boots … And to my
great horror, I realized that the person was not Bono. The person was, in fact, me, reflected in
a window.
And the thing is, I have form in looking like
Bono (e.g. when I was driving Himself’s Maserati – you’ll read about it later
in this book). Badly shaken, I proceeded with my plans. My next port of call was to my
convalescent mammy, who was recovering from pneumonia. She greeted me with warmth and I said,
‘Mam, do I look like Bono?’
‘You do not,’ she said stoutly.
‘No, Mam, I think I do,’ I said.
‘Look at my legs. Look, in particular, at my boots.’
She looked. She looked and she looked. Finally
she spoke. ‘Have you any sunglasses?’
I replied in the affirmative.
‘Put them on,’ she says.
I obliged.
‘Stamp around a bit there,’ she said.
‘Would you sing a little bit for me?’
So I stomped around the sitting room and sang a
few lines, ‘In the name of love. One boot in the name of love. In the NAAAAAME of love
… lalala in the name of love, how’m I doing?’
‘You know,’ she said, sort of
squinting at me, ‘you have the look of him all right.’
A blow, my amigos, a bad blow. Bono is great and
Bono’s
look
is great. On
Bono
. I am not Bono. I am a lady. I want to look like
Alexa Chung.
‘What am I to do?’ I asked.
‘It’s these bloody boots, isn’t it?’
‘I’m no expert,’ she replied,
‘but it might be. Were they dear?’
‘Very dear.’
‘How dear?’
‘I’m too ashamed to tell
you.’
‘Dearer than Jimmy Choos?’
‘
As
dear,’ I admitted.
She whispered something that might have been
‘Sweet Mother of the Redeemer’. Then she said, ‘And for them to make you look
like Bono. That’s desperate.’
At this stage, she remembered that she owed me
money from when she was sick and I paid her window-cleaner and bought, as she put it,
‘sundries’, and she began pressing cash upon me.
‘No, Mam,’ I shouted,
‘no!’
‘Yes, Marian,’ she shouted,
‘yes!’
‘No, Mam,’ I shouted,
‘no!’
‘Yes, Marian,’ she shouted,
‘yes!’
I don’t know why, it’s just the way
we carry on. None of us can ever accept money from any of the rest of us. So myself and Mam, we
wrestled our way around the room for some minutes, both of us shouting. Then she played her
trump card.
‘Yes, Marian, yes!!’ she shouted.
‘I had pneumonia and I had to go to hospital and I nearly DIED. TAKE THE
MONEY!!!!’
At that point, I had lost the moral high ground,
so I took the money.
‘Buy yourself something nice with
it,’ she said. And, with a flash of her old spirit, she elbowed me and said with a little
wink, ‘Buy yourself new boots …’
mariankeyes.com ,
March 2013.
WHAT WOULD SCROOGE
DO?
----
Driving Home for Christmas
19 December 1986. London to Dublin.
Oh, it was all very different back then –
flights costing £1.27 weren’t even a twinkle in Michael O’Leary’s eye.
Aer Lingus and British Airways straddled the Irish Sea like massive costly colossi, rendering
air travel far too expensive for the likes of me (twenty-three, a waitress, albeit one who had a
law degree, and spending every penny I earnt on drink and clothes). If I wanted to get from
London to Dublin, I had to step back into the 1950s and go by train and boat.
On the appointed hour (10 p.m.) I was seen off
from Euston station by a small rowdy group of gay friends, one of them my flatmate Conor, who
was too skint to even afford the boat-and-train combo so was staying in London for the festive
season. The lads fluttered around me, making little adjustments here and there to my clothing,
until it was decreed that I was fabulous enough to board the train. And yes, in a floor-length
black sealskin coat, an indecently short black Lycra dress, shiny black tights, red suede
gladiator stilettos and a strange little red tricorn hat (made by Conor), I was indeed fabulous.
Yes, my dears, in the olden days we dressed
up
to travel. We made an
effort
.
I even
great horror, I realized that the person was not Bono. The person was, in fact, me, reflected in
a window.
And the thing is, I have form in looking like
Bono (e.g. when I was driving Himself’s Maserati – you’ll read about it later
in this book). Badly shaken, I proceeded with my plans. My next port of call was to my
convalescent mammy, who was recovering from pneumonia. She greeted me with warmth and I said,
‘Mam, do I look like Bono?’
‘You do not,’ she said stoutly.
‘No, Mam, I think I do,’ I said.
‘Look at my legs. Look, in particular, at my boots.’
She looked. She looked and she looked. Finally
she spoke. ‘Have you any sunglasses?’
I replied in the affirmative.
‘Put them on,’ she says.
I obliged.
‘Stamp around a bit there,’ she said.
‘Would you sing a little bit for me?’
So I stomped around the sitting room and sang a
few lines, ‘In the name of love. One boot in the name of love. In the NAAAAAME of love
… lalala in the name of love, how’m I doing?’
‘You know,’ she said, sort of
squinting at me, ‘you have the look of him all right.’
A blow, my amigos, a bad blow. Bono is great and
Bono’s
look
is great. On
Bono
. I am not Bono. I am a lady. I want to look like
Alexa Chung.
‘What am I to do?’ I asked.
‘It’s these bloody boots, isn’t it?’
‘I’m no expert,’ she replied,
‘but it might be. Were they dear?’
‘Very dear.’
‘How dear?’
‘I’m too ashamed to tell
you.’
‘Dearer than Jimmy Choos?’
‘
As
dear,’ I admitted.
She whispered something that might have been
‘Sweet Mother of the Redeemer’. Then she said, ‘And for them to make you look
like Bono. That’s desperate.’
At this stage, she remembered that she owed me
money from when she was sick and I paid her window-cleaner and bought, as she put it,
‘sundries’, and she began pressing cash upon me.
‘No, Mam,’ I shouted,
‘no!’
‘Yes, Marian,’ she shouted,
‘yes!’
‘No, Mam,’ I shouted,
‘no!’
‘Yes, Marian,’ she shouted,
‘yes!’
I don’t know why, it’s just the way
we carry on. None of us can ever accept money from any of the rest of us. So myself and Mam, we
wrestled our way around the room for some minutes, both of us shouting. Then she played her
trump card.
‘Yes, Marian, yes!!’ she shouted.
‘I had pneumonia and I had to go to hospital and I nearly DIED. TAKE THE
MONEY!!!!’
At that point, I had lost the moral high ground,
so I took the money.
‘Buy yourself something nice with
it,’ she said. And, with a flash of her old spirit, she elbowed me and said with a little
wink, ‘Buy yourself new boots …’
mariankeyes.com ,
March 2013.
WHAT WOULD SCROOGE
DO?
----
Driving Home for Christmas
19 December 1986. London to Dublin.
Oh, it was all very different back then –
flights costing £1.27 weren’t even a twinkle in Michael O’Leary’s eye.
Aer Lingus and British Airways straddled the Irish Sea like massive costly colossi, rendering
air travel far too expensive for the likes of me (twenty-three, a waitress, albeit one who had a
law degree, and spending every penny I earnt on drink and clothes). If I wanted to get from
London to Dublin, I had to step back into the 1950s and go by train and boat.
On the appointed hour (10 p.m.) I was seen off
from Euston station by a small rowdy group of gay friends, one of them my flatmate Conor, who
was too skint to even afford the boat-and-train combo so was staying in London for the festive
season. The lads fluttered around me, making little adjustments here and there to my clothing,
until it was decreed that I was fabulous enough to board the train. And yes, in a floor-length
black sealskin coat, an indecently short black Lycra dress, shiny black tights, red suede
gladiator stilettos and a strange little red tricorn hat (made by Conor), I was indeed fabulous.
Yes, my dears, in the olden days we dressed
up
to travel. We made an
effort
.
I even
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