what everyone called it. I’m supposed to be grateful, apparently.
Instead, I’m alone and I haven’t written one word in four months.
And I’m nearly forty. It sits on my horizon, wobbling like one of those horrible jellies Mrs Higginbotham used to make for our birthday parties when we were between the ages of four and eight. Nine, according to Mrs Higginbotham, was too old for jelly-on-a-plate. Thank Christ.
I say, ‘I hate being nearly forty.’
Minnie says, ‘Consider the alternative.’
‘At least I’d make a nice corpse.’
‘A forty-year-old corpse. You’d still be forty, dead or alive.’
‘Nearly forty,’ but Minnie’s not listening anymore.
I’m going to be forty.
Soon.
I suppose the other stuff is bad too. The stuff about the writing and Thomas and the fact that I could have died. Everyone said I could have died. Thomas said it most of all. He said it was a miracle I walked away with hardly a scratch. I said there’s no such thing as miracles. He said it didn’t matter if I believed it or not.
One bloody miracle and everything falls apart.
‘We want different things.’ That’s what Thomas said the day he came back for his stuff. I suppose that’s true. We were very different, me and Thomas. I didn’t mind how different we were. I even miss it, sometimes. Like the other day, when I was doing my impersonation of the weather girl on the telly (I can do a near-perfect imitation of her accent, even though she’s from Longford, which is one of the trickier ones), I smiled at the place on the couch where Thomas used to sit. As if he were still sitting there. As if I thought he were still sitting there.
I get nervous when that happens, so I find something to do. Like scrub the burned milk off the inside of the microwave. Ed likes hot chocolate but he hates cleaning. And I’m not betraying confidences by saying that. It’s there for everyone to read on his Facebook page.
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. I hate afternoons. Cigarettes don’t taste as good in the afternoons. It’s too early for a drink but you’ve had too many teas and coffees and water would make you cry with the boredom of it. Consider its properties: tasteless, odourless, colourless.
I told Brona about the writer’s block. I was a bit excited about it, really. I’d heard of it, of course. There was a programme on the telly. But I’d never had it before.
Brona said, ‘Oh that. That happens to all writers. It won’t last long. You’ll be fine.’
I say, ‘No, it’s serious. I mean, I’ve had a life-changing experience.’
‘A life-affirming experience.’
‘I could have died.’
‘But you didn’t,’ she reminds me.
I produce Thomas, the ace up my sleeve.
‘He left me, remember? Right after the accident. My ribs were shattered, remember?’
‘Fractured,’ she says, but in her gentle voice so I can’t take umbrage. ‘One rib, wasn’t it? One rib had a hairline fracture.’
I say, ‘It was agony.’
Brona makes soothing noises down the line.
‘He left me.’ I say it again. No matter how many times I say it I still can’t quite believe it. I am in charge of leaving. Her tone strains a little here. She says, ‘Only because you didn’t want to marry him and bear his child.’ I can’t blame her, I suppose. She’s been on a quest for ‘The One’ since the early nineties. In her eyes, I’ve committed the ultimate betrayal. I said no to a genuine offer of marriage and the chance of having my womb filled with the offspring of a man with no obvious physical defects (unless you count his feet, which differ in length by a monumental two shoe sizes), a grand head of hair, his own teeth and a job that doesn’t involve anything illegal (like drug-trafficking) or poncy (like interior design).
I phone Ed.
He says, ‘I can’t talk. I’m working.’ He’s not fond of talking on the telephone. Especially when he’s working.
‘I thought you wouldn’t be busy at this hour. It’s in
Instead, I’m alone and I haven’t written one word in four months.
And I’m nearly forty. It sits on my horizon, wobbling like one of those horrible jellies Mrs Higginbotham used to make for our birthday parties when we were between the ages of four and eight. Nine, according to Mrs Higginbotham, was too old for jelly-on-a-plate. Thank Christ.
I say, ‘I hate being nearly forty.’
Minnie says, ‘Consider the alternative.’
‘At least I’d make a nice corpse.’
‘A forty-year-old corpse. You’d still be forty, dead or alive.’
‘Nearly forty,’ but Minnie’s not listening anymore.
I’m going to be forty.
Soon.
I suppose the other stuff is bad too. The stuff about the writing and Thomas and the fact that I could have died. Everyone said I could have died. Thomas said it most of all. He said it was a miracle I walked away with hardly a scratch. I said there’s no such thing as miracles. He said it didn’t matter if I believed it or not.
One bloody miracle and everything falls apart.
‘We want different things.’ That’s what Thomas said the day he came back for his stuff. I suppose that’s true. We were very different, me and Thomas. I didn’t mind how different we were. I even miss it, sometimes. Like the other day, when I was doing my impersonation of the weather girl on the telly (I can do a near-perfect imitation of her accent, even though she’s from Longford, which is one of the trickier ones), I smiled at the place on the couch where Thomas used to sit. As if he were still sitting there. As if I thought he were still sitting there.
I get nervous when that happens, so I find something to do. Like scrub the burned milk off the inside of the microwave. Ed likes hot chocolate but he hates cleaning. And I’m not betraying confidences by saying that. It’s there for everyone to read on his Facebook page.
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. I hate afternoons. Cigarettes don’t taste as good in the afternoons. It’s too early for a drink but you’ve had too many teas and coffees and water would make you cry with the boredom of it. Consider its properties: tasteless, odourless, colourless.
I told Brona about the writer’s block. I was a bit excited about it, really. I’d heard of it, of course. There was a programme on the telly. But I’d never had it before.
Brona said, ‘Oh that. That happens to all writers. It won’t last long. You’ll be fine.’
I say, ‘No, it’s serious. I mean, I’ve had a life-changing experience.’
‘A life-affirming experience.’
‘I could have died.’
‘But you didn’t,’ she reminds me.
I produce Thomas, the ace up my sleeve.
‘He left me, remember? Right after the accident. My ribs were shattered, remember?’
‘Fractured,’ she says, but in her gentle voice so I can’t take umbrage. ‘One rib, wasn’t it? One rib had a hairline fracture.’
I say, ‘It was agony.’
Brona makes soothing noises down the line.
‘He left me.’ I say it again. No matter how many times I say it I still can’t quite believe it. I am in charge of leaving. Her tone strains a little here. She says, ‘Only because you didn’t want to marry him and bear his child.’ I can’t blame her, I suppose. She’s been on a quest for ‘The One’ since the early nineties. In her eyes, I’ve committed the ultimate betrayal. I said no to a genuine offer of marriage and the chance of having my womb filled with the offspring of a man with no obvious physical defects (unless you count his feet, which differ in length by a monumental two shoe sizes), a grand head of hair, his own teeth and a job that doesn’t involve anything illegal (like drug-trafficking) or poncy (like interior design).
I phone Ed.
He says, ‘I can’t talk. I’m working.’ He’s not fond of talking on the telephone. Especially when he’s working.
‘I thought you wouldn’t be busy at this hour. It’s in
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