“You have to be a cynic to be a journalist”. So said George Hook, in his raspy tone, during a talk to a group of journalism and public relations students in Dublin last week.
The reaction was mixed, to the talk itself, and more specifically to his comments. However, as we walked the daily walk down a tree-lined Leinster Road, a haven in an otherwise out of town ghetto, my friend Miriam; a journalist in progress, brought the subject of marriage to the table, for she was on her way to make a wedding purchase, for the requirement of her sister, not herself. And there we found ourselves, cynics in the making, speaking with negative expression as old Hook had insisted was necessary.
“I want to own [property] before marriage”, I announced, matter-of-factly. “Oh my goodness”, shrieked Miriam, usually calm and collected. “That is exactly how I feel. It’s like, no, I do not want a joint account", she added, aware that neither of us owned the desire to trade in our Volvos for Skodas as the divorce papers presented themselves. Of course, neither of us own Volvos now, but we shared the opinion that when we do, it’s til death do us part.
Call me pessimistic, or call me safe, but I would rather sit on that side of the verge. Maybe it’s something to do with working towards an artistic profession, whereby money doesn’t come easy, that I’m particularly fond of the idea of keeping hold of it when it eventually makes its way into my account.
I don’t want to spend many a year slaving at a middle market newspaper to enable me to afford a three-bed-semi to find myself suddenly in a bedsit when we have a severe disagreement over how many television sets should be in the house and suddenly realise it wasn’t meant to be after all.
Because in New Ireland, it comes down to the specifics in a relationship. And when the going gets tough, we’re all too familiar that there are few households on the commuter belt willing to stay together “for the kids”. No, sir, it’s bye-bye, Parochial Ireland.
They say pre-nuptials are unromantic, but as successful businessman and “face” of the music industry Simon Cowell told the Sunday Independent last weekend, “if I go into a relationship with an artist, we have a 100-page contract covering every eventuality, whereas with marriage you go into it with no contract, with laws that date back hundreds of years”.
One might expect, that a person like myself, who is as fond of little luxuries in life as much as the next potential media darling, to be perfectly satisfied to marry into a family that could offer to me the financial security, the kind that is so rarely available to artists of any kind. This is not my story, though. I choose not the easy ride, but that of eventual rewards.
And if there are luxuries in ten years time, at least I will know they are deserved. And if Miriam catches the bouquet at her sister’s eventual wedding, she can only hope and pray (or just hope, religion doesn’t exist in New Ireland) that the gent in question is willing to wait until the war-correspondent-to-be is stable in a Dublin 6 Pile of Bricks, enabling her to say an eventual “I do”. Except, of course, to a joint savings account at the AIB.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Good Conversation With Strangers
Recently, after more than two and a half years in a relationship, the lid was lifted on the box that had safely contained me for the duration.
I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.
What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.
Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.
My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.
I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.
Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.
Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.
My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.
I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.
It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.
I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.
What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.
Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.
My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.
I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.
Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.
Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.
My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.
I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.
It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.
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