PJ Harvey at Borris

As we took to our seats to hear Martin Amis talk at the Borris Festival of Writing and Ideas, a petite woman dressed in black (on what was the hottest day of the year in Ireland) sat in front of us. She was slightly blocking our view but we didn't complain. It was the legendary PJ Harvey. 

Martin Amis at the Borris House Festival of Writing and Ideas 2013

On Saturday 8th June 2013 Martin Amis came to the Borris House Festival of Writing and Ideas where he was interviewed by Sinead Gleeson. Here are some quotes.... 

On Women

"I am a gyno-crat"

On Thatcher

"My father had sex dreams about Margaret Thatcher. She was like the nanny who would spank your bottom. Christopher Hitchens told me once, "She stinks of sex".

On Katie Price

"She tried 100% as a mother. I struggled through four or five volumes of her autobiography. She updates you on her boyfriends".

On Christopher Hitchens

"He was the best company on earth. We made friends in our twenties. We lived our lived in parallel. We married at the same time. We had kids at the same time. We divorced at the same time. We got remarried at the same time. We had more kids at the same time. You lose a double. A secret sharer"

On reviews

"I don't read them. I get a level of insult that no-one else gets. I'm like Prince Charles. Kingsley is the king. I don't give them headspace. I need my mind to myself".

On himself

"When I was 30 the idea of a bottle of wine and a five hour read of me was the perfect evening"

On Writing

"Writing is ambition and anxiety in equal parts. There has to be that tension within you"

"When we say we love a writers work, we really only like half of it"

"A novel comes to you like a little de ja vu. A scene, a character, a moment that strikes you oddly".

"Write about what you know"

"A novel complies itself. Once the structure is there, it feeds on itself"

"Writing is celebratory. It is saying, isn't this worthy of wonder?"

"English poetry is the greatest on earth"

"Writers go off around the age of 70"

"Artists die twice. Once when the talent dies, second when you die"

"A poem stops the clock. It says LOOK AT ME, let's have this interaction"

"I'm not a reader of the young.  I read the dead".

"I would only write a children's book if I sustained a very serious head injury"

Dogs on Bikes

My 73 year old father has just got a new dog. He has been a biker all his life so when he told us that he had found the perfect way to get about town with 'April' we were intrigued. I searched the internet for ideas. 

1. Wrong type of bike. 

2. He only has one dog. 

3. His dog would not fit into a box. 

4. Too 'showy'

5. Too bulky.

6. His dog has not passed her driving test. 

7. He doesn't do three wheelers. 

8. Too snug. 

9. There's a safety issue here. 

10. This is what he has bought. Here's my dad and April. His and hers. The ideal way to travel.

HELP! Cats and dogs are taking over my house

This month has been an historic one as another daughter turned thirteen. That means there are two teenagers living in the house. That makes two young children, two teenagers, me, the dog and my husband under one roof. I am not sure whether to laugh or cry. Last weekend outside it was raining cats and dogs whilst inside the house it was an accusation from the newest teenager that was causing a cloudy atmosphere. 

"YOU LOVE THAT DOG MORE THAN ME" she shouted just before slamming the door of her bedroom in my face. This was less than five days after she turned thirteen. I swear that she would never have behaved like this a week previously. The transformation from happy go lucky child to moody teen has literally happened overnight. "Of course I don't," I reassured her through the door, my nose stuffed into the corner so tightly that I could smell WD40. 

I looked down at my feet. Our little dog Penny sat there quietly looking up at me. "YOU CAN'T EVEN GET MY NAME RIGHT" the just thirteen teen shouted through the door at me. I could detect that she wasn't hysterical yet; there was no need for Kleenex or the need to phone for assistance. I have a habit of calling up Lisa when times get hard. She is also a mother of teenage girls and my 'Phone A Friend' in a crisis situation. 

"Of course I know your name!" I comforted her through the door, my nose squashed right up to the hinge.It's not that I forget any of my kids names, I just get muddled up. I have to look at any one of them for a good five seconds before the name comes to me. It's part of the ageing process, name badges would help but tongues would start wagging. With the family pet in the mix it is true that occasionally I'll call one of the children 'Penny' by mistake. The two youngest children came bounding up to me. 

"Can we go outside? Got any ice pops?" they asked, reminding me that it really is summer. They ran off outside in the rain eating Loop The Loops. I looked down at the dog who was still looking up at me with total and utter devotion. I had been talking to the hinge for a good ten minutes when I decided to give up, head back to the kitchen and switch on Jeremy Kyle for light relief.  Ironically, the show was entitled 'My Kids Are Black And Angry!' which I could half relate to. 

The neighbour's black cat walked past the kitchen, watching me watching the angry family on the telly. The cat sat on the wall and stared at me like she hated me. I offered her food, she looked at me with disgust. I tried to stroke her. She hissed her disgust. That ungrateful cat looks down on me whether she is on the wall or not.  If I fainted with exhaustion after my morning of ironing, moody teenagers and Jeremy Kyle, she would have walked over my body. That cat thinks she owns the world and is totally and utterly self absorbed. As I lack lustily tackled the ironing, my eyes darting between the moody black cat, the angry black kids and a pile of shirts, my other teenager surfaced in a 'onesee'. It was just after midday. I decided to greet her with something benign but friendly. I have to choose my words very carefully as she is easily distressed by too much verbal interaction. 

"Good Morning Sunshine!" I tried. She grunted in my direction. That's a standard response in our house. Grunts are good, it means that she is alive and breathing. Any signs of life are a positive with teenagers. She shuffled past me like she had heavy, wet sandbags glued to the soles of her feet and headed for the fridge. I watched from behind the mountain of ironing as she opened the fridge door, let out an "AGGHHHH" and covered her eyes. The poor thing was almost blinded by the fridge light. Her sleeping patterns are such that she may as well live in a cave. Natural daylight and the glow from the fridge almost blinds her. It's a vampire like existence. I watched as she poured milk into her bowl, onto the kitchen counter and onto the floor. She emptied cereal on top, over the counter and onto the floor. Then I watched as she went back to her bedroom with her cereal, glancing at me with the same look of contempt that I get from the neighbour’s cat. I shouldn't encourage cereal in bed but I am learning to pick my fights, maintain an air of calm and do my best to give the impression that we a normal, not the least bit dysfunctional, family.

The two younger children came bounding back in. "It's stopped raining!" Insanely happy, they went back outside immediately with balls and rackets with a zest for life, energy, enthusiasm and humour that vanishes when the biological clock strikes thirteen. They'll chase a ball, go for a walk, try new adventures and generally lead a carefree, happy, uncomplicated existence. They are still full of cuddles, think I am GREAT and like nothing more than to be tickled. When I ask them to "Sit", "STAY" or "FETCH", they really do. I could enter either one of them into Crufts next year. 

At the other end of the spectrum, the teens stay in their room for the bulk of the day, occasionally preening themselves but mostly sleeping. They only surface once the sun has gone down and GLEE comes on the telly. I mustn't complain. It's what teenagers do. I did it and it drove my own mother as mad as I am now. My earliest childhood memory is of her sobbing into the ironing pile with Elvis in the background, doing her best to ignore us. Here I am thirty years later doing the very same. 

A friend quoted Churchill back to me as I moaned later that day, "Cats look down on us. Dogs look up to us. Pigs treat us as equals." Now there's a topic for Jeremy Kyle if ever there was one.   

The NCT, Magnets and Custard Creams

The National Car Test centre in Naas turned out to be an interesting place last week.  The men who check out the vehicles looked like they were each attempting a world record. There was a ridiculously tall mechanic, a ridiculously small mechanic and another with more tattoos and piercings than anyone on Miami Ink. They came and went as I sat in the waiting room. I was bringing the old jalopy in for another check over after it failed the initial test miserably. After a few minutes, a woman I know from town, Lynne, came in and sat beside me looking flustered. “Did your car fail?” I asked her. “No, I’m going through the menopause” she replied. Poor woman. She was hot and bothered before she had even got the results of the car test. 

She told me in a very loud whisper all about it. “I’ve been so moody” she began, looking left and right to make sure that the mechanics weren’t listening. “I was getting really hot and sweaty at night too” she continued,  "No sex drive at all!” she finished up. I opened a packet of custard creams that I happened to have in my bag and offered her one. They are my solution to most of the world's problems. Lynne shook her head. “No thanks. I have been putting on weight too which doesn’t help matters". I nodded sympathetically; I have eaten far too many biscuits this year. 

“Guess what I have done?” I couldn't begin to imagine. “I got a magnet,” she pointed downward. “I’m wearing a magnet in my knickers. What do you think of that?” I almost choked on my second biscuit. “In your knickers? Are you sure that is where it is supposed to go?” I asked, worried that she may not have read the small print right in her state of hormonal confusion. “Yes. Right here, in the front of my knickers. You wouldn’t know it was there at all would you? I can’t even feel it. It just sits there all day.” The very tall mechanic walked by carrying a bag of spanners. I winced expecting the whole lot suddenly shot out and stuck to the front of Linda's jeans. They didn't. 

"Guess who is sleeping at night? I’m still getting the night sweats but not half as bad and I lost a tiny bit of weight too - a nice bonus.” She told me that the magnet is the size of a jammy dodger biscuit and has been tested successfully all over the world. The experts don’t know exactly why it works for some women but it does. “It has changed my life” Lynne went on in the NCT waiting room. “And it is completely harmless. They use them on horses too” she continued. Horses in magnetic knickers? Now I was completely lost. 

So far I have not experienced any signs or symptoms of the menopause. I am one of those lucky women who has had the Mirena Coil in for years and benefited hugely from it. My own mother and millions like her had hysterectomies in their forties, but those days have gone now thanks to the coil and the magical way that it sorts out those fluctuating hormones. I was hoping that it would guide me through the menopause too. If it doesn’t, perhaps the magnet could be an option. Lynne certainly looked great. 

My car passed the NCT at the second time round. The most pierced mechanic gave me the certificate and I ran out of the building, heading out for a quick grocery shop before going home. I decided to invite magnetic Lynne round for coffee the following week. As I pushed my trolley around Dunnes I got to thinking about the magnet and potential hazards of wearing one in your underwear.  Could it set off the alarm at the airport, might it show up on the high tech body scanner machines that they have? Might they mistake the magnet as being a component of a bomb? Might you be accused of being a terrorist? 

I sent her a text a few days later.  "Coffee?” I asked. “Yes” she replied. Another from me: “Should I hide the cutlery? Wouldn’t want to trigger off the magnet.”  Another from her: “Don’t joke, just hung washing over the metal clothes airer - got totally stuck to it”

I suggest that anyone wearing such a magnet should treat themselves to a wooden airer. Safety first and all that.

CAR CRASH! At least no-one died (well actually, someone did...)

What the F*** were you thinking?” a man shouted at me last weekend, his face red with fury.

The traffic was at a virtual standstill and I had just realised that a funeral procession was taking place. “Who died?” is what I was thinking as I bumped into his car. I wanted to slide from my seat and curl up in a ball under the driver’s seat like a cat.

Instead, knowing that I had brought rush hour traffic to a complete full stop and was being watched by over twenty drivers, I held my head in my hands with the shame.

The windows were shut but I could hear him through them. “What the F*** were you THINKING?” he shouted again, pacing up and down.

I was thinking that the new family car might need a service. It sounds like a tractor and when you least expect it, does little bunny jumps. The bunny jumps are not good.

Registering that I had lost the power of speech temporarily, the man crouched down and began stroking his car’s bumper.

He came up to my window. I fumbled to find the newfangled button to make the window go down. Panicking and sensing his anger, I hit a button, any button. The rear window went down.

I hit another. This time the passenger seat window went down. Third time lucky, my own window finally lowered.

“Ok. I can’t see any damage” he said. I sighed with relief. I would not face the humiliation of having to fill out an insurance claim form.

The last time I had to sketch a lamppost with the rear of my car smashed into it.

“I’ll take your number, just in case I find any damage when i get home”.

With forty cars beeping their horns around me, the pressure was on. Try as I might, the numbers would not come into my head.

I fumbled around in my bag for my phone. I was like jelly, a nervous wreck. I needed to put this into perspective. Nobody had died. Well, actually somebody had died and was being buried. But I had not run anyone over in my newish bunny hopping car.

All I had to do now was remember my phone number, he would go away and we could all go home, have a cup of tea and watch Homes Under The Hammer.

But this was the ultimate memory game and like a contestant on The Cube, the tension was killing me.

“08…. 08, 08 something. Maybe 6?”

Where was Philip Schofield when I needed him? Instead half of Newbridge waited angrily in a mile long tailback behind me. I had attempted the Phone Number Recall Challenge and lost.

I needed to find my phone. Rummaging about in my bag, the darnn thing had vanished. I looked up at the driver. I think that his face was showing pity.

“Have you a pen?” he asked, softer now and less angry. I dipped into the handbag once more and pulled out a lipstick.

Then an eyeliner that I had last seen three years ago, then a questionnaire from a physiotherapist about exercise in young children, next a Samaritans information sheet and a handful of receipts from the petrol station, and finally a Lego Darth Vadar.

I opened the glove compartment. The obvious place for a pen.

I have a friend who runs her car like an office. She has make-up and hair accessories in one compartment and note pad, pens, tissues in another.

She always has a tasteful air freshener hanging from the mirror and there is not a scrap of dust to be seen anywhere in her car. She can pressed a button and magically talk to anyone through a special machine she has plugged into the dashboard.

She even has a designer perfume beside the handbrake that she uses as additional air freshener.

I have never looked beyond the front seat but I bet if I poked around in the back, I’d find fluffy slippers and a luxury towelling bathrobe.

To sit in her car is like spending time in a luxury hotel. You want to touch everything and take something home.

It’s not that I am jealous of her, but if she ever found herself in the same situation as me last week, she’d probably have pressed a button on her steering wheel and her insurance details, phone number and fingerprints would print out from a hidden gadget in the sun visor.

I opened my glove compartment, praying to the God of Pens.

Inside, an empty packet of Rhubarb and Custard hard boiled sweets, a melted bar of chocolate and a map of Snowdonia.

I was still unable to speak. the man leaned in.

“Just try and remember your phone number,” he said gently now.

This man would have made a great Samaritan. I should have given him the information sheet.

I pressed the palms of my hands either side of my head and focused on the Lego Darth Vader on my lap.

“086, 225?” I was almost there. I closed my eyes and used visualising techniques. I visualised that I was back on The Cube with my whole family sitting in a row cheering me on, clapping and whistling. I was almost there.

I may have had fifty cars beeping their horns, drivers shouting and waving their arms at me but with the good Samaritan beside me, I remembered the rest.

It was a small but important victory.

Despite what my overall general appearance may indicate, I still have it.

When push comes to shove, I still retain a few cells that work in my cranium, there really is sign of brain activity and there is hope for the future.

So what if I struggle with facial recognition, the time of day, what I went into a shop for, school meetings, the names of other people’s children, the names of my own children and birthdays.

I can still remember my mobile phone number. Just.

Give Us A Clue Slavomir!

“I know a good painter.” My ears pricked up. The once crisp white walls were looking more like fifty shades of grey. I needed a painter urgently.

“Pawel brings his own flask of tea and insists on hoovering up when he has finished". As if that wasn’t enough of a recommendation Imelda added, “and he looks like David Beckham.” I phoned Pawel immediately. 

The next day he arrived. He really was Poland’s answer to Vikki B's husband. His white painter’s overalls were spotless and looked ironed. His teeth were as white as snow, he was spray tanned and he wore ‘Aviator’ sunglasses despite the fact that it was raining and no-one in Kildare has seen the sun for six months. 

Pawel was the coolest painter in Ireland. He went around the house, studying the walls and striking the occasional pose. “This job will take a week.” He would be in the house for a whole week? I could handle that even if it was a bit weird that he didn't once remove his sunglasses. The job was booked.

Pawel phoned the day before he was due to arrive; he was sick. “I am sending my father to you instead. He is a good painter also. He does not speak English. But it’s OK, I have explained the job.”

Twenty-four hours later, I watched as Slavomir arrived in a beaten up, red 1990 Volvo estate. Out stepped a strapping seven foot tall bearded pensioner. He waved. I waved back and launched into my welcome. “Hello Slavomir! Isn’t it cold. Is Pawel feeling better?” sometimes I can be too chatty. 

A smiling Slavomir looked mildly confused, shrugged his shoulders and said “Tak, tak”. He walked into the house holding his flask in one hand and a ladder in the other.

My week with Slavomir began well. Being so tall meant that he didn’t need an extension pole on his roller. His arms were incredibly long.

He had great patience. He needed it thanks to my own terrible lack of attention to detail when it comes to housework.

The ceilings were cluttered with cobwebs that I had been there for at least ten years. He came into the kitchen when he discovered the first one, muttering “Yes, yes” to himself.

As I stood ironing, he composed himself briefly stretching one arm into the air and with a sweeping gesture, performed a short mime. Silently, he proceeded to stand on tip toes and wave his arms about theatrically, reaching into imaginary corners until I shouted out, “A duster?”

“Ah tak, tak, D-U-S-T-E-R!” he clapped his hands when I waved the feather pink duster around in the air. He grabbed it from me, said “Tak, tak “ and headed back into the bedroom.

After another hour or so of painting, Slavomir came back into the kitchen. This time he looked troubled. Taking a deep breath, he slowly let put just one word that I had never heard before: ‘functionality’.

It was my turn to look mildly confused and smile. “F-U-N-C-T-I-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y” he said again, slowly. Then came the second mime of the day. He fell to the floor and banged at a bit of skirting board.

Then he stood up and opened and closed an imaginary door. This required much more of my attention than the feather duster did. I put the iron down. “Door?” “Yes, yes!” Did he want to go out? Did he need the toilet? Had he locked himself out of his car? I was clutching at straws. It was never this hard on Give Us A Clue.

He took my hand and led me into the bedroom. Kneeling down, he showed me the problem, repeatedly opening and closing the real door and pointing to where it banged against the skirting board.

He wanted me to get a doorstop or something like it that would make the whole door situation better.

I thanked him and wrote ‘BUNG’ on my shopping list.

‘Functionality’ covered all manner of problems in the house. Using nothing but mime, Slavomir was able to act out to me five minor ‘functionailty’ issues in the house. 

Slavomir discovered a broken window handle, a missing hinge, a broken wall bracket, several holes that needed filler and a chipped tile in the bathroom. But on day three came a different problem altogether.

He came into the kitchen once again and said another new word, very slowly.

“C-O-C”. “COC?” I said back to him. Something was seriously lost in translation.

"C-O-C” he nodded at me this time with a mime. He stretched his hand out in front of him and like he was holding a gun, slowly moved it left and right.

“Coke?” he shook his head at me. “C-O-C” he continued. Was he asking for Gok Wan? Why did he suddenly need style advice?  

He shook his head. “C-O-C” he tried once more. He took my hand again and led me out to his car where in the back, he showed me an empty cylinder of something called ‘Builders Caulk’.

“You want me to get some of this?” he nodded “Yes, Yes. COC.” I wrote ‘Caulk’ on my shopping list and nipped into the DIY shop for Slavomir.

That afternoon, oven on and time for a spot of baking. Jeremy Vine on the radio, a phone in about animal cruelty and all was fine until Slavomir came back into the kitchen.

“C-O-C” he said, slowly. We had been here before. I had been to the DIY store. Surely he hadn't run out again. “CAULK?” he shook his head. “C-O-C” he went on. “You want a COKE?” he shook his head again. “C-O-C” I was really struggling. "COC?" It was never this hard fro Lionel Blair. Slavomir felt deep into his pocket and grabbed about deep inside for a few moments until he pulled out his phone. He scrolled through some photos. “C-O-C!” he showed me the screen and a picture of a gateau.

“CAKE?” “Yes, YES! C-A-K-E”. He pointed at a cake on the screen. “I, CAKE.” “You would like some CAKE?” I asked. “Yes, yes. Slavomir CAKE.” At that moment, the bleeper went on the oven and I pulled out a cinnamon and vanilla sponge. He ate three slices very quickly.

Thanks to Slavomir the walls look as white as Pawel’s teeth. I shall try and learn some basic Polish because It’s me who should be saying “Serdecznie dziekuje”.