At exactly 9:05pm on Friday evening, Beloved and I came from our respective homes at opposite parts of Dublin and entered our favourite hotel bar of the moment, The Morrison, from opposite entrances.
I ordered a Martini, Beloved took a beer. It hadn’t been a particularly exciting week for either of us: Significant Other was ticking over at the office, whilst I, remained unpublished. I secretly longed for the moment where I had good news, something along the lines of “I’ve just had a 500-word feature printed in The Dubliner”, but a bigger part of me realised that the moment was no closer than it had been twelve months ago.
It may or may not have been time for a yet another career choice change, I thought, but either way, here I was, right now, in a good hotel with a great person, who was concerned only with the next six hours. I lost my worries and found my next drink at approximately 11:30pm across town at a venue that had caused quite a stir in my relationship on most visits since it’s opening.
As we walked the staircase to the decadent “room of doom” as I had come to call it, I noticed that I had adopted my single persona all of a sudden. Across the room, a stockbroker that I had been friendly with for a few weeks some months ago approached. “You're blonde now”, said the stockbroker, flashing a wide grin that I remembered from our previous encounter.
“Who are you here with?”, the stockbroker enquired. I glanced at Beloved and understood that it was not cool that my partner of three years was being overlooked. “Oh you’ve met each other before, right?”, I joked. “Oh we go way back”, the stockbroker said, more serious than before, and right then, with a beer in one hand, Beloved was punched in the arm. “Your friend here doesn’t like me”, the stockbroker announced. How could anyone know, I wondered, before catching a glimpse of Beloved’s Stare of Death.
The double glass doors opened and Michael, a Castleknock society boy renowned for his partying ways, entered with a new lover in-tow. “You’ve got to be shitting me”, I said under my breath. Michael, and his date. Michael stood for single, and when he was introducing a lover as a life partner, I knew it was time to settle. “How long has it been, Michael?”, I probed. I wasn’t ready for his response. “Three months…and we just had our first fight, I‘m an emotional wreck right now”, he divulged. “Well you look great”, like always I thought. The stockbroker had escaped whilst my attention was on the society boy.
I realised, the reason Beloved wasn’t exactly crazy about this joint was that my attention was on all people except my true partner. What was it, I had to wonder, that prevented me from being the person that I wanted to be for my Significant Other. I wanted to be the strong type who treated my partner like a trophy. Why? Because I had always felt that there was something terribly attractive about that. I knew that I never felt demeaned by such treatment on the occasions that I’d experienced it.
I wanted to tell Beloved, “I’m sorry you love me so absolutely and that I’m a prat to you”, but my single persona, the part of me that is most chauvinist, wouldn’t allow the words, and so instead I said “What do you want to drink, babe?” The stockbroker had returned, and the fact that I was buying all three of us a drink wasn’t going down particularly well with Significant Other. “It’s a suggestion”, my partner suggested. “No. It’s a Vodka”, I said, returning promptly to my obnoxious guise.
Later, on the dance floor in the next room, as the DJ played “4 Minutes To Save The World”, I stomped my feet, which were contained in my don’t-fuck-with-me Gucci loafers, as though I had only the same amount of time to live, flashing that same grin that the stockbroker had greeted me with right back.
“I am 22”, I affirmed silently whilst we walked to Beloved’s contemporary central apartment. I had been beating myself up for my flirtatious ways as we left the club, and I wondered, despite my knowledge that my existing relationship was the one that would be the most rewarding, not to mention the most sensible, why was I always tempted away from being smart and towards being sexually provocative with individuals who were interested mostly in checking off another man about town on their personal “to-do” lists?
I realised it may have been my age, and the fact that I had lived the beginning of my adult life in a particularly close-knit romantic relationship. I considered the prospect that it was the Martinis, that if I had been sober I would have been more sensible.
Most of all though, I was appreciative, that a couple of years my senior, Beloved probably knew that my behaviour, however nonsensical, was down to such trivial reasons. And of course, my Significant Other was nothing if not loyal.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Relationships & Real Estate (Part Two)
I sat in the car wondering what was going on inside the ivy-covered house. My parents had been house-hunting. I was their unofficial realtor, scouring the internet and the weekend property supplements for suitable residences.
The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.
I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.
That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.
“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.
It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.
“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.
“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.
What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?
It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.
What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.
The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.
I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.
That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.
“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.
It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.
“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.
“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.
What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?
It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.
What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Morals of the Media Darling
We believe so often that we know all there is to know about a public figure: a politician, a pop star, a footballers wife. We believe that because their lives are exposed in the pages of glossy magazines around the globe, that we can make an effective judgement.
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Jury is Out
“Is everything OK?”, said the foreign waiter in a tone that mortified me. I wasn’t in the city. I wasn’t in the suburbs either. I was somewhere in between that was so undefined it unsettled me. I was sitting in a wicker chair: fragile and unstable, and ready to break at any given moment.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Say No to Joint Savings
“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.
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.
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.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Change of Character
Have you ever taken a long hard look at yourself and realised in one profound moment that you are not at all who you thought that you were?
I enjoyed (and I use the term loosely) this hilarious moment of clarity recently. There I was, not in the mirror, but at a bus stop, deprived of background music in my ears and with only the sound of the morning traffic to accompany my thoughts.
This weekend, and come to think of it, quite a few before it, had been, what I was choosing to refer to as “out of character” to friends of old and new, when speaking of the those 48 hours that had once again become an exciting part of life.
I was without doubt a shy child, but had become not so much rebellious as innovative in my early teenage years. I was sure of what it was that I stood for, but at the same time did not promote what it was that I stood for in the public arena, at that time, school. I just revelled in private at the fact--or rather the personal opinion--that I was my own person and not part of a flock, even if that did mean being shunned by the mainstream. I was laughing on the inside, perhaps prematurely.
My early teens had given way to a sort of tunnel-vision, overly-ambitious creature that understood rules, accepted them, and then decided those that one would follow, and those that one would break. Was I trying to be controversial? No, there was nothing to be gained in this. Was I just a narcissist? It’s possible, but there was definitely more to it than that.
It was at this point that I decided my beliefs and my values. It was at this point also, that I validated my ambitions and decided to simply go about them. It was at this point that I was sure I knew everything there was to know about myself. I realise today that it was just the beginning of life becoming an adult. I had become acutely aware of desire and also of pain. There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking of what might be, in the short and in the long-term, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel, the “soundtrack to my life”.
Relationships with family and friends, and those that I was surrounded by in life, were passionate on both ends of the scale. This is still the case, at the age of 21, now officially an adult. I have met more people in the real world that I can relate to than was feasible within the constraints of school and a local suburban community. Relationships now too, had become easier and still more difficult than before.
Those that encouraged growth as a person, who made me feel optimistic and who made me think, were easy. They made me realise that I was right a few years ago when I had privately held the belief that there were other similar-minded individuals in the county that I would connect with, and not simply have surface conversations with.
Then there were the relationships that made me feel once again, slightly as if I could privately commentate on life, hold beliefs and thoughts, and yet not truly share them due to the knowledge that they would be met with one of two things: deemed outlandish, somewhat eccentric, or worse again, discarded without feeling.
But it didn’t matter. There would always be double-edged swords in life. And there would always be toxins, that was my belief at least. What really mattered was that here, in November, I was not behaving out of character, I was developing it.
The things that I thought I would never do--positive and negative--I was doing. And I was loving every minute of it.
There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking about what had been, in the near and distant past, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel. A friend who I had known the first time I’d heard the record in my teens and still know today recently told me that I had changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe she had seen it before I was able to see it myself.
I enjoyed (and I use the term loosely) this hilarious moment of clarity recently. There I was, not in the mirror, but at a bus stop, deprived of background music in my ears and with only the sound of the morning traffic to accompany my thoughts.
This weekend, and come to think of it, quite a few before it, had been, what I was choosing to refer to as “out of character” to friends of old and new, when speaking of the those 48 hours that had once again become an exciting part of life.
I was without doubt a shy child, but had become not so much rebellious as innovative in my early teenage years. I was sure of what it was that I stood for, but at the same time did not promote what it was that I stood for in the public arena, at that time, school. I just revelled in private at the fact--or rather the personal opinion--that I was my own person and not part of a flock, even if that did mean being shunned by the mainstream. I was laughing on the inside, perhaps prematurely.
My early teens had given way to a sort of tunnel-vision, overly-ambitious creature that understood rules, accepted them, and then decided those that one would follow, and those that one would break. Was I trying to be controversial? No, there was nothing to be gained in this. Was I just a narcissist? It’s possible, but there was definitely more to it than that.
It was at this point that I decided my beliefs and my values. It was at this point also, that I validated my ambitions and decided to simply go about them. It was at this point that I was sure I knew everything there was to know about myself. I realise today that it was just the beginning of life becoming an adult. I had become acutely aware of desire and also of pain. There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking of what might be, in the short and in the long-term, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel, the “soundtrack to my life”.
Relationships with family and friends, and those that I was surrounded by in life, were passionate on both ends of the scale. This is still the case, at the age of 21, now officially an adult. I have met more people in the real world that I can relate to than was feasible within the constraints of school and a local suburban community. Relationships now too, had become easier and still more difficult than before.
Those that encouraged growth as a person, who made me feel optimistic and who made me think, were easy. They made me realise that I was right a few years ago when I had privately held the belief that there were other similar-minded individuals in the county that I would connect with, and not simply have surface conversations with.
Then there were the relationships that made me feel once again, slightly as if I could privately commentate on life, hold beliefs and thoughts, and yet not truly share them due to the knowledge that they would be met with one of two things: deemed outlandish, somewhat eccentric, or worse again, discarded without feeling.
But it didn’t matter. There would always be double-edged swords in life. And there would always be toxins, that was my belief at least. What really mattered was that here, in November, I was not behaving out of character, I was developing it.
The things that I thought I would never do--positive and negative--I was doing. And I was loving every minute of it.
There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking about what had been, in the near and distant past, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel. A friend who I had known the first time I’d heard the record in my teens and still know today recently told me that I had changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe she had seen it before I was able to see it myself.
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