mum wasn’t the type of mother who would be making nice sandwiches for my lunch or anything. No. God, didn’t you just envy the kids in school who arrived with a packed lunch? All nice and neat in a box accompanied by a carton of orange juice. But there was no chance of me getting anything as sophisticated as that. So every morning Dad would throw some money at me to buy something in the school shop. But all they ever sold in the shop was chocolate, crisps and apples. Because I didn’t like apples, I just bought crisps and chocolate every single day. No wonder my weight ballooned.
I often think it’s funny when they ask in TV commercials ‘Remember that flat stomach you had as a teenager?’ I think it goes something like that anyway. Well, the point is no, I don’t remember. I never remember even being able to see my feet when I was in school.
Anyway, only when I went to college, did I start to look after my figure. I was kind of too broke to be spending money on food anyway. Any money I had was spent on booze. I used to join all these societies just because they held party nights where pints were only a quid; even if they were served in horrible plastic cups. People look back on their student days as being the best days of their lives but I dunno about that. I love the fact that now I can afford to drink beer from a proper glass and not have to drink warm wine in some student flat. Now, that’s what I call luxury.
That’s why it’s the ultimate treat being upgraded to first class when I fly to the States. Because I get to drink wine from a Waterford Crystal glass. Imagine that.
Can you believe I’m off daydreaming again? This is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be concentrating on my script.
Maybe I’ll just start on the next scene and then come back to this one. Or perhaps I’ll just jack in this screenwriting business altogether and write a novel instead. It’d be pretty cool to be a novelist, wouldn’t it? I could just sit in bed all day with a laptop eating sweets and thinking up little stories. Then again, how long does it take to write a book and would I really be able to write say, a hundred thousand words? Suddenly I think it’s not such a great idea. I mean there are so many books out there, wouldn’t my little book look lost on the shelves? And I’d have to think of a completely original plot as well. There are already so many books about middle-aged women whose husbands leave them. And then those women spend the rest of the book losing weight, joining a gym and falling in love with the hunky gym instructor. I’m not sure if I want to write that kind of book to be honest.
OK, sod the novel; I’m going to persist with my script.
‘Morning.’
Oh no, it’s Dad. He’s back early. Please God he won’t want to use the computer.
‘Morning Dad,’ I reply, hoping I look so busy he won’t want to disturb me. I notice he’s got the Irish Times under his arm, which should keep him occupied for a while.
‘Are you writing?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I’m writing my screenplay. I’m only on the second scene but it’s going well. It’s about a boy whose father regularly beats him but then he escapes from his violent home and goes to England and works really hard and becomes really wealthy and comes home and builds a mansion for his poor suffering mother.’
I wait for Dad to reply but he doesn’t. By the way do you happen to have a father like that? One who simply doesn’t reply when you speak? Or is it just me? It’s very annoying, isn’t it? Sometimes I think I’m talking to myself and have to actually physically turn around to make sure he’s still in the room.
Dad’s made some real coffee so I decide to join him for one but he’s already engrossed in the paper. I try to glance at what he’s reading and as I do so my heart does a quick double flip. You won’t believe whose picture is taking up a full half-page. Yes, it’s the delightful Adam Kirrane. Janey. That’s twice
I often think it’s funny when they ask in TV commercials ‘Remember that flat stomach you had as a teenager?’ I think it goes something like that anyway. Well, the point is no, I don’t remember. I never remember even being able to see my feet when I was in school.
Anyway, only when I went to college, did I start to look after my figure. I was kind of too broke to be spending money on food anyway. Any money I had was spent on booze. I used to join all these societies just because they held party nights where pints were only a quid; even if they were served in horrible plastic cups. People look back on their student days as being the best days of their lives but I dunno about that. I love the fact that now I can afford to drink beer from a proper glass and not have to drink warm wine in some student flat. Now, that’s what I call luxury.
That’s why it’s the ultimate treat being upgraded to first class when I fly to the States. Because I get to drink wine from a Waterford Crystal glass. Imagine that.
Can you believe I’m off daydreaming again? This is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be concentrating on my script.
Maybe I’ll just start on the next scene and then come back to this one. Or perhaps I’ll just jack in this screenwriting business altogether and write a novel instead. It’d be pretty cool to be a novelist, wouldn’t it? I could just sit in bed all day with a laptop eating sweets and thinking up little stories. Then again, how long does it take to write a book and would I really be able to write say, a hundred thousand words? Suddenly I think it’s not such a great idea. I mean there are so many books out there, wouldn’t my little book look lost on the shelves? And I’d have to think of a completely original plot as well. There are already so many books about middle-aged women whose husbands leave them. And then those women spend the rest of the book losing weight, joining a gym and falling in love with the hunky gym instructor. I’m not sure if I want to write that kind of book to be honest.
OK, sod the novel; I’m going to persist with my script.
‘Morning.’
Oh no, it’s Dad. He’s back early. Please God he won’t want to use the computer.
‘Morning Dad,’ I reply, hoping I look so busy he won’t want to disturb me. I notice he’s got the Irish Times under his arm, which should keep him occupied for a while.
‘Are you writing?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I’m writing my screenplay. I’m only on the second scene but it’s going well. It’s about a boy whose father regularly beats him but then he escapes from his violent home and goes to England and works really hard and becomes really wealthy and comes home and builds a mansion for his poor suffering mother.’
I wait for Dad to reply but he doesn’t. By the way do you happen to have a father like that? One who simply doesn’t reply when you speak? Or is it just me? It’s very annoying, isn’t it? Sometimes I think I’m talking to myself and have to actually physically turn around to make sure he’s still in the room.
Dad’s made some real coffee so I decide to join him for one but he’s already engrossed in the paper. I try to glance at what he’s reading and as I do so my heart does a quick double flip. You won’t believe whose picture is taking up a full half-page. Yes, it’s the delightful Adam Kirrane. Janey. That’s twice
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