chapter 6 - 9

chapter 6 "At the end of the day, tomorrow is another day"

Tuesday afternoon and I'm struggling on air. Aeons ago, I embarked on a rambling anecdote which worked so well when rehearsed in the kitchen, and is now going nowhere. I bring it to a merciful close. "...you’d have thought I would have learned by then -but you’d be wrong!" (boom boom). Delivers punchline, exits left pursued by a unicorn.

The genius idea supposedly at work here is called schadenfreude. Audience schadenfreude to be precise, that is to say everyone’s propensity to cackle triumphantly at the slightest misfortune befalling anyone in the media or (perceived to be) in a position of power. It’s a beautiful thing, it’s total sadism. Whenever I go “live”, I'm always very much aware of this: any little mishap on my part won’t go unnoticed. In fact, it’ll probably get blown up to epic proportions by souls in need of relief from their taxing lives. That's fair enough, in the nature of the game: action --> reaction. But then it depends whether the accident is entirely fortuitous (big secret here: I may not always be entirely naive wink wink). I am very happy to play this little game with my audience: the cunning trick is to manage one’s slips, overstep the line by no more than a teeny weeny bit at times, and allow One’s-Dear-Listeners a quick giggle at one’s expense ("Hark at the bleeding eejit! 'Girl must be up with the fairies, no brains on her!", etc.).  

That is, when I don’t make a genuine hash of it.

I go "but then you would..." - unfortunate pause due to incoming sneeze - sneeze - and then "be wrong." Er... haven't I just insulted my audience here? I stutter and splutter, repeat the punchline like the proverbial uncle after a few pints, and then manage to mispronounce at least three names in the next two minutes. Things could arguably be going better.

Normally I don't see myself as a struggler, I'm never stuck for repartees. Sure, I tend to talk too fast at times and "fire off my lines as if my life depended on it" in the words of a past drama teacher, but I've corrected myself with practice. I've done the marbles-in-mouth exercise, I’ve out-Neil Tennanted Neil Tennant. Sometime I even remember to breathe in between words. Mainly, I've got great imagination (so my accommodating bank manager concedes on a regular basis); great imagination, as well as a bit of a mouth on me (so would testify the missionary who rang my bell at nine in the morning just the other day). This, I suppose, has to be my professional calling card: You wanna work in radio, you must be able to talk the legs off a donkey.

Speaking from the vantage point of a few years on the job, I've come to realise this much: the risk of running out of subjects is entirely rhetorical. You could say that again. (And so I will: "the risk of running out of subjects is entirely rhetorical". Done.) Plan B, C, D, F, or U, there always are failsafe topics at the ready. 

Romans

Let's say one day I feel uninspired and can’t be arsed to tackle The Burning Issues Of The Day such as the bin tax, the Glenda Gilson endorsed miracle cream for bigger boobs or the new airport terminal (correct answers: "no - yes please - no"), well this is when the classics come in handy and the old chestnuts come home to roost. These attention grabbers are both repetitive and timeless i.e. you can serve them up time and time again (that’s the appeal of repetitive) and they’re not exclusively dependent on the current news events (that’s the timeless bit).
Actually I can think of yet another sure-thing category, that's just as handy: the "cyclicals". (But more of that later.) (...If I remember.)
Now the beauty of these topics is this: All you have to do is mention them to your interviewees and off they go –Bingo! You could pretty much leave the minirecorder on and start doing your nails at this juncture, you won’t run out of play-time. Some pretty solid red flags they make, I call them "Romans". Romans as in the "what have the Romans ever done for us" spiel.

Try this for size: "The Brits...” (teasing pause here) “...what have they ever done for us?"
The person you ask usually tries to be sensible here, he won't want to go for the easy option ("Not a feckin’ thing now that's for sure!!"), he doesn't want to let the side down too visibly. I put him on the spot and quite commendably he will rack his brains, wondering what the bleeding hell that lot must have done good. Now then, let's see…. ?? …. ?? … ?? Surely there must be something! (Apart from Jack Charlton.) Ensuring our popularity abroad? Adopting that nancy boy on the telly? Trinity College?
Innocent-eyed as hell, I wait. Your man usually scratches his head and looks to his right. He looks to his left. He looks at the heavens and that nice little ride passing nearby. Finally he often comes up with all sorts of brilliant examples, listing improvements I have never heard about and stuff I won't need to wikilook up before transmission.
Lovely bit of journalism, that (getting folks to come up with answers on your behalf)! "When-oh-when will rhetorical questions ever end" hand-wringing topics always pay off. (...Not that we're in the business of garnering outrage, of course.)

Here's another. "Women..." (our friend the good old pause here) "...Do you think they wear too much make-up?"  This one's canny. It's a classic loaded question that keeps on giving. As fate'll have it, which gender is the most scathing on the subject of make-up amount and skirt length is anything but a given. One would be surprised who will try to define "acceptable" and draw a possible sensible (hem) line ...and who will just lash out at (invariably younger) "slappers". Here we go: "The young-generation-of-today, they don't appear to have any standards! Sure they don't! They think it's all fun and games! They treat this great town of ours like it's a playground! Now I remember when we were their age and would go out after our normal 50 hours' working week, we knew how to behave make no mistake! We knew our place! Oh yes we did and you know why? That's because we had fecking standards, that's why!"

But then knee-jerks are always understandable. It'd be a grave mistake to dismiss such condemnations as mere automatic reactions -they happen for a reason. Everybody thinks they know better, everyone wants to feel validated. And so this lady in front of you always happens to be the one person who wears just the right amount of face-paint, and in such an understated way too (the criminally underrated skill of make-up is of course not to appear to have any on, natch.) Everybody is understandably aware of their own standards of decency, the ones by which they operate, and so -"you see"- it has to be the others who are going about it arse about face, the others who are getting it wrong. And that's when the bleeding slags / good-for-nothings don't simply ignore any notion of common sense or basic modesty whatsoever!

I'm mentioning make-up, but I could also bring up Jordan (Jordan, née Katie Price, originating from across the pond). Trick question: Which gender is the most horrified by the existence of this painful-looking pair of space hoppers on legs who, with nothing more to distinguish herself by, has somehow managed to command the front pages of the English press for the last dozen years? The answer is... not necessarily the most obvious of the two. Here's food for thought if there ever was one, and a great topic of conversation.
Jordan’s one thing (possibly even one person), but what about the (mags' proclaimed) role model of our generation Sarah Jessica Parker? (Quick one on the trot: SJP walks into a bar. Bartender goes: "why the long face?"… I so apologise. Moving on swiftly.) What does her character supposedly reveal about us? Men usually have a few choice words on that subject…

Finally, if I'm really desperate for topics and pressed for time, I can always resort to the Disguised Overkills. These ones sweep all before them. They bypass the brain almost entirely and go straight for the jugular, they tick the boxes that haven’t even been built. When I'm really stumped, clear out of ideas, I don't think twice, I bring out the big guns. Here is a selection of what I mean -Enjoy!

"Politicians -who do they think they are? Do you think they are special? In your judgement, do you think they deserve special treatment?"
"Traffic wardens eh... shouldn't they be employed to catch criminals instead?"
"Billions are starving in the world and we have this obesity problem in the US and Western Europe... What gives??"
"The Queen of England... isn't it time she came to Ireland on a State visit? What do you think?"
These one are all-time favourites with right-wing loudmouths, they are so wrong on so many levels it's sheer genius. Introducing the Political-Correctness-Gone-Mad sledgehammer: "How do you feel about this school in" (insert place name that can't be checked anyway) "that wants to ban Christmas this year for fear of offending non-Christian pupils?"
"Heard the latest from the European Community: they want to ban bendy bananas / they want to force circus acrobats to wear safety hats in keeping with the new Health and Safety regulations?" 
Ah sure, isn't there is an awful lot of junk out there, right up for recycling eh!

Now then, the "cyclicals". Mustn't forget these staples of media reporting.
The basic principle behind the "cyclicals" is simplicity itself: It is about hailing the socially established landmarks that time our lives ("-Eh?") ...or what regular events happen every bleedin' year. You start with New Year resolutions and move on from there. In no particular order (that'd take me too long), we certainly have plenty to choose from:

-the officially most depressing day of the year: January the 5th
-the shocking discovery that, three weeks on, gym attendance by New Year recruits is already collapsing

-the Chinese New Year
-much chin stroking and finger wagging after the quarterly publication of various official statistics detailing such things as personal debt figures and road fatalities numbers
-the sitting of Leaving Certs exams throughout the land -i.e. the usual advice to be administered to nervous young wans
-the publication of Leaving Certs results and attending condemnation of the drunken mayhem ensuing
-Saint-Patrick's Day, the inevitable warnings against public drunkenness followed by consternation at the night-time vandalism
-the arrival of spring (hurrah!)
-the arrival of summer (hurrah!)
-the official end of the summer, and the countdown towards the end of the year: aren't days getting shorter?

-Left-handers day

-Women’s Day
-Mother's Day
-Father's Day
-Nan's Day
-Doris Day
-Easter
-Passover
-First communions
-the wildly (widely?) awaited Christmas office parties. How to avoid gross personal misconduct / how to report unwanted sexual advances
-Christmas and its shameless commercialism (there's always a Grinch on hand to solemnly declare in the mike that "This year, that's it, I won't be celebrating!")
-Valentine's Day and its shameless commercialism -but then no fellow out there would dare ignore it
-Bloom's Day and its shameless commercialism
-the Roses of Tralee, its innocent kitsh gone astray and its shameless commercialism
-the (January) sales and their shameless etc.
-the Easter Rising
-the end of WW2 (in which Ireland didn't take part)
-the start of the GAA season. The rising sense -mainly in the Dub' media- that this could be the year the Dubs will be mounting a credible challenge for the title

-the deflation at the Dubs' defeat
-the GAA final
-the rugby Six Nations, and how outstanding-yet-unlucky-with-injury Drico seems to be (the main thing being that we beat you-know-who, though)
-the FA Cup Final, featuring these well-known Irish teams Manchester United, Arsenal or Liverpool
-the summer music festivals, their line-ups, and the cheeky advice to mete out to revellers preparing to undergo the gruelling experience
-the presentation of this summer's uniformly American megabudget blockbuster sequels
-that one day in the year apart from Christmas when alcohol is scandalously not on sale
-the mad Irish horse race festival over the water in Cheltenham
-the failure of the Irish soccer team to qualify for a forthcoming tournament ("to be honest with you, we're a small country")

 -the Eurovision song contest, and why we should win really
-the Eurovision song contest, and how the "new" Eastern European countries have ruined it for everybody else
-the election of "Alternative Miss Ireland", and what it says about our new tolerant mores
-the release of the new U2 album, its importance for the national psyche and prominence on the world stage
to be supplemented as required. Like I said, simplicity itself. Pick an agenda (any agenda), leaf through the holidays marked, select the ones for which you have old bollix to heat up and there you are. Job done, boxed off!


Sadly, this is not how it went today; today I tried to be cute. Went off the script, went for originality, and now am pretty much up the proverbial shopping mall without a credit card. Luckily my allocated time is coming to a merciful end and my ordeal will soon be over. Enough with off-the-cuff sez she, sometimes one shouldn't try to be too clever, the beaten path is the safest.
Marina's helping me out though; Marina's on my side. She is the programme's co-presenter and is dutifully emitting the little snorts of appreciation / disbelief befitting my edifying diatribe ("Fancy that! / Well I never! / Good girl yourself!"). I owe Marina big time.
I owe her even more when compared to a certain someone who is staying quiet -very quiet indeed- throughout the course of my ordeal.
That someone is Timothy O'Arnlan.

Timothy is the host of the show and he's usually billed as "the voice of reason". He is the voice of reason on many a subject that surely, at least the way I see it, could do with a bit of levity instead. Levity rather than "insightful analysis", "thorough assessments" and other "informed comments" -Chillax for a change! Take it down a peg or two! Life doesn't have to be a tragedy!
In his early thirties, born of an English mammy, Timothy was suitably educated at Oxford and Trinity with the result being that his accent floats somewhere between the two post-codes. His sense of humour being just as informal, I guess you could call him a barrel of laughs. (Not.) Timothy mans the show from five to seven and has never been known to get his timing wrong. When he gives you a five minute slot to fill, he means five minutes of airtime, not a "let's wing it / three minutes will do" half-arsed shot at it. Timothy's so anal.
Your man has a brain and he knows how to use it. He can discourse on politics; economics; politics; stock market scams; aaaart of the highest calibre (i.e. not the fun one); politics; the impending burst of the Irish building bubble (been banging on about it for at least two years already, we are getting soooo concerned); cricket; politics; literature with a capital "l" (as opposed to LUAS pass-time material); politics; Europe; history; and I suppose "Sex And The City" -that is, whenever our guide to modern living is ever brought up in a discussion on "sexual politics" or "consumerist frenzy". He's a staunch, some would say stale, exponent of televising Dail debates as if this would serve any purpose and is clearly not long for this vulgar medium. Television beckons, and thankfully of the late schedule variety.
You could say I am not his biggest fan.

Not that he's particularly unpleasant to the eye. Six feet something, Timothy has obviously benefitted from a complete education that has taken in tennis and rugby as well as Classics and Politics. "Men's sauna en corpore sano" (that'll be "a healthy mind in a healthy body"), he once boasted in a rare outburst of personal opening up -well, his idea of opening up: over a cheeky cup of herbal tea, yikes. His square jaw is permanently clenched, his brow furrowed, and his steely gaze carries way past you into a future that has yet to meet his standards. A future that will probably consist of amendments, alineas, and Motions To The House –Sure he's a fun guy and no mistake. He'll go far. His serious demeanour precedes him, but only shortly ahead of his pectorals. He is not someone to be trifled with, one would suspect.
So what exactly am I doing on his programme? Well, this is precisely the point. I've been drafted in to lighten up the general tone, I'm here to provide welcome relief from his litanies of "probing questions" and "senior civil servants grillings", I'm like the designated breath of fresh air, the episodic ray of light.

So is Marina, in a different capacity. Her sugar-sweet tones are brought to contribution for arguably the two single most important topics in radio: the weather, and the traffic reports. She has such a soothing voice has Marina, velveteen diction at its silkiest. You would almost look forward to hearing her announce hail stones the size of tennis balls for rush-hour on the M 50. How truly wonderful they would be, if Marina commented on them ("And here we can see a massive one -Look it, that’s a beast! And here’s another one -Ouch! What a pity… Another windshield bites the dust.").
So she is presently doing her best to assist me (God love her), playing along as a team-member is supposed to. Unlike an aforementioned certain someone seated at the other side of the table who is determinedly not playing ball. In fact, he’s completely silent. Is he busy reading his notes? judging me? I dare not look up in his direction, don't want to get more flustered than strictly (un)necessary. The last thing I need right now is meet his steely gaze, I can already picture his clenched jaw -and that's just his normal expression. Ah sweet Jaysus, that bleeding O'Arnlan man, isn’t he wrecking me bonce right now! Not a peep from him, not a sound -What must he be thinking? What must be going through this square head of his? No doubt it must be gas!  A complete riot! Mr. Lah-di-dah In Person. … I'd rather not imagine -and that’s precisely why I can't help myself!

O'Arnlan Esq. monologue, Captain's log 0,999:
"Goodness gracious me, what on earth is this birdbrain playing at? Why oh why oh why am I keeping her on? Blast! This is frightfully embarrassing, what! How dreadfully impudent! I say. Will she ever be done with and let me get on with this fascinating exposé of industrial malpractice over which I burned the midnight oil last night? Will she ever! … I must admit, I'm not entirely half-displeased with this little scathing indictment of corporate inequity I concocted, oh no. Why, the uncouth ruffians won't have seen it coming -They will positively rue the day our paths ever crossed, oh yes. Simple sword of Justice: one – Fly-by-night shysters: nil. ….. My oh my, isn't the ghastly creature still hogging the microphone? Isn't she about to overrun? Heaven forbid! I can't possibly have that! Nay nay nay! This would be in clear contravention to her contract! How frightfully inconsiderate, oh the indignity -For shame! Now then, let's check, how more airplay is she presently allowed and –oh- shall I have the usual cucumber slash cream cheese sandwiches for tea? Cucumber al fresco, hmmmm... how very tempting. Or shall I indulge in a daring touch of cheddar and apple to quench the old appetite? What an inspired suggestion! I must say… I am rather tempted oh yes, topped with a dash of parsley and indigenous rashers. Hmm....parsley on rashers... How awfully naughty of me, washed down with a nice cup of Old Grey –But, but! Is the blasted wench still at it over there?"

I battle to keep his fantasized musings off my radar and don't succeed. Hard as I try to ignore him altogether, I can't block him out of my mind, all too aware of his commanding presence on the other side of the octagonal desk –It’s the old the more you try to forget something, the more you remember! The fact of the matter is, it's not just a conversation thing, it’s also a question of temperature. Unsurprisingly, I always choose to sit by the radiator. Now, fancy that, your man always sits on the opposite side. And the result is? Our Timothy oozes coldness. Radiates iciness. When displeased (as is clearly the case right now), your man can bring the temperature down more efficiently than an open window.
"...and this is what will save your bacon down the line! Guaranteed!"
Metaphors are mixed, dog's breakfast is served, but "t"s are eventually crossed and we are done. It's all good! The triumphant tone at the end is anything but faked: purple of face, drippy of hair and smelling worse than a packed football stadium, I finally emerge from my trial.
Marina lets off an appreciative "Fair play to you, amen to that!" -I love Marina, did I mention I love Marina?- and Timothy emits a grunt half an octave higher than his normal tone of voice (his idea of approval):
"Well that surely was... encouraging to be sure. Another tale of despondency, fight-back and survival in the jungle of D4 courtesy of our Lifestyle Correspondent Lily Monaghan -Thank you Lily.
We'll take a short break now, and then it will be time for the news headline; you're listening to O'Arnlan on One-Oh-One. The time has gone 27 past seventeen."

chapter 7 It's All Good (Things Going Well)

chapter 8 A Night At The Opera, Part Two

At long last Tuesday arrives and with it, the prospect of another simply fascinating evening at the National Library. Culture -I'm mad for it! Can't get enough, me, there's nothing like a touch of intelligence and instruction to put up with this rude, crude world we live in I always says. Intelligence, instruction, and -whatcha call it?- oh yes, class. So let's hear it for more learned bollix by bright people, the kind that wear their glasses either hanging around their neck on these cute little chains or propped up on their forehead but never on their nose. The kind of people, in fact, who only ever seem to use their "eyeglasses" as something to bite on pensively when pondering big subjects. What big subjects they're led to ponder is the question.

Fortunately, I have a rough idea what these could be.
"Whereto from here?", "What’s it all about?", "Readers, why have yous forsaken me?", "How will I bloody fill up thirty more pages?", "Can I get Seamus Heaney to write me an approving blurb?", "Is there hope outside Helvetica?", "Am I condemned to repeat myself?", "Is grief soluble in bile?", "Where did they get their information?", "Is the semi-colon intrinsically female and if I use it will I catch gay?", "Is the media singular or plural?", "What if I left it open and they can decide what the hell they want, depending whether they are the optimistic or pessimistic type?", "Ah, blast, where did I leave my glasses again?", "Why bother?", "Dare I use the word “cunt”?", "What was it again I dreamt up last night, it was amazing", "How come Jordan's autobiography gets more coverage?", "Isn't it time I went back to the optician?", "How about another one or is it too early in the day?", "Wouldn't it be funny if I swapped the ending and the start?", "…Would anyone notice though?", "To what extent can I trust Wikipedia?", "Hope they won't print the wrong version", "What's the sound of handclap if not handclap?", "And why exactly shouldn't bears defecate in their natural environment?", "How many more do I have to correct?", “Is she really going out with him?”, “If it’s good enough for Maeve Binchy…”, "Can we bring back State religious censorship so I can sound controversial and sell shitloads?", "Shouldn't have Brendan Behan looked after his health and kept well away from the demon drink?", "Wouldn't it go faster on a computer?", “What if I just pressed “spellcheck” and be done with it?”, "Can royalties be redeemed against an appearance on Top Of The Pops next to Samantha Mumba?", "******* ** ****** is such a bombastic blathering bollix merchant, why does he/she gets invited for tea with President Mary?", "What if they were right after all?", "How much longer can I seriously pretend having read "Finnegan's Wake"?", "Can I try asking for another advance?", "Why didn't I think of it first?", "Stick to what I know or go on a limb?", “Parodies sell like hot cakes so…”, "When oh when will my useless clown of an agent get his feckin' finger out?", "Why can't I fall in love?", "Who wrote Shakespeare's works then?", "Who wants the world?", "What's the story?", "Is that all there is?", "What's for tea?".
The heart of the matter, so.

Butseriously. This easily ridiculed community, all bifocals and leather elbows, life-long feuds and cat fetishes, this is one herself could actually live with, for real! When all is said and done, these guys make a living by their wit, ain’t that a thrill? (Or failing that, by their pen –boom boom.) Sure it's a funny trade and no mistake, often a thankless one. One’d better not be afraid of solitude I guess  ...it still is one I could see myself take to, given the right licence to riff away.

Realisticallies Lily: Oh yes I can see it… given half a chance I would so give it a right tune-up, I would blow away its cobwebs and drag it kicking and screaming into the XXIst e-century! The way I see it, writing doesn’t have to be boring, it doesn’t have to be stale and predictable, surely you shouldn’t have to slavishly follow conventions and rely on clichés! Recipes can only get you so far and then... bo-ring! Enough with them psychological subtexts and double subplots that come together at the end in an loose ends knotting arc to the delight of four-eyed weirdos and no-one else, maybe it’s about time to get funky huh? ...Ever thought of that? Ever thought a bit of f.u.n. could be injected into the process? That's right, surely the best way to go about it should be first to make it fun for yourself (1) and then the audience will join in (2). I'd bet on it! They’ll recognise fresh when they see it, they'll acknowledge your intentions and sod grammatical correctness for what it's worth -after all, what's grammar between friend's eh?! Ah yes I’d bring a touch of glamour me, I’d bring a bit of hip!

That, and chill factor. Chill factor's what is badly needed in libraries IMHO: just tear them up! get down with the kids! inject some new blood and make use of technology! All these amazing computer scobies that reshape our lives and change our ways of looking at things, surely they ought to have their word to say in the matter no? Surely they must present new opportunities, new spellings, lay-outs, referencing and formatting standards oh I don't know -What I do know though, it's that sometime you need to shake things about. You need to throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks yeah, you need to innovate, experiment, press the F5, reload, go on a limb, take a chance or ten, entrust your audience with tolerance and forgiveness, dive in feet first and crack open a new page for the sheer hell of it so let's hear it for writing 2.0 at long fecking last! Always look ahead and never give up!

Ah yes, I think I would like that… Gimme a chance, I'll learn the ropes no sweat! I'll pay my dues, I'll put in the extra hours and then we'll start to have some fun oh yes, I'd get funky with it. I can feel it, my time will come!

In the meantime though… (falls back to Earth Lily) it's hey-ho, it’s off we go to the NLI Q ‘n A pronto. The auld "Library Late"... I'm liking it me, wouldn't miss it for anything in the world! Especially with, er, whoever’s on tonight, he/she's lethal! The works, they are: highly thought-provoking and, ahem, brimming with imagination... offering an intoxicating mixture of modernity and tradition that marries, huh, ground-breaking innovations with elegiac evocations. And originality, don't forget originality. Oh yes, a right must-see they are. … Gold plated top drawer and certified authority on their subject. A veritable fount of knowledge and craic dispenser! That is, when they don't indulge in sob stories and/or poetry eh. As they’ve been known to do. … On rare occasion. … Unless if they don't.

Oh crap, who am I kidding here!

For sure, I want to attend this do in order to hear it from those in the know, how they've cracked it and all, and also make contacts afterwards but, let's be honest... let's be honest there's a certain added thrill tonight. An opportunity to maybe catch up with a certain someone (please please please please). Chances are he may turn up; chances are he'll return to the scene of the crime (diagnostic: heart stolen!!). He may just do that ...there's free booze in the offing.
Well here's hoping, here's to being an optimist. I'm only spitballing here, at this juncture it's pure projected end-result on specs, taking it one goal at a time, let's see what effects so.

Now I don't want to set myself up for a fall and get back into the old cycle, I'm very much aware that what goes up (that will be hopes) must eventually come down (that may turn out to be my mood), so I'm taking it with a soup spoon of salt. I'm trying to be realistic here. (Lily pauses for effect, mature as feck and getting all philosophical. Decides it doesn't suit her. Goes back for the goofy.) At the same time, I just can't take the risk, I simply neeeeed to go and find out for myself: Imagine he turned up and I didn't !!! I have to go and check. See, if one didn't believe in serendipity, possibility, or just sheer bleeding luck, life would be very boring, very boring indeed. Life's not mathematics I always say, it's not as simple as two and two are four -Hell no, two and two can give a whole bunch of different results! It's something else altogether. Life is more complicated, unpredictable, infuriating, enchanting, mesmerising, jaw-dropping, heart-breaking, unnerving, upsetting and generally happening than logic would have it. In a word, it's full of surprises. True as I'm riding this bike, one has to factor in the element of chance: You can't legislate on anything or anyone, nothing's ever simple, and elections sometimes deliver the wrong Taoiseach. Take the ending to "Pretty In Pink" for one: Who did Molly end up with again? ...I rest my case. No, nothing's ever simple, and what I say simple I might as well say logical. Logic + Men = massive interrogation mark. It's like the old question says: "What goes on within the dark continent of men's minds...?" Huh? Answer that and you'll rule the Earth! One expert tells us to go to work on an egg and the next tells us not to overdo it; one season, short skirts are back and the next, they are to be avoided at all costs; we need to savetheplanet and then incredible low-cost flights allow us to discover any corner of the world; we need to drink two liters of water every day and then we mustn't; we are endowed with sympathy for our fellow human beings and yet we don't question the price of our ten Euro jeans or hundred quid Apple gizmo -etc. etc. etc. No, no, logic is overrated; relying on it is just another leap of faith. That's incoherence that rules, that's chance encounters that buoy us about in the primordial soup (and then it's up to us to make the most of it). Like, how could I ever have expected to bump into this total h.u.n.k. at this literary shindig of all places? Huh? ... But bump I most certainly did, and this is why I would never discount miracles.

Mind you and by the same token... if I could never have expected to meet Mr. Sex On Legs last time around, I can't realistically expect to meet him again this time either so. Grrr, is so confusing!! Good thing I'm totally sanguine about it.

At the end of the day, whatever happens happens. Or if doesn't doesn't. No big deal if he doesn't turn up, I made a vow not to get too hung up about anyone again and so I will.  (Er... not get too hung up, that is.) Not for me to lose (much) sleep over someone who, at the end of the day, I only met (slobbered over) briefly, he's just some vague (horny) memory of a (dead hot) man whose (feckin' buff) silhouette has long faded away (into the dreariness of yet another lonely night). To be perfectly honest, I've hardly spared him a thought these last thirteen days and twenty-two hours! So, no, let's not get het up here and, instead, let's take it as it comes (or doesn't), after all I am not fifteen anymore (or am I?), end of. (To be continued.)

I light a cigarette on impulse and catch myself in the act -What da, I don't even smoke?! What possessed me to fish out the old emergency pack from the back of the sofa? Calm down Lily calm down, keep it together! Don't you remember what a fool you made of yourself last time around? Do you seriously expect him to have been much impressed with your stunt work? If anything, he must have been cringing, laughing his head off at the bleeding eejit ...he probably meant to be polite. Played up to the gallery, is all  (Wouldn't mind crashing into his midriff again though!) and the wine, the teasing, the sweet nothings, it may just have been his way of getting out of the initial embarrassment, over the situation. To be fair, everyone knows about the French -they're serial flirts, it's like second nature to them, like fighting bulls or throwing donkeys off churchtops! (Hang on, isn't that supposed to be Spaniards...?)
Ah well. Better not start assuming anything so; better not start down that road. No expectations, that's the way to do it, you're only going as a dedicated art lover, first and foremost. Keep your priorities in check, girl. ...Now should a Gallic Johnny Depp happen to turn up, so much the better -but that would be a bonus to a surely thought-provoking evening, oh yes.

I check myself in the mirror and decide to change back into that little red dress.

 "Practice Makes Lily"

I climb up some stairs and then climb down some others. I enter, advance, pause briefly and resume (my entrance). I adorn the register with my signature and proceed. I approach the inner circle, the sacred oratorical area.
I retrace my steps to spell out my name (Is that girl making trouble or what? What's she saying, that my handwriting's crap? Huh??) but then I instantly recover my cool and gratify the reading challenged usher with a smile. I even wave lightly ("toodleeoh!") and proceed towards the sacred oratorical area part two. I am now in control. In fact, I am exceedingly well behaved oh yes: See me deport myself with grace, elegance and poise. I haven't kicked over any flower pot yet.
Arriving at my destination, I do not rush to claim a seat in blind panic, I do not scour my surroundings in terror of turning into an old maid (-Eh? where did that come from??); instead I take my place in the auditorium, all demure and creased skirt. I think of Daniel O'Donnell and keep my eyes down. Ever the consummate diplomat, I exchange pleasantries with my immediate neighbours ("Lahvely evening isn't it / Oh yes, last time was simply maaarvelous / No, the toilets are upstairs, first door on the left past the cloakroom"). I make a point of consulting my program. I consult. Now then, who's on tonight? Oh yes, her...... Grrrrand. I see. We're in for a barrel of laughs: the alcoholic father, the delinquent youth, the petty thieving, the redemption through writing -Oh my, looks like I picked the right one. Good thing I shall not pass judgement and condemn without first hearing what your woman has to say for herself. In fact, I shall not betray any emotion whatsoever, such is my resolve to be on me best behaviour and not get in any way distracted by any base carnal temptation. Did I say carnal temptation? I meant car trouble irritation.

And so my eyes remain firmly fixed on the makeshift podium. When I say I fix, I fix alright. My eyes are getting pretty strained by now; they start to feckin' hurt yeah. Still I persevere, I pay no attention to my surroundings. I hardly hear the chit-chat drifting from my immediate vicinity: apparently "Deirdre's got herself into an almighty pickle again. You just can't trust these cowboy plumbers... What will Eamon say when he receives the bill! I told her she should have gone for these nice Polish lads." I concentrate so hard that my eyes definitely start to water. Too much light, I have no choice but look away. And so it is only natural that my eyes should seek refuge into the more welcoming haven of the unlit audience. I rest them. This is what I need to do: I only mean to rest my eyes.
...
Ah that's better... Semi-darkness is so more welcoming, is it not. It's so -like- comforting and stuff.

Fluttering here and there like a gallivanting butterfly in a playful mood, my hitherto dazzled eyes survey the assembly; they nonchalantly rest upon bigger shapes and gaily skip from left to right, right to left, left to right again just in case. They hover upon the venerable heads assembled under this roof like an undecided sniper on a mission to burn some ammo. Venerable they certainly are: the average age is way above mine, I'm glad to note. It's also at least 75% ladies. Chit chat, chit chat ...and what a dreadfully pleasant crowd we have here, delightful, simply delightful -we are scaling the heights of academia tonight! I recognise a smattering of studious faces. H'ah! if it isn't professor MacSomething (we met last time) and H'eh! this must be whochacallhim, trying to decipher the programme notes in the dark (...doesn't appear to be successful at it either). Perfect gentleman he is, if only he could sort out his comb-over, this is sooo Open University. Oh, and shave off his remaining tufts of hair while at it, that'd do him a world of good. Mind that he doesn't grow one of these soul patches though; baldies inevitably tend to do so.
So here we are, then. My gaze flies from wise old face to wise old face with the felicitous pang of recognition.

Except they encounter no Mathieu-shaped figure.

Nobody stands out, no pompadour towers above the others. Hard as I look -and I like to think I look pretty hard- no six feet something has deposited itself onto our crummy plastic seats, I would have spotted him. Nope, no such luck; I can only make out the usual bookworm four-eyed brigade :-((. I shall not despair, I shall not cuss. Try, and try again. As discreetly as possible, I go on one more reco mission. Still don't spot him. ... My neck is starting to hurt, don't you wish sometime that you could do a Linda "The Exorcist" Blair! The look on my neighbours' faces would be worth the price of admission alone. Alas I can't. I give up.
Let's concentrate instead on the -er- totally exciting main matter at hand (the author has made her appearance). A connoisseur of the fine art of litteratture, I will make it my duty to enjoy the -hmm- stirring meeting of minds on offer tonight and devote my full attention to the insightful observations of that shameless chancer who's struck lucky. Fair play to her, I mean.

And so I concentrate, I listen. I appreciate, I empathise. I am pleased to hear, am not surprised to learn, take on board, readily agree, have to admit, easily imagine and almost sympathise. It certainly brings home, carries a certain je-ne-sais-quoi, evokes vivid memories and encapsulates with true panache. I nod my head, I don't check my watch. I am totally engrossed and wouldn't for all the tea in China. I go through all the motions expected of us in the cheap seats and absolutely enjoy this truly fascinating interview don't I think. What an edifying tale of courage and abnegation, what a timely reminder of what makes human nature so admirable and so on. Totally inspiring and frightfully evocative. Awfully livid. Vivid, even. When reminded of the author's simply dreadful childhood, I go all gooey and my heart certainly goes out to. I most certainly share with. These goddamm nuns eh... do tell us about their wickedness again. My jaw to the floor, my outrage at. I share in her plight, I pity the poor thing. I spare a thought and take stock. I put myself in her shoes, I cross my legs nervously. I even offer a couple of Ave Marias for her rotten childhood (sweet Jaysus gizzus some strength here, I'm nearly dying!), I feel for your woman.

To be fair, tonight's hostess is holding her side of the bargain and does a first class job of playing up to her guest's strengths -Watch the poor soul get indulged within an inch of her hankie, it's so very painful being reminded of what she spent the best part of last year putting down to paper... Heart strings, they're just like guitars: waiting to get plucked. The audience provide all the "ooohs" and the "aaahs" required, and at the right times too. Which reminds me: white people can't clap, or so I was told. They tend to get the beat wrong, they clap out of time lol! I feel facetious all of a sudden... Wouldn't it be gas if, for example, we laughed at the tragic episode of the death of her pussy! (Major trauma in your woman's life, that, apparently...) That would sure shake things up a bit.

Fat chance of that. Be it as it may, we do not get all spontaneous; we stick to the script and the litanies continue unchallenged. I buck them up and compose myself. I repress one big time. Back to the talk, and the ITK RTE MC is now giving the esteemed novelist the "salvation-through-typewriter" treatment. She goes "Do tell us how your redemption took shape the day you eventually started a diary, so you took to pouring it all out in your diary, you covered page after page after page, you grew in confidence and -lo!-a writer was born! Tell us in your own words." Miss Smartypants, who surely needs no invitation to agree with the eulogy, concurs with the assessment. The audience concurs with miss Smartypants.

No wonder he didn't turn up, he must have heard about Miseryguts' spiel, preferred to keep away from the kleenex onslaught... but how? Where did he get the heads-up? ... The programme of course, the Library programme! (Forehead palm interaction.) Now I get it, her act was all there, clearly announced black on white! Her edifying life story shtick, her heart-warming tale of courage and abnegation from rags to designer rags, oh but the boy can read, no wonder he stayed well away! Could it be he's not just a pretty face after all... (and could it be I'm the clueless one)? I am definitely not liking the direction this evening takes...

This is the moment when our host for the night decides to kick off her shoes and, reclining on her fatboy with a fat cigar, ask Miss Holes-In-Socks to read us an excerpt from her book. I lost the will to live.

...

Fast-forward ten minutes (at my watch) or an hour (at my reckoning). Not an eternity too soon, the reading comes to an end. My neighbour and I thoroughly agree: Wasn't it delightful, simply delightful? And she enunciates proper too, for a culchie! Our host wakes up with a jerk and calls an end to the proceedings -Hurrah! I grab my belongings and stand up sharp; I don't imagine I'll stay behind very long this time. One quick look around and I make for the door (there's still one last chance...). Will phone in an appearance at the caf' and that'll be it. Show my face and salute the acquaintances (go on, you never know). But first, need to get out of here. Would you believe it, everybody seems to have the same idea! The bleedin' impertinence! Time for a spot of direct action methinks: I trip up a couple of OAPs, shove a little boy aside and rake my heel down someone's Achilles. Nothing doing, I'm still stuck solid in the throng. Halitosis to the left, bony elbows to the right. Grrrrand so. I take a deep breath (turning my head away from the left obviously) O...K..., this corridor may feel like a veritable procession, I shall bear it like a true pro and a seasoned socialite. No place for moaning, stiff upper and all that. Now then. (We're hardling moving.) ... .... .... Might as well make the most of it, let's be a good sport shall we: Sweet Natured Lily decides to engage the old dear next to her in a conversation.

-"So how did you like the talk?" I ask innocently enough. "Did you enjoy this evening, grand wasn't it?"
-"Enjoy it? Gedda out of the park! That was terrible -all that blathering and self-pity, that endless moaning -giving out about her own parents, I asks you! The shamelessness of it! I'd be scarlet me! Crying all the way to the bank more like!"
-"?"
-"But we shouldn't wonder should we, we shouldn't be surprised... Everyone's at it nowadays, the world and his granny! Moan moan moan, isn't it terrible what they do though? Isn't it just terrible. It's them Misery Memoirs, you know, that's what pays off! Not the romances, not the thrillers -not even the cook books! It's the warts and all, see, the lamentations, the "heart-warming tale" of squalid childhood -What a load of rank old bollix if you ask me!"
Incredulous, I nearly choke on my Minto.
But the little lady is nowhere near finished oh no, now she's sucking Diesel.
"Did you know that this genre -the Misery Memoirs I call it- is the most profitable genre in bookshops? That's right! This is the genuine article, the true best seller -move over Roddy Doyle! Sells like hot cakes!"
-"I didn't know that... would have assumed... Surely this wachacallit -"chick-lit", that's the one- would be way in front..."
-"Poppycock my dear! Love stories have nothing on weepies! Nothing. They're nowhere near I tell you. If you want to sell, you know what to do: Lay it on! Lay it thick! Open the floodgates and scratch at your scabs! Remember the saintly Peig? Remember "Angela's fecking Ashes"? Well there you are. On the best-sellers for ten years it was."
I digest this in silence for the next five minutes (i.e. the next two yards).
-"So I take it that... you weren't much impressed then?"
-"Oh you'd be wrong here Miss, you'd be wrong. I'd say that for our latest saint: impressed, I certainly was! Dead impressed too: A true pro she's become! She certainly knows how to handle herself in front a microphone and an audience ...and even write, I'd say that for herself. Oh yes, your woman can write -I read her book, see, I actually read it. From cover to cover too. Utterly revolting."
A flash of inspiration crosses my confused mind.
-"Forgive me for asking but... you wouldn't happen to be a writer yourself?"
She instantly mellows.
-"Well I... I sometimes dabble 'tis true... I've been known to put pen to paper..."
The penny drops. (No need to ask, don't do it Lily don't do it!!)
-"I see. And you never got published, right?"
...Except that I'm not evil enough.
-"How wonderful" I offer instead "I so admire people who have the dedication, the patience... You must be very patient, aren't you?"
-"Well I... one does one's best, is all we can hope for..."
The rest of the trip goes smoothly.

 "Oh Ramon", whimpered she, "take me in your muscular arms and gather me to your hairy chest!"

Back in the cafeteria. As I said, I don't think I'll hang around too long.
Or will I?
As I enter, who do I spot busy by the bar but The-Man-Himself! Hard at it and without a care in the world. ...The evening has just turned positively Technicolor. I gasp, I shiver, I gather myself and discreetly tug on my panties, I gasp again. How come he's already here? 'Must have just turned up! There is no way he could have attended the talk and made a dash for the apres-match, I wouldn't have missed his imposing silhouette in the never-ending corridor! Huh. It's a mystery alright.
Whatever may be, the shameless hunk is presently lost in a conversation (translation: he doesn't see me). Your man appears to be educating the Polish waitress about wine. He holds a glass for inspection, tastes the two thirds of it, and declaims something definitive, left hand dangerously slashing the air ...I have a rough idea what this may be. A true professional, the waitress stands to attention and gives the impression she is simply captivated by his transparent carry-on. Until she can no longer pretend to ignore the other guests milling about, that is; without so much as a second glance, she excuses herself and goes on about her business -I have a feeling she may be familiar with this sort of character... Mathieu downs his drink in one and grabs another; he is now bound to turn around and -ha!- this is when I make my move:

-"So what did you say you were writing about?"
The old grump has gone all sweetness and light.
-"Oh, you know... historical anecdotes, our cultural heritage... Dublin has got a lot to answer for, you know?"
-"I'm sure that's the case"
-"Take the Easter Rising -I don't know if you're familiar with the name?-, well"
But before I am treated to a history lesson, I notice the lady's eyes widen -What da? A hand incongruously taps me on the shoulder.
-"Hey" a voice brusquely interrupts our engrossing conversation.
My companion has stopped mid-sentence and is now staring at something -or someone- some distance above my shoulder. She's lost for words, totally enrapt. How most extremely queer I am thinking, do I turn round and confront the impertinent intruder or do I ignore him? The old lady is open-mouthed. Should I check who the devil is butting in on our conversation or? ... Well, do I?
You bet I do.
Except that, displaying cool not seen since eskimos discovered valium, I act all casual and simply glance back behind, like I'm thinking what's the big deal eh, people man-handle you every day right? No-one ever bothers anymore with introducing themselves, and

Mathieu!?!

Dear me, what a surprise!
-"Dear me, what a surprise!"
-"Hey how aaare you?" He hands me a glass, utterly blanking the person with whom I was supposedly having a conversation.
-"I'm grand thank you but listen er, let me introduce you to ahem, we were... Hang on: This is Mathieu -he's French- and here is Mrs...?"
-"De Valera. Sinead Aibhin De Valera."
Eh??
-"Right-so er, Mathieu, this is Mrs De Valera."
The old fox doesn't miss a trick. He passes me his glass (why, sure, go ahead!) and takes the lady's hand, which he brings to his lips.
-"Nice to meeet you."
S.A.D.V. is too stunned to speak. He air-kisses her hand and then has to ruin it for everyone:
"The thing is, you mustn't actually kiss you mustn't. It's all in ze gesture you know? A bit of apparented class."
Mrs. De Valera's hand is still hanging in mid-air; she finally lowers it and by the bye closes her mouth.
-".... Hmm and I think I'll problyleave youyoungpeoplesalone erright later..."
She heads straight for the bar.

"Click!" clicks Mathieu his tongue loudly -he is clearly enjoying his glass and I wonder how many he's had already. One thing is sure, this young man is certainly not the monastic type, can I blame him? After all, he's young and has a fully functioning liver or so I presume. Truth be told, tonight he is looking fairly sensational (all effortlessly cool, clean shaved and back-combed) but I know better than to indulge him; not for me to stand there gawking at him with my mouth open like that poor dear eh.

-"Nice lady I like her. Very classy." comments he. "Click!"
-"Ah, my friend you mean... Yes she certainly is, isn't she? A great book lover too, dead passionate about literature and er... so what 'you doing here, by the way? I mean, how lovely to see you and all, how 'you been keeping etc., but I don't remember seeing you at the talk -Am I mistaken?"
-"Ah yes, the talk. Oh yes I went there. For a brief time. It was very -er- interesting I think but I needed a smoke you know? I had to live early."
-"Pardon me?"
-"I had to go for a smoke -you know? a smoke? a cigarette outside of the building? Inside is not peussible."
Oh yes, "leave" -leave of course.
-"Oh yes, yes of course. Naturally, and so you left early I understand. ... Feeling any better now?"
-"Not bad, not bad at all -I am super, me- although I could have another one soon ha ha! But anyway. Anyway, and you?"
-"Me? Do you mean me if I'd like one? Er no, 'don't really smoke you know... not officially."
-"Not officially?"
-"Er... not on a regular basis no, maybe once in a while like, for a special occasion or..."
-"And this is not a special occasion?"
Wow, hold it right there! What does he mean by that? I dare not hope.
-"Er, I'm not quite sure..."
-"Keum on, get on your coat" -What?? I heard that one before! (although not in that word order) "We go for a smoke. But first..." Casanova checks on the bar situation "...I get a glass."

And so he does. Stomps back with two actually. Aw, how considerate, how thoughtful of him, and I hardly had time to touch mine yet!
"Thought I get two, I said them one was for you -ha!"
Rrrright so.
Now the good thing about him being laden with drinks is that, this time at least, he won't be able to just grab me as he did last time round; which I suppose is an improvement of sorts. I am now free to follow at my own pace and out of my own will (as it were, but let's not start splitting hairs). Off we go then. To the freezing cold we repair.

-"So... Lily." he offers after of course lighting up first "What's the tale then, or the stooory as you would say? You like literature huh? You are a fan? I see you come to all these... literature evenings -you must like it then?"
Well. As a matter of fact big boy, not all of them no; like for instance I may very well have not bothered tonight had it not for the possibility of meeting a certain Frenchman...
-"Well. Well I suppose, I've been known to attend a few for sure, but not every single one of them no. Let's just say that some are more attractive propositions than others..."
-"Uh-oh; I agree. Some stuff is better than others. Sure. Me I like to experience you know? I like to explore."
Explore...?
The hands have taken flight and are now in full flow.
"You know: Irish culture, Irish people, how they er... present their literature -like tonight yes?- how they hold up parties -like this one, with the amusing orchestra and the freezed cheese canapés -this is great! I love it!! Very civilised."
Why, thank you Sir you are too kind.
-"You don't have the equivalent in France? I find it hard to believe... Come on, surely you must have similar events! So where are you from exactly, by the way?"
-"Paree of course!" he replies triumphantly "ville de nos amours!" Looking suddenly concerned for my sanity, Mathieu grabs my shoulder. "But yes of coeuuurse we have parties in Paris, and even bigger ones! Bigger ones, with better wine! But here, you see... this is different. This is er... something else now let me think..." (I let him think) "Here... this is not what I normally know. So this is good yes, is something new."
I suppose this is as close to a seal of approval it will ever get.
-"Well that's a... one way of looking at things I guess. You sound really open-minded, this is so commendable."
-"Thank you thank you, I try to be. But I mean it, you know, if you go somewhere... you will want to discover that place right?"
Good call! and then almost seamlessly
"Do you drive? Do you have places to recommend, anywhere nice to discover? Huh?"
Well I... has he just asked me to become his guide or what? I have to catch my breath here. Now, to be sure, the prospect would not be without its charm, and I can certainly think of worse ways to spend a few hours than to gaze at his profile but... Need to think this one over, how can I play it? Can't possibly jump at the suggestion, can I? Can't just accede to his wishes, why you shameless hussy! Huh. The ball is in your camp old girl, keep him guessing!
-"As a matter of fact I do, yes. I have a car. As for lovely spots to visit well... I would imagine you've seen them all by now ...Haven't you yet?"
Reflection, it has often been documented, requires inspiring smoke into one's lungs. And so Mathieu takes a long drag.
"As a matter of fact no. No. But -hey- how can I say this if I haven't seen them yet? Eh?? I can't say then!" concludes the philosopheuuur in mock dramatic fashion, throwing his arms up in the air.
I'm not quite sure I follow his logic here but share a laugh the same. I catch myself patting my hair.
-"Well I... I suppose that in this case then, maybe, maybe I can be of assistance... I could show you around... sometime?"
-"That will be great!" booms he like an American tourist "That is terribeul!" (he probably means terrific) "What great idea Lily -you're a geeenius!"
Am I?
-"Oh not at all, I suppose is only natural after all… Only being helpful, like..."
-"Of course you must tell me when you're possible, I don't want to disturb you in your weurk right? By the way...", his eyebrows shoot up higher than Colin Farrell in Amsterdam, "You didn't tell me about your weurk, what you do..."
-"Well I... Since you ask, I"
-"I'll tell you what" he tells me what "you tell me inside, yes? It's fffeucking cold here! And we can get a glass there." Back to his impetuous self, France-Upon-Liffey's answer to Johnny Depp grabs me by the arm and just about drags me inside -Talk about getting swept off your feet!
"Aaaah the cold... I can't stand it! This is so unfair, so unfair to smoke outside! What about my human rights huh? In France we can smoke everywhere! Everywhere, I tell you! The restau, the bus, the toilet, the ciné -this is great!"
The smokeur suddenly slams on the brake and stops us on the threshold of the cafeteria:
"Wait!"
He cradles my arm inside his and goes back on his stomp.
"Better."
"Me and my lovely Irish friend"
I blush. The sudden heat, must be the sudden heat!
"...who hasn't told me about her weurk. I am very curious to know."