... and what about...? Ah, no.
Actually, this is a good question. Who did they actually feature? Who was it I was surprised to see on their front-page the other day? I'd imagine only a select few would have had that honour -the usual suspects, like. Naturally they'd have mentioned The Bono with reference to his various charitable causes...; maybe Colin Farrell, definitely Noel Stapleton; the ballets hosted by our glamorous Minister for Justice Malcolm McDowell; it-girl Glenda Gilson; glorified builder Dermot McFergus; ubiquitous media commentator and cheerful prophet of doom David McNeil; renowned Irish director Mel Gibson. That's just the contenders. Who else would fall in the Herald sanctioned category?

I imagine the quality paper wouldn't have failed to note the increasingly frequent misadventures of a certain airline boss, everyone in the Republic knows who...

 "Who do you think you are?"

Pleasants the man: "I made me own millions all by myself, me! Don't you know who I am? I'm the entrepreneur that delivers on his promise that's who, and that's my pledge too! What I say goes -End of. But don't just take my word for it -Ask my customers! That lot certainly seem to agree: Every week they bring me their custom, every week, nice and easy, one born every minute, dead grateful they are too! Can't get enough of the service I provide -it's like they know a top bollix when they see one and that's what I aim to be, the dog's bollix! the numero uno! I only aim to please see, I'm here to fill the gap (at the bottom). Can't argue with that oh no: with us, what you see is what you get! There's no hidden treats or fancy extras awaiting you on our flights! You want some poncey service? Feck off to British Airways then! Go pay double for all I care! No skin off me arse, the choice is yours, I'm easy with it. ...I know you will be back.

See, this is not the way we see things in this company. We get the bigger picture and the picture is -this is how we work, right?- it's all about the bottom line, it's all about undercutting our competitors and providing a basic affordable service. Cheap you say? Of course it's cheap! I don't forbid my pilots from recharging their mobby on our mains out of meanness! I aim to save on every penny! Genius or what??

So don't come bothering me with no poxy government interference -Da government can stuff its "serious reservations" right where I don't fly my loads! That lot, they don't really care for business, they really don't... (Bleeding pen-pushers, bunch of bureaucrats...) How dare they pretend they support free enterprise us when they batter us with regulations every other day?? Rules-and-regulations! The bane of our lives! Bleedin' disgrace if you ask me! Taking their orders from the European Union they are... Just who do these technocrats think they are anyway? the king of Siam?? They have some cheek, coming over here and telling us how to conduct our business -They can go take a jump is what I says! Now let me ask you, let me ask you this: What have they ever done for us? Huh? That European Union yoke... What have they ever done for us? Take these ball-breaking security checks at airports... it's so unfair! It inconveniences my passengers! I'll tell you, At this moment in time I feel like" (continued p. 95*)

Ah yes your man is guaranteed to give good copy, he's a right gas ticket; in fact he almost sounds as if he's shooting his mouth off just to make headlines, perish the thought! And one wonders, what will he come up next? In his crazy clown time, will he threaten to charge passengers for the use of the toilet? Will he propose to do away with seats and have them travel standing up? 

Now then, let's be serious.

Let's cut the BS and since we're on, here's a category the Herald can't be accused of ever failing to feature at every opportunity, the new elite that's stamped its mark on Ireland's imagination -drum roll for the new heroes of our times, tada!-  ...and that's the construction magnates. The crane maniacs. Them lovable movers and shakers... always engaged in sneaky acquisitions and cheeky counter-acquisitions: 

"-Now then. I thought we might have a little chat... what with Dermot out of the picture."

-"Ah God bless his soul!"

-"God bless his soul. Good old Dermot... (Fore!) Will be dearly missed."

-"Ah sure he will. The Dublin skyline needs not longer hold its breath. And poor old Mads... Positively devastated she must have been."

-"Oh right you are. She must have had her heart literally ripped out of her, she did... And no amount of undeclared McFergus assets will ever be enough to console her in this cruellest of hours."

-"Ah cut the crap will you and get to the point. What was it that you were after? 'Didn't call me over to discuss funeral wreaths did you!"

-"Heh! No flies on you pal! Let's get talking, so. I thought maybe we could... look at the new landscape offered by the sad demise of brother Dermot."

-"I am all ears."

-"Now then. Say you buy me The Shelbourne and I buy you St-Stephen's Green, how's that working for you?"
-"Huh? Is that it? Is that why you asked to meet? The Shelbourne for St-Stephen's?? I don't believe this... I've never been so insulted in all my life!"

-"Now, now, wait a second, I didn't mean to

-"Just who you think you're talking to, pal? Who's the one bottling the Liffey and selling it back to Yank tourists at five euro a pop? Is it you or is it me?"
-"OK OK, so what about... what about I throw in the entry code to the Dail and the thirtieth of April? Fore!"
-"Riiiight now that's better, that's more like it... 'Might just clinch it but... Hmm let me think. But then -hear me out here- I'll throw in Balyfermot Central's golf course, Rosanna Davidson, Dun Laoghaire's yacht club and in exchange... in exchange I get the Jackie Yeats's "Water lilies", the Abrakadabra kebab chain, and the new airport terminal!"
-"Not without including the Jackie Skelly gyms you don't!"
-"I see. You wanna play hard ball wid me, 'sthat it? Well well well... Chew this over pal: Scrap my last offer. Just forget it, too late! How about I give you instead... my champion greyhound Kiki, a trip down memory lane for two, still Rosanna Davidson, a hearty hello and a couple of cranes in mint condition to boot. Now how's that sound? More acceptable?"

-"What about Jackie Skelly's?"

-"You really fancy them do you? OK, but then I want my name on the Declaration of Independence!"

-"With or without your photo?"

-"Don't be daft -They didn't have any cameras back then! Now if you're offering on a postage stamp though... we may have a deal."
-"Hmm, let me think... let me think, I smell a rat. A stamp, you say? You sure know how to drive a hard bargain! What about the three little pigs, by the way? You still own them?"

-"Only half-half with McDermo."

-"Say you throw in one of the pigs -you sort it out with McDermo- and in return I get your son to play for Ireland at the next Euros. They need a midfielder, leave it to me."
-"Deal!"

-"Spit on it!"

-"Now wait a second, wait a second though... I suppose ten sunny days are out of the question?"

-".... That could be arranged."

-"The right of way anywhere in town?"

-"Agreed also, but then I take back the thirtieth of April and I get the final edit on your autobiography in return. Spit on it! (Change of clubs, new set of balls.)"

-"Not so fast Mister not so fast, that's a big ask that, the final edit -That's me legacy we're talking about! Can't be messin' with that! Now what about... What about I agree on principle but then let's say the grey squirrels are mine? You get to keep the red ones."

-"The red ones eh? Hmm that may work for me, but only pending a tax credit on nuts that your TDs won't oppose in the Dail." 

-"What about my arse your face?"

-"Rain on your wedding day?"

-"Ten thousand knives when all you need is a spoon?"

-"I take it they won't oppose my motion then?"

-"Are you for real? Want me to go and spill the beans about Shergar?"

-"OK OK, no need to get personal, I'll tell you what. Here's a mutually satisfactory one... Say we split the GAA: Half the teams to play on my days, and the other half to play on yours."

-"Consider it done!"
-"Plus an audience with Joanne Cantwell."
-"Holy feck! Don't push it now, I'd have to consult with me lawyers on that one!"

Ah yes, most of this would have come under the Herald radar, it would have been covered at some stage. True, maybe not in these precise terms -you know how po-faced journos can get sometimes!- but covered nevertheless. The problem is, the paper never went much further, it never really took the measure of our newly affluent society.
And this is where I can be of help.

More than just help, if I'm being honest. This is precisely the kind of opportunity I've been pining for, the kind of position I've been -er- positioning myself for all these years. This overlap between social and glamour, this is right up my street. I'm gunning for the not too serious yet not too glitzy, and Dublin's the perfect place for it. I just need to plant my flag before anyone else does.

Dublin has become the place for New Money, see. Just check the cars down by the bay and the shops in the centre. With the birth of this new loaded class, you can't cruise the scene anymore without tripping over some flashy fashion function hosted by bored trophy wives who need to show off their social conscience and this activism of theirs, it is simply crying out to be praised, it is dying to get properly recognised. I sometimes feel that Dublin should be by rights the new location for the likes of "Tatler Magazine", "Vanity Fair", "Vogue", Popbitch or even MTV Europe. Just think about it: Here we have millionaires on every street, we have hordes of refugee artists strangely grateful for this port of call ("Look, I'm not saying Haughey was right but"), we have a statistically young population with aspirational tendencies. How could this cocktail not be intoxicating?

You go get a cup of coffee, you bump into Irvine Welsh! ("H*re, b*nnie l*d, ah w**ld l*ke ae foockin' c*p ae c*ffee if y** pl**se wee foockin' cunt, th*nk y** k*ndly."); you take the dog or the boyfriend for a walk, you pass by David Bowie -sans fedora- jetting over to visit his mate The Bono; you settle down for a quiet splash dash Viking tour, you find yourself surrounded by the REM boys! Yes, true as me name's Lilly, it is nonstop glamour around here. (One thing about s'lebs though: they're always shorter than you'd imagine in real life.) Ah yes, Dublin is a veritable bewildering hotchpotch of a white knuckle ride melting pot steeped in tradition where East meets West  and traditions come alive to the beat of a new age that is bearing down on us like tomorrow already happened and you've gone to heaven. This is a place where chips are equally consumed with salt-n-vinegar and mayonnaise, a town where a number of people will sign themselves at the sight of a church or an ambulance and some pubs install coke-unfriendly slant-angled tops in toilet cubicles –in a word it is 24/7 in action with a shamrock crested head. 

Take for example these Hollywood stars, you'll find they naturally want to follow in the footsteps of their Presidents -who were of course all Irish to a man. Mel Gibson, Matthew Broderick and SJP, JFK, W and his dad, Ronald Reagan, Gerry Ford, Mischa Barton, Lindsay Lohan, Matt Dillon, Woody Allen (OK, maybe not Woody Allen), Mia Farrow, Ryan O'Neal, Rose McGowan, Grace Kelly, Spencer Tracy, John Ford, Anne Hathaway, Ben Affleck, Brendan Fraser, Colm "Star Trek" Meany, etc. etc. etc. I even read somewhere that we are well within our rights to reclaim Saint Audrey Hepburn as one of our own kin -Now if this is not a simply massive palmares, tell me what is.

Only twenty years ago, people were queuing up outside the American embassy in Donnybrook to get a visa, now they arrive by the lo-cost load, how times have changed...

Time to enjoy I'd say, time to go with the flow (Blahnik, Loreal, Prada, Cartier, Prosucco, and on and on and on). This is where it's at, this is where you'll see Daniel Day Lewis running the marathon, Shane McGowan being wheeled about by his girlfriend Victoria, George Lucas taking sneaky pictures of Trinity's rafters... Eat your heart, England! What with our banks standing their ground and not allowing in foreign competitors like Lloyds or Barclays (kerching!), Trinner hosting posho summer balls and graduation carry-ons at every available opportunity and dear old Enya still recording (next album rumoured to be released around the start of December), this has become a hell of a place!

(Insert pipes, harps and castrated chimney sweeping orphans in here, the whole shebang.)

FOOTNOTE
*The author may want to come clean here. To-be-perfectly-honest-wid-chas, we may have been away with the fairies the night we came up with this wacky character. Just imagine, an airline boss railing against security checks at airports...!! Let it not be said that Uma is a strict stickler to realism.

Shaking It About -

So here I am, tarting myself up for a chin wag with Sean. A simple cuppacoffee and nothing more -it's what friends do, right? They meet for coffee. They chew the fat. They keep up and  exchange the latest gossip ('bit of blusher but not too much, easy on the lipstick... in fact forget the lipstick. Maybe a quick touch up after all, 'couple of licks, no more than that, nothing too bright, nothing too obvious). After all I haven't seen him for... for quite a while now. Sean and I we go, we go way back. Almost a year. (Anything but show-off, no "going out" combo, classy but subtle, that is the vibe. Understated, sophisticated, we're going for the understated here. The deceptively non-existent look of the woman who doesn't want to impress, who doesn't need to. The woman who says "Hey there fellows, I am at ease with myself", casual chic, that's the ticket.) It's only natural we should meet up from time to time. (Let it be known that I'm at ease with myself.)
Sean and I must have met four or five times these last twelve months, thanks to Ciara thanks to Damon thanks to Michael thanks to (etc.).

Sean's gas, he's a good oul' skin alright, except he can get stressed at times, he has a bit of a short fuse. Started losing his hair early I imagine explains a lot, now whether this was cause or effect I wouldn't know. ...Can't possibly ask, can I. From what I gather, for guys to go bald is a bit like us and cellulite: a big conversational No-No. Forever checking his watch, Sean always gives the impression that he is late for a meeting. "Busy bee", "tight ship to run" and "on the ball", I'd say he's quite adept at shop-talk himself:

"I was after talking to Sir Doctor Lord O'Reilly just the other day, I was saying: "Howsa Tone. 'Thought we should touch base maybe, we could re-assess the situation at this moment in time, being of critical importance and all. My feeling is we need to think outside the box and get on the proactive, we need to be trying 'n push the envelope right? Take this synergy: it's pure positive content streamlining that, make no mistake, and our end-customers they need to know, they want to be reassured. See what I'm getting at is we want to make sure this is their take-home message. We need to impart upon them the big three Cs -consistency concentration and commitment-, they're an integral part of our core values and overall goal, this is why any brainstorm we may throw into the equation is bound to impact them explicitly, creating value driven content which I think would pay off incrementally. Sure I'm thinking big here, but I'm thinking possible.""
"And what did he say to that?"
"Not much. I'd say he was pretty impressed though."
Maybe Sean plays up to his employers too much. Or maybe he's doing too much coke.

Which reminds me of a good one courtesy of Mssrs Farrell and Gleason. Remember Eamo famously complaining that "you can't get good coke in Dublin". He was probably being glib, or maybe he didn't know where to look. ...Drug dealers are usually good people to go and ask. (Boom boom. "In Bruges" is out and it's a riot.)

I remember the time Sean and I met. It was at the IFI, at some... dreary retrospective of a Japanese director (Mizubishi or some name like that), some high faluting function sponsored by RTE and "quality broadsheet" (hee hee) The Indo. As things turned out, I didn't exactly fell head over heels about this "Life Of (That Wretched Woman's Forgotten Name)" and neither did Sean. Give me strength... it was pretty tragic.

To start with, we're talking black-and-white filum here. Yes. That put me right in the mood. But I gave it a chance I did, I stayed seated and was willing to suspend judgement.  'Only thing is, the suspension didn't last long. The story went like this. So there's this woman, right? Otaku or something, and she's sacrificing herself in the name of some quaint aul' code of honour that has already made a right wreck of her godforsaken existence -her main squeeze having been offed in the first five minutes like- but she's determined to carry on and gets all martyrical and saintly, something brutal. 
And there is me. Fidget fidget, scratch nose, suck sweet, and I'm thinking (inbetween checking for messages) I can't be having that! 'Can't be going along with this exercise in masochism! If that were left to me, I'd grab her by the kimono and sit her down, I'd say:
"Woh-oh, calm your jets here missy, you cannot be serious! Why take all that aggro, ya bleedin cabbage? That bunch of windup merchants are mean as a fiddler's bitch and you know it! So why do you let them have their way? You've got it all arse about face love! Don't let that sorry lot grind you down sister, get yourself a bottle of cop on and tell 'em to stick it up their (untranslatable)!"
That'd be her told, right and proper.

She ought to turn around and go: "Well feck this for a game of kamikazes! Yous all can take your edicts and stuff'em up your pipe! I've had just about enough of this nonsense -I'm off to Tokyo or New York, either will do! Tool and die, fear and trembling, the have and the have-nots -Yer must be havin’ a larf if yous think I'm gonna put up with any more of that crap! Class division is for eighth grades doing maths! I ain't buying no more! So yous think yourselves clever eh, killing me one and only true fella? Well yous can go kebab yourselves for all I care! Go take a jump! I'm getting me good kimono and that's the last yous'll see of me! It's game over, you hear! Let 'em eat lotus leaves, this lady here ain't for turning! It's sayonara from me and Philadelphia here we come! Yee-haw!! "
...But maybe I wasn't in the right mood. Maybe I didn't "get it".

Anyway, neither did Sean. More fidgety than a bag of kittens attacked by fleas, he was clearly struggling to get in the spirit. No nirvana for him by the look of things! He rather looked like he was gagging for an espresso and as he was, so was I. (No wonder there: Studies have shown that as light decreases, the back of your brain activates the production of some sleep molecule thingy (zerotonin, I believe it's called), the brain is fooled, and it interprets the situation as a signal to go to sleep. You add black-and-white and subtitles to the equation ...you're good as gone.) Yawn on one side of the row, yawn on the other, funny how yawning spreads faster than chocolate milk on a carpet. (Other scientific aside: Scientists have recently discovered that yawning can spread to dogs. They conducted this experiment in which subjects were told to yawn while looking their pets in the eye and... surprise surprise! The dogs soon followed suit, clearly taking their cue from their masters. Research money well spent, says I.) Anyway our eyes met as we both started squinting towards the door. Ten seconds later we didn't need to squint no more.
And this is how we met, myself and Sean, sharing in our shameful sense of incomprehension of Japanese classics over a cupofcoffee. I actually told him "We should probably be ashamed of displaying such cultural ignorance..."
"Should we feck!" was his reply.

Which brings us to today. Now, if I can get Sean to be as candid as that first time, this will make things much easier. This is of course based on the assumption that Mr. Grump will be, for once, in a good mood (??). But if he is and I play my cards right... this sure could make for a pretty productive day, just watch this space...

There is one problem though.
Like I said, I'm not supposed to have inside info, I'm not supposed to be aware of this editorial revamp. I can't just get in there and confront him about what's after all an internal matter. From what I understand it's still at project level, on the hush-hush, all complicated handshakes, code names and other tapped noses. So this is what I'm thinking, what I decided upon last night is... my best option is play by ear. That's how I'll approach it. I will play dumb and make sure to keep my ace up my sleeve. To all intents and purposes, I know nothing. What's on the cards today is just coffee, catching up like, nothing hairy and certainly no agenda here. No ear is for bending oh no -I'll just remind him of my existence and port-folio is all. 
Butseriously, I am sooo stoked up! So up for it! This is precisely the kind of opportunity I need to tackle by the balls and grab with both hands -it was like made for me! "Have laptop, will report" is my motto and I want it to be known the length and depth of the Liffey. I may be a total fox but I ain't no air-head, me -I'm as professional as can be! The way I see it (lecture part XXXLOL), in life you need principles and I certainly have mine, they stand to scrutiny. Like for instance... oh I don't know, one always ought to be dependable, one should never turn down any invitation or assignment, and one should always be timely. One should also strive to protect one's sources, and so Sean mustn't see me coming. He mustn't suspect a thing, at least that's the gameplan. ..........I'm so looking forward to this!!

I'm weighing this up, I am remembering that -and of course time's flown by. I catch a glimpse of my funky watch: Feck me sideways with a rusty spanner if I'm not running late already! Typical just typical, on this day of all days! What was it again, about always being on time? My two licks of make-up will do just fine, I gather my keys, grab a jacket ('peg comes off, will fix it another time), and off we go. Rather than drive, I decide on getting a cab -hopefully the bugger will go faster than my clapped out car.

This one isn't.

Your man must think I came off the ferry! Just as I start to compose myself and rehearse in my head our meeting, the driver starts winding his way through the streets like he's on the clock or something and points out the scenery: "Look it, a tree! This is where our famous author James Joyce sat down to write his poems, long long time ago; he's dead famous is James Joyce, you know -Do you want me to sing you one of our traditional song? Here is one by the Dubliners."

WTF, when all I want is to get from A to B ASAP, is it OK N-uff? Clearly it ain't, PS QED. I am raging in the back, I can't believe what I'm hearing!

"...Oh but a fierce battle it was -raged on for days! Weeks, even. By the time it finished, the town was as good as gone -and we didn't have Dermot McFergus back then! Me Granpa was one of the last rebels to come out -God bless his soul- to this day the columns are still pocked with bullet holes -Want me to drive you there and show you?"

Your man must think I'm a tourist, is it because of the address I gave? Someone shoot me, this guy's got to be the biggest namedropping bullshitter of all time! "...and then Beckett quit the cricket team to move on to golf. Of course we now have a brand new golf course in town, state of the art, did you know this?" It's just my luck... the one time I'm running late, the only time in at least a week, that'll be the precise moment I get Bozo the clown for a driver.

"And this is where our very own poetry Nobel Prize used to play football as a nipper, right against this wall. Do you like football miss? What do you think of Liverpool's chances this season? I think they can do it."

And that's before we hit the road works.
How could I have forgotten them, the blessed Office of Pubic Works (-Office of Pubic Works??). Road works means diversions, diversions means going round rather than straight ahead -I'm starting to feel like I'd have been better off walking! My fingers start drumming something martial. Tap tap tap tap -break a nail. Now I don't want to sound paranoid on top of it but 'seems to me... isn't there an awful lot of learner drivers about? It's like a "L" plate festival out there! Actually I'm not / there are: Something like twenty percent of driving licenses in Dublin are "provisional" ones I read, which makes it one car in four -I rest my case.  "...where the girls are pretty, oh but what a lovely sight they make when they set off across the ocean. That's where the Titanic was built."

In the end we do get there. I sigh a, er, sigh of relief and switch on my engaging personality ("click"), select my chatty / honest to God mode ("pop"). I take a long deep breath. At long last the game's afoot and the operation under way, this is cheerful Lily taking over, no negative thought allowed. Are we ready to go into battle yet? A quick spray of Snowy Aurora and yes we are.

"Whey hey hey, the devil's in town"

The place I selected to meet up / with / at is the Bewley's Cafe. It's a short stroll away from the Herald headquarters so Sean won't feel too far away from his precious office's revolting door (-"Revolting door"?? You’re on a roll today!). Should he get too antsy about taking ten minutes off, he's only got a couple of roads and beggars to cross to get back to his safe haven. If this isn't me being thoughtful, tell me who is. It's like I always say, there's no such thing as a detail.
Plus if the place is good enough for Marian Finucane, it should be good enough for me! modests Lily, fitting her head inside a XXL beret.

Now Bewlso is a queer auld place, truth be told. It trades in paradoxes. With its kitsch look and darling mezzanine it is a bit of a landmark, a stylish reminder of all things past, but his clientele has certainly evolved recently. It is now attracting "certain categories who wouldn't have been seen here before". In other words, tourists are taking over. Tourists with their baseball caps kept on indoors, bulging "fanny packs" and "Can you beliiiieve the price? Told you we should have gone to KFC Thelma!". Still, the place remains an institution, and an integral part of Dublin's heritage. It boasts stained glass windows and brass railings, cutesy little uniforms, and monogrammed merchandising on sale by the door ("-Missing yous already"). It still has charm, so -There ain't no SkyNews here!

I pause by the door. I sneak a quick check of my funky watch and am amazed to discover that I'm only one minute late, which with regards to my gender's prerogatives qualifies as being officially early. I look around past the ubiquitous backpacks and caps worn indoors and there he is, down at the back, looking pained and checking his phone messages. That's Sean alright.

-"Con I help youuu?" growls a waitress as I breeze in.
Indeed she may: I order a cup of lemon tea (for me) and an espresso (for him).
-"Hey Sean, how ‘you keeping?"
Your man looks up. He looks back down.
-"Ah Lily, here you are... just a second .... Nah, not worth it." He clicks his phone shut. "I've only just arrived myself. What 'you having?"
-"Already taken care of, espresso on its way to you; I reckoned you'd be in a rush."
-"H'a! Always am you know me, always am. So what's the story? Long time no see."
-"Ah you know yourself, busy busy up to me ears, always on the run what with one function to attend here and another one to cover there -you know I'm doing a bit of reporting for The Dubliner sometimes, yeah? Not just for the radio."
-"Ah yes the radio... I sometime manage to catch your spot on Oh-One-Oh. Very entertaining, it is too. Great craic and all. Ah yes, good programme, that. Your man always comes across like he knows his stuff but -hey, between you and me- he ain't half taking himself seriously is he..."
Indeed he's not.
The beverages arrive -minus napkins.
The waitress is told to go get some.
"But I seldom have time to listen to the radio to be honest, seldom have time... With all that's going on, it's a miracle I get anything done! 'Bunch of muppets, don't know the first thing about pulling together as a team..."
He takes a sip.
"'Feckin thing's too hot."
-"Yeah well I guess... must be madness manning a paper 24/7, right? Constant mayhem. I'd love that kind of rush, though. Keeps me on my toes, me, that sort of thing. That drive. The adrenalin. But yeah, I guess, mustn't be fun all of the time... Some days must be manic, right? When you have a deadline or"
-"Certainly are yeah, certainly are, 'specially when "a certain party"'s mentioned" (does rabbit ears in the air) "You must weigh every word you'll print about them or these windbags will come after you and drag your arse to court! The old intimidation. Mind you, the one thing 'can be said for them is that the other side is just as bad -Litigious hypocrites the lot of them! Oh yeah, you godda stay sharp in this business..."
-"Right you are! So much aggro... ah there's no need for that, it's like I always say: There's no need for so much pompousness yeah? Sometimes you wanna chill out yeah? You wanna deal with a less stressful subject, something more fun maybe"
-"Too right I do!"

I let the matter float for a suitably amount of time, and scoop around. Wish I could find someone amusing to point out, someone colourful in the crowd... a trebled-gus in a football jersey maybe, or a recent immigrant who took her clothing cue from TV programmes but depressingly no-one's standing out, no-one's ever different. Everyone looks pretty much as you would expect, nobody makes an effort to dress up anymore. They all look like they're pottering about the house on a Sunday morning, oh the glamour. Tracksuits, tracksuits everywhere, and grey's clearly the new black. De-emphasizes the bodyshape, I guess. Otherwise Guinness branded bags, Nike tops, Puma hoods, Adidas slacks, McFergus Construction prams. ...And baseball caps still on their heads.

Sean looks preoccupied. Even more preoccupied than usual, which surely should say something but then what would I know. He hesitates and then hazards a half-finished comment:
"There might be some change ahead though..."
-"Some change?" up pick I, ever the attentive and considerate listener.
-"Yeah well, some possible change of direction, a turn-up for the books ...something we're working on. -'Bit early to tell."
Evasive, like.
-"Huh. Well I hope it's something fun then, whatever it is -you look like you could do with a bit of cheering up"
-"Sure could"
-"I take it it's the paper we're talking about otherwise everything OK with you, 'you good?"
-"Oh yeah, everything's grand, it's all good, the usual..." By the Bono, is the man playing hard ball or what! What will it take him to come out with it??
"It's just that damn O'Leary, always on my back... but things will get better, they'll get better in time. Once we get our project underway. Miss! Miss? Can I have a glass of water? Still water yes, no no ice."
Now then. I should be allowed to pick up on that...?
-"Well, 'seems to me that... once you get that "project" of yours off the ground, you'll feel so much better, you'll find yourself flying. A change's as good as a rest, right? So don't fret too much is what I'd say, there's always an element of stress to every big decision we make in life ...whatever these are." Take that! Get into position!
-"Hmm. You're probably right. Not that I actually worry about myself... I'll manage just grand -I always do- it's just the whole... concept if you want. The end-product to deliver. The payload. The bleedin' eejits, they're doing my bonce in! The constant meetings where we're going over what's already been agreed, again and again and again oh you have no idea: bo-ring!"
Me, I say nothing ("I have no idea"). I let him simmer for a while; surely he'll be able to add two and two together at some stage?
"Actually." A flash of inspiration, like straight out of nowhere, registers in his eyes. "'Tell you what, there might be something in it for you though..."
Eyebrows shoot up, tea sipping operation is put on hold.
-"Yeah?"
That's seriously good acting from the girl Monaghan -Happily married couple Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley should get in touch for lessons.
-"Yeah, something's just occurred to me and why not... huh. ... Huh, can't say too much at this stage, can't promise you anything but....... need to chew this over though, need to-Miss! Miss? Can I get another espresso? Right away, there's a good girl."
-"Well I... I'm intrigued. Let me know when things get clearer down your end then, I'd be curious to hear more ...if I can be of help somehow..."
But Sean doesn't hear me: his second espresso has arrived and he's tasting it.
-"Berk! Too fecking hot again. Boiling. Is there such thing as Ice Espresso I wonder... wouldn't it be a fab invention?"
Watch me laugh with him, oh the idea of it! Just where does he get them?
-"Sure would be, for coffee lovers such as yourself."

Time -as it usually does- passes.
Sean goes back to enjoying his thimble of concentrated caffeine. Right now, he clearly doesn't want to pursue the matter so I hesitate to push the subject any further, can't possibly appear to exert any pressure like, that wouldn't be very clever. ...Sean is not exactly the kind of guy who appreciates being pushed around. Least of all, I imagine, by a woman -after all, our boy's got a sense of self-respect yeah, and a sensitive nature which I suppose, in the great scheme of things, has to be respected. He's got his pride. Only when he's good and ready will he make his offer.

-"Yeah well... I'll let you know when I'm given the go-ahead. Let me get back to you on that. But as things stand at this moment in time... I'll have to knock heads. (Why not, eh.) I'll need to consult. Why not's all I can say, although there may be potential here... Potential for you, like. I may be in a position to work something out. We'll see."
-"Ah that's smashing, that. That's only grand ...Whatever you have in mind. Don't hesitate. By all means don't hesitate, I am all ears! When you're good and ready and have checked with your man... well you know how to get in touch, gizzas a bell; I'm only working part-time as it were, I have plenty of time to spare..."
-"Message received. Message received, will do." Sean checks his watch. "Now need to go back to the office, 'catching up to do"
-"Sure thing."
-"Could you get the bill, would you mind?"
-"No not at all, not a problem."
-"Thanks a million / good girl yourself / need to fly now" he gets up "I'll keep you posted ...should anything turn up. Goddago now, it was good to see you Lily, you mind yourself now!"
And he extricates himself off his chair, manoeuvres round the adjoining backpacks. A brief backward glance and your man is off.

Now I'm not one to blow me own trumpet, I'm not one to jump the gun but I daresay... I daresay we may have just made some serious inroads here oh yes we have -Only massive! Oh you cheeky rascal Lily Monaghan you, you'll get places someday...
I raise an imaginary toast to my possible future and instantly set down my cup: my tea's gone cold.



Back outside, drizzle has started coming down gently. It hits the ground in a soft cascade of liquid pearls that polishes the paving stones where municipal power sprays could never get at. The chocolate bar wrappers glitter in the half-light and the potato wedges boxes float down elegantly towards the welcoming gutter, dislodging carpets of ciggie butts and pizza crusts in the process; the gutter swallows them in and sighs out a shimmering mist, almost spectral in its softness; the mist rises a couple of feet, and gracefully blends into the exhausts fumes of Nassau Street to meet the burnt hops flavoured cloud veiling the town -Everything is falling into its natural place and all is good with the world.
High above the layer of grey tiny drops, the angels atop the whatsitcalledagain church at the corner if you stand in front of this street facing away from the other beam at the shoppers-by. Glowing with the reflection of the sun on the carpark scaffolding nearby, they give them their blessing (the angels to the shoppers-by that is -Get your priorities correct!). "Go forth yees of cards of credit, go forth and consume..." they appear to be saying,  index finger virtuously raised in the acrid smoke. Here is a cheese shop, here is a jeweller; this is what Grafton Street was built for.

I am not working for the rest of the day but I have to go somewhere tonight, there's a function at the National Library, culchured types pontificating about things and stuff, sometimes about whatever, and with the occasional reference to that and the other thing -Count me in so! I'm totally down with this fancy stuff me, oh yes a real sucker for these little shindigs, aren't they simply maaarvellous social occasions to attend though? Go there and you can meet tons  (sometimes even learn a thing or two).

And so, fresh from her latest strategic move in this captivating game of social chess, herself's heading back home; another challenge awaits, namely What Shall I Wear Tonight. Something not too formal yet not too frumpy, not too showy but not too casual -something the right side of classy. Actually feel like treating myself to a killer thread... This day has gone so well, let's make sure it's crowned by an even better evening, optimism's the way forward!
Exit right (indicating progress in the Western world) / skip over a tramp.