G is for Girl.
My mother still refers to her friends as ” the girls”, women in their 70s, early 80s, the term should be patronising, offensive, but there is something completely girlish about this group, which simply makes the term accurate – they are the girls.
They meet each month in central Dublin, although the journey from the bijou suburbs [ their houses bought long before the Celtic Tiger, long before the new austerity still worth amounts that keep us, the children, the grandchildren on our toes] has begun to frighten them, but still they meet in Bewleys and Brown Thomas, sip coffee, hit the National Gallery and Kilmanin for the modern stuff.
My mother looks at her oldest friends and wonders if she too has aged as badly as they seem to have and then tempted, agrees to a second piece of cake.
H is for holidays
A true story.
She drives her 4 year old to Devon, the car is bright red, her daughter call it the tomato car and years later cries when it is sold.
It rains every day for a week and she exhausts all the possible indoor activities in a 30 mile radius.
The holiday apartment is tiny, once the only bed is unfolded and the child put to sleep, the only place to sit where she cannot see the child is perched on the toilet seat. She spends most evenings here, trying to read.
The boy who comes to clean the apartment stinks of weed and on day 5, convinced that she may actually die, she offer him £20 and spends the next 3 days in a smoke filled daze. It seems to help. She & her daughter spend 2 hrs making sandcastles on the beach in the rain. It is their best thing. They talk & laugh about it for years and years afterwards.
I is for…… Ice cream and Iguanas and the Internet and Inter-Continental missiles, somewhere, somehow, no doubt all these things collide, conspire, create a perfect mad moment.
The joys of Inter-connectedness, Interweb-ery, Inter-rail, Inter-city.