theboreen.com

The women are wearing ladders on their feet. Stiff-legged, they limp out of church after a Confirmation. One clomps along lifting her feet high off the ground – must control the shoes before the shoes control me, while another moves as she would whisper, trying to keep her legs from realising what her feet are wearing.

Scary photo courtesy of shine.yahoo.com

Two women do the baby-step-shuffle down the street. At this rate, it will take them an hour to travel one-hundred yards. They giggle self-consciously and hold onto each other for stability. Good luck. If one of you goes over, the other one is going down too.

Fall-down-go-boom courtesy of disadvantagedbydesign.com

The parade hobbles past, a blur of satin dresses and feathery hats. I count twelve pairs of stilts. Three pairs of high-rise wedges. Six pairs of ‘not quite reasonable’ heels.

Agony of da-feet.

I imagine badly-scraped knees and hunched backs and lumpy knotted toes which gets me thinking about the early 1970’s.

I was a kid living on the ground floor of a tall apartment building. Rocky was a little older than me and lived on the fourth floor. We would arrange secret meetings in the stairwell, to draw. I drew monsters in dumb-looking shoes.

No idea why I called this the Plant Monster. Looks more like the robot from Lost in Space covered in fish scales. Go figure.

Rocky drew models wearing amazing high-heels.

Ouch

Ah

It would start with us laying out our white sheets of paper and sharpening our pencils.

“Ten sheets for me and ten for you.”

Rocky drew as fast as he talked. I don’t remember what about but by the end his sheets were brimming with whacky shoe designs. Some were sharp and spiked, some massive and clunky, others high and spindly but all were shoes I had never seen before.

He was designing ways for women to murder their feet long before anyone else was. Rocky was a horror movie on legs. A podiatrist’s nightmare. A chiropractor’s dream.

Rocky’s shoe models always came to a bad end. There was always beauty followed by devastation. Severed legs and feet, bones protruding and in general heaps of gore but, the shoes were always perfect. Not one drop of blood, not one fleck of flesh.

My time with Rocky made an impact. High shoes frightened me. I tried to wear platforms but eventually ran back to the safety of sneakers. I have a few mottos in life. ‘No falling, no bloodshed’, is one of them.

Unfortunately, our mutual art career was short-lived. We were caught and I was told to stay away from the stairwell.

Now, as I marvel at the last of the stuttering feet I wonder what happened to ‘ole Rocky. Did he grow up to be a famous shoe designer? Is he Grand Poobah of the cult of Foot Masochism? Did he brainwash Daphne Guinness?

Is he directing scary high-heel movies?

Does he have a foot fetish?

Or was Rocky just a kid with a vivid imagination and a fast pencil who saw the future of footwear and took ‘what price beauty’ to its most excruciatingly beautiful end?

I’m in the car in a parking lot waiting for Mr Mc. It’s raining. Now it’s hailing. It’s sunny then raining again.

There is a tree, some bushes and a fence.

In the car next to me a woman is applying lipstick. A Fun Fair is in full swing somewhere nearby.

A man’s muffled voice booms across the parking lot -“Blah! Blah! Come on! Hey!” – before morphing into nightmare-ish clown music that ends with “Bwwwwoooooo-whooop.”

Never trust a clown

A blue car pulls in two cars down from ours and parks at the side of the fence.

Get that rust-bucket off the road

The driver gets out. He walks from his car to another car and stands behind it. He stares. He paces. His feet are large.

"Got ants in my ants and I need to dance"

He takes out a cigarette, lights it and paces. He puffs but the cigarette sticks to his lips when he pulls it away and his fingers slide to the lit end. He drops it to the ground and stomps it to death.

He shakes his hand violently and walks back to his car but doesn’t get in. ‘Ants-in-the-pants’ is what I’m thinking.

It’s raining again but he stands there jiggling around getting soaked.

In my notebook I write, “See if you can find that Saturday Night Live skit with the, “I have ants-in-my-pants and I need to dance”, song. Or maybe it was “party in my pants”.

“Bwwwwoooooo-whooop!”

I use peripheral vision to watch him because he won’t stop staring at me.

I lock the car doors.

He reaches inside his coat, pulls out a red envelope and scans the parking lot.

He’s a slippery character is what I’m thinking.

Cripes. Is he undoing his belt? He stops to pick his nose then clomps across the parking lot to another car. I put on my sunglasses and watch him in the side-view mirror. He leans into the open window to speak with whoever is inside. I’m pretty sure that we’re dealing with a ‘builder’s-butt’ situation here and am glad I’m not close enough to see it.

“What is he doing?” I ask myself. I don’t unlock the car. I sit and wait.

Mr. Fun Fair says, “Blaaaaaah. Hey. Hey. Blah-blah. Come on!”

“Bwwwwoooooo-whooop!”

Back at his car, ants-in-the-pants circles once. I see that he still has the envelope. I think, ‘it must have been the wrong whoever in that other car’.

He stares and paces. Smokes and stares. I’m feeling a teensy-weensy bit uncomfortable.

The Relic

I pick up The Relic, phoney dial and start a conversation with Mr Mc who is not on the other end.

“Hello,” I say and pause to give Mr Mc time to say hello back.

“There’s a super-freak in the parking lot. He’s staring at me, jiggling around and in general, acting suspiciously”. Pause. Fake laugh. Nod.

I lower my voice because I feel stupid talking to no one.

“Anyway. He’s smiling now. There’s nobody here but me and he’s smiling in the other direction. I swear if he comes over here I’ll deck him.”

Ants-in-the-pants leans on the car next to his. He looks at the envelope before stuffing it back into his jacket. It’s raining again.

“So. Ya. Listen,” I say. “If you could tell her that when you get a chance. Ya. I know. I know, so that’s what you should do anyway. And then if you can do that it would be great.” I have no idea who I’m talking about.

Mr. Fun Fair says, “Blah, hey, blah, blah, come on, blah.”

“Bwwwwoooooo-whooop.”

I scope ants-in-the-pants in the rear-view mirror. With The Relic to my ear I shake my head, ruffle my hair and say, “he’s standing in back of another car and I can’t see his hands. I think he’s having a pee.”

Pre-pee

I try ventriloquism.

“Weirdee-weird,” I say without moving my lips. Well, they move a little. “Are you coming back to the car anytime this century-I’m talking to you-I feel like Dee Wallace in Cujo. I can’t open the window and I’m suffocating in here.”

Minutes pass. Ants-in-the-pants is back near his car. He sits on the bonnet then slides off.  I’m so bored. I try speaking in tongues but all that comes out is gibberish.

“Chran chrink tu tu. Inkta oonktah. Maninta poojaloo. Valeena, goruna, gooktah.” I growl into the phone. Then, I make believe I’m raising my voice.

“Eeeeeneeee, eeeneee. Poopala smooner.”

For dramatic effect, I throw in a few angry gestures and then, revert back to English.

“What are we having for dinner anyway? I really don’t feel like cooking. I’m always cooking.”

I grimace into the mirror. ‘Ants-in-the-pants’ sees me doing this, gets into his car and drives away.

“Bwwwwoooooo-whooop!”

Two minutes later Mr Mc returns.

“Sorry that took so long. Wanna go check out the Fun Fair?” he asks.

Just another work day

I’m making faces at myself in the hotel room mirror. The room looks out onto a busy road and I have opened the window. It’s raining. Someone in the next room is talking fast and loud. If I’m going to have to listen to noise, I prefer the sound of traffic to an incessant human voice.

I’m working or trying to work. I have booked this room in this city hotel because there are occasions when I need to escape. I have no office where I live now. My office is at home and home is presently occupied by tenants.

Get a (inexpensive) room, I say to myself.

MrMc has to be in the city for 8:15 a.m. We must leave by 6:00.

At 4:30 a.m., I have 30 minutes, at 4:50 I have ten minutes, at 5:26 I have no minutes. The system has failed. The alarm clock is a traitor.

In quick succession: clothes, coffee, car, cold toast, cows, cars speeding, car on fire. Black smoke, grey smoke, white smoke.

Very fast response

Hotel. 8:00 a.m. I can use the leisure centre. The room has a bath but no shower. My next-door neighbour’s voice pounds through the wall. I will admit something. I will qualify it by saying that I only want to see if it works, I’m just trying it out.

I place a water glass to the wall and listen. Briefly. I hear, “someone is taking a bath next door”.

My hotel room espresso recipe. Sprinkle one full sachet of coffee into cup. Fill cup halfway with boiled water. Stir well with spoon provided. Optional: UHT Milk.

This room comes with an excellent hairdryer.

I move stuff. I make space. And begin.

Love the lamp

Review. Type. Review. Type. I can’t believe how much big noise you can stuff into such a small space. Type. Type. Bathroom. Another espresso. I’m shaking a little bit now. I remember leftover toast and find a low-fat cookie in the bottom of my computer case. I’m not prone to low-fat cookies and don’t know how it got there, but what can you do? Type. Ponder. Type.

This room comes with a perfectly-made bed.

Tight

I don’t lie down once. Not one time. Someone in the hallway is using cleaning supplies. I can smell them – the cleaning supplies, not the someone.

Shuffle papers. Make notes. My neighbour is arguing now. I don’t think they’re in there working. What the hell are they doing in there? Stand and stretch and realise that I overdid the treadmill. I always do.

1:30 p.m. Downstairs in the bar I count things. One Sandwich Chef. Two Carvery Hats. One tuna sandwich. Fifteen suits. One bowl of broccoli soup. Zero crisps. One cigarette machine. Overheard conversations without using a glass and eight tourists = eight pints.

Stroll the lobby. One small adult person walking as if they have a ‘load in their pants’. That was my fondest childhood expression. Load in the pants.

Later. I’ve always wanted to try this because I never drink tea during the day. One luxury tea with one brown sugar. The tent sign on the desk tells me that Jaffa Cakes do muffins. Galaxy do muffins. This is news. Why don’t they do a muffin for this room?

Retro-straightener

I want to iron my hair. I’ve never tried it but think it might be a good thing to do. Type and think ‘aren’t hotel rooms during the day the strangest places?’

How did they get this bed to look so perfect? Bathroom. Three squirts of soap. One squirt of hand cream. I’m not sure I like this hotel but I do like that blanket.

Let’s look at the things I usually take from hotel rooms.

You can never have enough...

You can never, ever have enough...

I would never take the basket

I don’t like admitting this, but I have been known to take a toilet roll. My father used to take things. Not just small things either. He took ashtrays. Cutlery. Towels. It’s part of the heritage. Our ‘old people’ are well known takers-of-things.

I’m proud to say that I make a contribution to the coffee basket. Two white sugars I take from downstairs.

Type. Type. Notes. Those sheets are really tucked into that mattress, tight. I’ve always wanted to try this. I toss a coin in the middle of the bed. It bounces.

Somewhere, a door slams. Something on wheels squeaks by.

Let’s look at the contents of the bin.

Aesthetic

I remove and tie the bag to save the room-refresher person time.

I’m an almost perfect guest.

Downstairs in the lobby. Muzak! That ‘Angels’ song.

Two suits. Lobby conversation. No glass required.

Suit One: “Yep, yep, yep. And, and, and. Yep, yep, yep. Hahahahahahahahahahaha. It’s crazy.”

Suit Two: “I have so much information.”

Suit One: “Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. I’m getting tea.”

Suit Two makes a phone call. Suit One comes back and sits next to him. They open computers. Muzak! That ‘Close to You’ song.

Suit One: “Hahahahahahahahahahaha. Try that.”

Suit Two: “I never tried that before.”

Suit One: “Nah. It’s not working.”

Suit Two: “Try again later.”

Suit One goes outside for a smoke.

To summarise. I have used all of the towels in the room and folded them neatly. I have used one coffee cup, two packets of coffee, one luxury tea, three creamers and one glass. I have retuned the kettle to its upright and locked position on the tray. I have taken the shower cap but nothing else as I am trying to break the habit. I have not ironed my hair. I have completed my work and eaten all of my lunch. I have not made a mess. I have been witness to a budding romance.

Not bad for a days’ work.

p.s. This post was brought to you with much duress because WordPress would not allow me format it properly. Sorry for any visual inconvenience this may have caused.

Stress causes Earth to explode

An overly-tidy, well-behaved planetary drama containing cigarettes, crack-pots (not cocaine), three sacrifices and one surprise cartoon ending.

Produced by: George (my) Pal

Directed by: Rudolph (my) Maté

Costumes by: Edith (the) Head

Re-enacted in approx 1,460 words including various notations while trying to decide between this

Would have preferred Cherry Garcia

and this

T(oo)D(ie)F(or)

Random Music of Doom. Fire and fire balls as follows:

Fireball – When

Fireball –Worlds

Fireball – Collide

Followed by bluish smoke, probably from one of the camera guy’s cigarettes.

Opening shot. The Holy Bible.

Cue Random Angelic Singing.

Thunder Claps.

“And God looked upon the Earth, and behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon Earth.”

Then something about Noah plus the end of flesh plus violence plus behold plus I’m going to destroy the Earth.

Fake stars in fake outer-space and a voice-over that no matter how many times I select English wants to speak in German.

“There are more stars in heaven than men on earth.”

Blah-D-Blah.

Scene 1. Secrecy. South Africa. Makey-up Observatory. Dr. Bronson talks to Paul and Stanley. (Note: Paul Stanley from KISS. My observation not the movie-makers obviously)

Dr. Bronson: “It’s a frightening discovery.” Doesn’t seem frightened.

Call Dave Randall who is flying a plane and smooching up a blonde with big fat 1951 pre-Botox lips.

Enter Randall. “Hi Paul. Hi Stan.”

Dr. Bronson (smoking pipe): “Time is all that matters. Money doesn’t matter at all.”

Some back and forth about ‘oh yes it does’ and Dr. Bronson says a time will come when it won’t matter but that time isn’t exactly now you rich bastard, is it. (Note: no one in this movie calls anyone else in this movie a bastard)

Randall handcuffed to Black Box and given photos of Professor Hendron who awaits delivery of same.

Scene 2. The Black Box. Flirty stewardess. The ladies love Randall! The Sentinel will offer Randall 5large to tell what’s in The Box.

US Customs.

Joyce Hendron has neat hair, pearls and a secret. Donovan from The Sentinel offers Randall 7.5large to tell him what’s in The Box.

Randall doesn’t know what’s in The Box.

Taxi.

Joyce: “The public can’t have the information prematurely.”

Followed by: “I haven’t the courage to face the end of the world.”

Randall: taps fingers on case while his eyes say ‘what a loo-lah’.

Professor Hendron’s office. Tony loves Joyce. He is a medical doctor. Smoke cigarettes. Doomsday? Exact science. Smoke cigarettes. Doomsday? Meeting. Black Box. 1.5large. Differential Analyzing.

Calculations. Joyce has a ruler.

Scientists with manicures and nail varnish.

Bellus – Big. Ass. Planet.

Zyra – Smaller. Ass. Planet.

Professor Hendron: “Dr. Fry. Note the position of these new bodies.”

Dr. Fry: “Yes. Yes I see.”

Both bodies are heading towards Earth.

“If Doctor Bronson’s calculations are correct, they will destroy the earth.”

Dramatic verbiage.

Might have some of these

Rudolph (my) Maté’s direction to Joyce: Enter the room wearing a face of disaster. Joyce enters the room wearing a face of constipation. There is no error. Earth is screwed. (Note: my thoughts while refraining from using the ‘f’ word)

Drinking, dancing, smoking, dancing, laughing.

Drunken Randall lights money with fire underneath chafing dish. Lights cigarette with money.

Rudolph (my) Maté’s direction for woman at next table: First, laugh. Then show interest. Then display indignation and make it really obvious that you are acting.

Joyce dances with Tony flirts with Randall dances with Tony flirts with Randall and Tony wants to marry her. (Note: Joyce has commitment issues)

Randall keeps lighting money on fire to light his cigarettes.

Scene 3. Scientific Scorn. Big conference of delegates wearing clichéd outfits.

Next July 24^th: Zyra will be here by lunchtime. (Note: lunch is for wimps)

Next August 12^th: Bellus will crush earth in the morning. (Note: better not show up before coffee)

We all need to move to Zyra!

Astronomer from Cornwall: “Predicting the end of the world is an annual crack-pot event in our society.”

Lots of clapping and the doomsday scientists are laughed out of the UN.

Rich guys will pay towards building of Rocket Ship.

Scene 4. Stanton’s Money. Here comes Mr. Stanton. Here comes his slave Ferris who is pushing Stanton’s wheelchair. Stanton has a face like an asteroid. He’s spoken to the other astronomers.

“They think you’re a crack-pot.”

Stanton is rich. He has ego issues and a god-complex.

“I get to choose who goes.”

Professor Hendron is so pissed off at him. Much debating.

Stanton: “You know I can’t refuse. Build it.”

You know I can't refuse

Scene 5. Preparing the Rocket Ship. Top Male (chauvinist) Engineers selected. Big chalky diagram with notes and symbols.

“Bitches, this is our ride outta here.” (Note: no one actually says this)

Top Women (incubators) selected. Good technicians!

You’re healthy = time to make the babies. (Note: no one actually says this)

Secret camp. Suitcases. Bunker.

The sign says: Waste anything except TIME. Time is our shortest material.

Microfilm Lab. Slow pan of books. Bible. Shakespeare. Anatomy. Mathematics. Agriculture. (Note: nothing to read while on the toilet)

Chickens. Sheep. Cows. (Note: so much for the vegetarians) Horses. (Note: don’t go there)

Joyce is cold to Tony. Stanton with a face like Mars is mean to Ferris.

Stanton has rifle issues. Law of the jungle. The human jungle. People won’t act civilised.

Scene 6. Evacuation. Big. Ass. TV. Announcement. Matter of life and death. Not looking so good for humanity.

Joyce wants Randall to go on Rocket Ship.

Randall: “You won’t need an aerial taxi driver for another hundred years.”

Joyce: (Pouts)

Orderly evacuation. No panic. No mayhem. Much praying and atoning.

Idiots. You’re not going to Zyra. You’re going to die. Demand drugs, booze, more cigarettes. (Note: my thoughts on the matter not the makers of the movie I’m sure)

New York is a ghost-town.

Scene 7. The Hour of Doom. “One O’clock. The Hour of Doom.” Much clock staring. Nothing happens. Stanton yelling and yelling with a face like a meteor.

“I think all you scientists are crack-pots!”

Shaky camera. Dust. Blackout. Flashlight. Shaky camera. Volcano! Drizzle of lava! Collapsing bridge. Fire. Tidal wave.

The Rocket Ship is breaking loose. Crane falls on top of Doctor Bronson. Dead.

Tony is pissed off at Randall.

People stranded on a rock in the water. Two tents. Two nurses. Helicopter drops boxes. Flies off. Stranded forever with three days worth of supplies. Worse than ‘The Road’.

Scene 8. Lottery. Flight restricted to 7,000 pounds of peoples. Professor says this equals 44 persons.

Science jargon about fuel. Fuel usage. Fuel efficiency. Let’s pick numbers!

Stanton has a face like a giant planetoid.

Randall refuses to go. Joyce wants him to go. They just go on and on and on and on…

Scene 9. A Reason to Go. Big glowing red planet. Bellus.

Day 7. Announcer is a moan: “We’re falling behind schedule.”

Day 6. Announcer is a nag: “We’re still falling behind schedule. Hurry.”

Rocket Ship interior contains more metal chairs than a High School Prom.

Day 4. Announcer is getting on my nerves: “We’re still more than 3 hours behind schedule. Make it up. Hurry.”

Day 3. Randall loves Joyce.

Tony. Randall. Chat. Once we take off, everyone is going to blackout. Fry has a bad heart. Tony saw the cardiogram. He may not make it. Randall is life insurance. Now he has a reason to go.

Announcer is an anal-retentive, time-obsessed whine: “We’re still 32 minutes behind schedule.”

Scene 10. The Chosen Few.

Sacrifice #1. Eddie returns his number because girlfriend Julie wasn’t chosen.

Ferris. Gun. Steals Eddie’s number. I’m going.

Bang-Bang-Bang. Stanton with a face like a moon-pie shoots Ferris.

"Dominus Vobiscum"

Space outfits. Short Monk raincoat things and a beanie. Edith (the) Head on corn nuts.

Get on the Rocket Ship. Angry mob finds guns. Bang-Bang-Bang.

Sacrifice #2. Professor Hendron wheels Stanton, face like a pile of wet cement, away from Rocket Ship. Closes gang plank.

Scene 11. Journey to a New World. Joyce shocked. Everyone naps. Bellus is going to smash into Earth! (Note: stressed out by impending doom, Earth explodes before Bellus even touches it)

Wake up. Fry is still alive. Tony fibbed about heart problems.

Sacrifice #3. Tony lets Joyce and Randall be in love.

Wobbly Rocket Ship.

“Land anywhere.”

“Check your belts.”

Rudolph (my) Maté’s direction to the passengers: “Look nervous. Jostle your head from side to side. Scream.”

Cue Cheerful Music.

“We’re here.”

“Let’s go.”

“Test the atmosphere.”

“Bring out the gang plank.”

“Best air I ever tasted.” (Note: worst cartoon set I ever saw)

Cue Angelic Singing

"What's up Doc"

“The first day on the New World had begun…”

(Note: After 3 weeks on the New World spurned Tony lures Randall into a maze of caves inhabited by Barney and all his friends. Joyce blows up Tony with Marvin the Martian’s ‘Illudium Q-36 (or PU-36) Explosive Space Modulator’ then falls in love with SpongeBob. Fry turns out to be a Transformer who falls in love with the Rocket Ship. The Top Men Engineers and Top Women Incubators turn out to be completely incompatible except for Eddie and Julie but they can only do so much. The sheep eventually take over, start the Acme Sweater Company and export lovely Zyran woollen-wear across the galaxy. Note: except, of course, to Earth)

The End.

There's no place like home

This is what happens in Month Eight. The shower cap doesn’t work.

Moving back to my house is a whisper in the ear of next year. Christmas 2012 is approaching. The tree is up. It cost €12 at Argos back in 2011. Its phony baloney branches beckon for baubles and bling. The skimpy strand of mini-lights on the mantelpiece glows like a beacon from space. There is no garland. It worries me that garland is how caterpillars would look if I was on acid. There is food. I’ve shopped for twenty-five. There are two of us here. There are a few presents. Maybe I’ll have a glass of wine.

Other than the bullying wind, it’s quiet. Not a good quiet like at home, which is more of a bloated silence. This quiet is undernourished. It sucks the thoughts from my head.

This quiet is a vampire.

The shrieking children have vanished. Maybe the military found my map co-ordinates.

There are no cars on the road. The grass covering the dunes bites into my legs the few times I venture out. The ocean hates me. I know this because it continues to throw dead things across my path.

The holidays are a ghost-town.

What I’ve learned.

Blood is thicker than water. Here, the population is layered with family. Mrs. X is related to Mr. G while J and K are first cousins related to that family down the road. So and so is such and such’s aunt and A knows B who is married to their nephew who has relations in Y. Everyone seems to either be related or know each other from the time of diapers. They grew up here. You did not. They don’t need you. The sooner you come to grips with this the sooner you’ll realise that they won’t be visiting you over the holidays.

There are more allusions to that alien movie than you care to admit. On this finger of land jutting into the face of the sea, no one can hear you scream. But you can hear you scream. Maybe the ocean hates you because you’ve screamed at it once too often. You’re beginning to feel like Lambert on the Nostromo. You stare holes into the computer screen; jaw clenched, hair ruffled. You haven’t done so in years but more than anything, you want to smoke with brutality. Every puff a gagging hack to your anxiety. You wonder how you would look with hair that short.

The holidays go pretty much like this. Pyjamas. Food. Fair City. Pyjamas. Wine. Whine. Cheese puffs.

Month Nine. You’ve started dreaming of the colour green. Trees. Grass. Fields. You miss the pungent smell of silage. You wonder if the potholes notice you’re gone. Do the baby sheep?

Clyde

You dream of your house; the rooms swollen with other people’s mess, their hairbrushes and toiletries. Are they cooking meat? Is your bright and gleaming cooker going into shock? Is it calling to you at mealtimes? Oh, where art thou lentil loaf? Slabs of baked tofu?

Soy good

Bring back the veggie burgers.

Month Nine – later. Time for a talk. Look into the mirror. What. Are. You. Doing? You don’t belong here. You must leave. This is a direct order from HQ. Do a clear-out. Who needs three boxes of Halloween decorations? What the hell are you going to do with several thousand feet of parachute material? Planning an invasion? Didn’t you do that already?

For move Number 3 you discover that many estate agents are doofuses and find:

* a house that friends kindly view on your behalf. They think it’s ok and would tell you straight if it wasn’t. You’re interested but the agent has to speak to the owner. You’ll know something tomorrow. Tomorrow you know nothing. More days and a weekend pass. The owner of the house has rented it out from under everyone’s noses wasting everyone’s time.

* a house that is filthy and over-priced and comes with loud next-door neighbour children.

* a house that is filthy and over-priced and tiny and scary and comes with glaring next-door neighbour adults.

* a smelly house.

* a filthy and over-priced and super-scary house where someone has left a 15-pound turkey in the freezer and the freezer hasn’t been on since 1952.

Month Ten. Screw it. SCREW. IT. You’re going back home where every once in awhile you can cruise by your house (the one you’ve rented out dunderhead) not too slowly but slowly enough to feel like a stalker. You should have called the estate agent you know from home in the first place but realise that for the past ten months your brain has been lost in space with Dr. Smith as its only companion.

Your wonderful estate agent finds a stone cottage on a boreen in the hills next to a farmhouse. Pack the rental van! Heave-ho. Throw in those boxes. Don’t forget your cafetiere.

With one hand clutching the handle of the cat carrier, your big ray-gun in the other, spin and sweat and spin and sweat as you scuttle for the safety of the van. Flip switches. Start the engine. Don’t take off your clothes. See the open water slapping the shore. The moon is an egg in the misty blue sky.

Don’t be curious about any of it. Drive away without waving goodbye.

They have matching tans and mush between their ears. They are image conscious, have been around a combined 128 years, contain preservatives and come in a variety of compatible flavours.

Wow.

Original Barbie/Original (s)Pam

Western Barbie/Hickory Smoke (s)Pam

Spanish Language Teacher Barbie/Hot and Spicy (s)Pam

TV Chef Barbie/(s)Pam and Penne Pasta

Business Executive Barbie/(s)Pam with Bacon

Malibu Barbie/Honey (s)Pam

So much in common! Such good friends! But, when (s)Pam discovers that back in 1963 the Barbie outfit ‘Barbie Baby-sits’ came with a book titled ‘How to Lose Weight’ which advised ‘Don’t Eat’, it feels confused and hurt.

Miffed

“Don’t eat? It balks while scratching its can. People may call me ‘mystery meat’ or ‘meatloaf without basic training’ and she may have had a zillion more careers than I have, but how could she betray me like this?”

At first (s)Pam doesn’t know what to do. After answering emails and wondering if the world is really ready for ‘SPAM with wiener schnitzel’, (s)Pam spams Barbie asking her to drop over for a visit.

Hi

Enter Barbie wearing her best figure-flattering outfit. She takes a seat at the kitchen table across from (s)Pam.

I'll have a diet something

Barbie: (hopes (s)Pam is jealous because she has always been jealous that ‘it’ has sold by the billions and she doesn’t even know why because she doesn’t even know what a billions is) “I’m 5’7” and weigh 110 pounds. Should I obtain a tiny or medium size with this dress?”

(s)Pam: (scribbles something on a sheet of paper) “In case you are reasonably lively, multiply your weight by 17. In case you are active, multiply your weight by 20. In case you are full-balanced multiply by a less-insulated ski jacket.”

(s)Pam hands Barbie the paper.

Barbie: (looks at it and sighs) “Could it be me or does it give the impression like a few of these comments come across written by brain-dead folks.”

(s)Pam: (annoyed) “Excessive armpit sweating!”

You Smell

Barbie: (disgusted) “It’s enormous that you are getting ideas from this paragraph as well as our argument made at this time.”

Bitch

(s)Pam: (thinking ‘what does she know about life anyway?’) “Incongruent communication patterns are identified here for its dramatic lush landscape and sandy beaches.”

Barbie: (liking the bit about sandy beaches because she looks ‘just soooo great in a bikini’ but still displaying elements of disgust) “Top sheet here. I don’t agree with all the comments but I think it’s right what you are saying.” (And she means the beach part).

(s)Pam: (understanding itself to be the self with all the wisdom and not wishing to push Barbie over the edge) “Hat unlocks the door to taking action. Ravings for sweets and other unhealthy foods. It will be suppose that can assist with your power, body weight…”

Barbie stands up huffily, looks at her watch but realising she doesn’t have it on, frowns.

(s)Pam calmly gestures for her to sit down again. She plops down and pouts.

(s)Pam: (continues) “And, I imagine, digestion.”

Barbie: (head tilted to one side) “Hi there. I desire to subscribe to the hottest updates, therefore where can I do it help please.” (looks down at hands in lap)

Pure Protein

(s)Pam: (slides a tin of SPAM with Cheese towards her and smiles) “Drink this milk twice a day. This is one of the high quality remedies. The teeth whitening products flooding the market today. It is difficult to trust any watch.”

Barbie: “Pretty! Either way, I just can’t imagine Ken 10 minutes ago via tea party thuggery is never right.”

(s)Pam: (sits back in chair exhausted) “When you are taking action it means that rather than simply daydreaming concerning creating love him anyway.”

Barbie: (dabbing eye with a tissue) “VIP reverse osmosis. Big like. I enjoyed this soooo much.”

Sniff

(s)Pam: (hasn’t enjoyed this at all and wanting to get rid of her, stands) “Feel free to surf my homepage: cheap appliance repair, Luxor.”

Barbie: (thinking ‘who are you calling a cheap appliance pork breath’, smiles revealing larger than average canines for a doll) “Back page mud-wrestling.”

Damn the economy. Damn the banks. Damn all this stress.

Damn that magic pothole with its murky water and promise of adventure. I’m a sucker for a murky promise.

Gaze upon the murky waters

I wasn’t looking for a perfect world. I wasn’t searching for Wonderland. Or Oz. I never thought I would flip life on its head by moving from the Boreen. I’m a planner. A plodder. Risk is ok, but not too much risk.

Over ten months ago I nearly choked on a shockingly large piece of risk. I’m still dealing with the indigestion.

In that time, my ass has been kicked, my head screwed with, my trust flattened and my hope pummelled to within an inch of its life. But never mind that.

The human spirit spits in the face of adversity and doesn’t offer it a tissue.

I have learned.

• Impulsive is a health hazard. Don’t run away to a place you think ‘seems’ ok just because it’s blindingly beautiful and you hear an epic movie soundtrack when you look at your first visit photos. Just because your cats died, your father died and Mr. Chainsaw and Baby Chainsaw are hacking up trees on the boreen, doesn’t mean you scoot. There, there. You may be the queen of post-trauma but just because your financials need an advisor and the pressure to give in and sell-up is making you bug-eyed in the middle of the night, doesn’t mean it’s time to up-stakes.

• But, if impulsive are the shoes you wear and ‘go west young man or woman’ your mantra, don’t rent the first available house you find. Especially if it’s on a road that turns out to be the training ground for the Indianapolis 500 and has lino-floors and green carpeting from the 1980’s. But look. You can see the ocean from the kitchen. There are other things you can see too. Your breath in the room. Twelve years of accumulated gunk in the bathroom. Paint chipping off walls and furry white stuff blossoming behind radiators.

• Overly-friendly is a disease. Go on. Stand up and say it. I’m me and I’m an Overly-Friendlyaholic. On paper, this doesn’t make sense. You’re practically a hermit. Maybe this is the problem. You don’t possess the necessary social skills to pull Overly-Friendly off. In reality, not everyone should be your new friend. You have friends and they like you the way you are. Lay low. You’re trying to get some perspective. This disease makes you appear needy and weak. Some people see this as an invitation to party hard on your innocence. They will weasel their way into your house with excuses. Re-arrange your furniture. Ignore your need for space (even though you have stated it from the start). They may invite their friends to your house without telling you. Eventually, you will stand your ground. And then, they will blame you for it.

• Ignoring those who don’t matter is a life-enhancing skill. Ignore the woman who walks back and forth slowly in front of the house and the man who stands across the road and stares. In the dark. Ignore the people who drop by uninvited to ask how much you are paying in rent. Ignore the people who ignore you, sit in their cars outside the house and talk on their mobile phones. By all means, ignore the post deliverer. Especially when they scribble facetious notes and draw frowny faces on the backs of bills because they are mad.

• History repeats itself. One bright summer morning, early, wake to the birdies whistling and the voices next door. Look out the window. Two men dressed in overalls are gazing up at the trees in the garden. Make coffee. Sit down to work. From outside you hear ‘grrzrrzrrzrrzrr’. Look out again. The men are wielding chainsaws. They are hacking into the trees one by one. Flashback to Mister and Baby Chainsaw. One tree. Two trees. Three trees. Stumps. Inquire. How long will this take? The response is as woolly as the stuff behind the radiators. The days, you find out for yourself, are nine. They are filled with suspense and terror. You feel like Sigourney on a spaceship. You begin shimmying along walls, peering around corners. Decide to write a Space Opera titled, ‘If Aliens had Chainsaws’.

• Decisions made under duress can be deadly. When you move again (‘I’ll take my chances in the Shuttle’), think very carefully. Your house isn’t going to sell. You live in a very naughty economy. It needs to be punished but if you’re not careful, you’re the one who is going to end up punished. Don’t look at the ocean and the holographic beauty projected around you and think about staying. Beauty is only skin-deep. Holographs are hollow. You’re not going to find a chest of sunken treasure at the bottom of the sea. Are your stress levels really that much lower? Maybe you should consider going back home. Are you going to go back home?

• Ok. You didn’t go back home. Instead you rented your house. That was smart. Now you live in a giant holiday home across from the beach. That’s nice. The house is a house split into two houses with a common yard. Hint. A swing set and trampoline are right outside your window. HINT. Someone with a child, a baby and lots of local friends and family has moved in next door. These local child-bearers have boundary issues. They’ve just blocked the driveway and deposited a large shed masquerading as a playhouse in the yard. Sounds are coming from the visiting red-haired girl. These sounds are shrieks. The other kids are shrieking too. And running back and forth in front of your small slice of privacy. Be astounded by this new and most effective form of warfare. Why hasn’t the military seen this? See yourself going outside, opening your mouth and shrieking at them. You’ve turned into one of those old ladies all the kids in the neighbourhood hated when you were a kid. Aren’t you so happy that you’ve rented your house and now have nowhere to go?

• Research is critical. Console yourself by running on the beach. Quickly realise that you failed to research one important detail. The tides change frequently and you can’t always run when you want. You’re missing more runs than you’re going on and feel as bloated and limp as the dead pilot whale you’ve just nearly tripped over.

• So many gifts from the sea. So many dead things on the beach. Keep a running list. Three rams. Two baby sharks. One headless seal. Various fish in various sizes. A fin of some kind. Several Unidentified Dead Objects and parts of things you don’t look at long enough to know what they are. And onions. Lots of onions.

• Listen to that wind charging down the chimney in the sitting room. Brrrr. It makes you feel cold. It’s roaring now and any minute the house will make an emergency landing in Oz. Go outside and walk around. It’s fun to make believe you’re Dorothy. This had been going on since October. It’s now December. They say it doesn’t stop until March.

• Refer to number 3. Don’t accept invitations to other people’s friend’s houses. Don’t try and fit in to other people’s lives. Your gut tells you not to go but (fool) you bake cookies and go. The house will be interesting. There will be trinkets and baubles for sale in the dining room. It will all seem ok for the first few seconds. But then the riddles and stories will start and your husband’s accent will be scrutinised for authenticity. Quickly, you’ll realise that the person whose house you have been invited to doesn’t want you there. You’ll feel as if you’re attending the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Your bullish host will snort and glare at you from across the table. You will think you hear the scraping of great hooves. They will tell you how interesting they are and bombard you with questions. Whatever you do, don’t mention birth dates or star signs. You’ll leave thinking, ‘that was the silliest tea party I’ve ever been to’. If you could grow really tall you would step on their house and break all their baubles. Anyway, the starter was over-cooked and dry and you DID purchase that item from the €5 rack and NOT from the €12 rack. Thank you.

• If only you were Dorothy. If only you had a pair of ruby slippers. But all you have is this stupid sequined shower cap. Have a go anyway. Put it on and pound your head against the wall repeating, ‘there’s no place like home’.

Ten months ago I fell down the magic pothole. It was a long drop. It was dark. It was wet. There were lots of dead things.

Why I went.

What I found.

Who was there.

Where it was and

When it dawned on me that I had flipped life on its head – Coming Soon.