Holyhead port was grim, grim,
grim. A bare, wretched place. No expense had been spent on gussying it up – Irish people
weren’t too popular in Britain in the 1980s. Handy enough if you wanted a road dug, but
you don’t want them getting notions. Like cattle at a mart, heads bowed with resignation,
armies of smelly-overcoated, bacon-and-cabbage men trudged up the bleak ramps towards the ship.
I trudged along with them, pausing from time to
time when I caught the heel of my shoes in the hem of my coat and almost toppled over on to my
face. The price, of course, of being fabulous.
Once on the ship, the idea was to find a place as
far away as possible from anyone else in order to get a few hours’ sleep before the ship
docked. There were rows and rows of upright chairs but they were ring-fenced with fruit machines
which emitted a constant racket of pings and crunches. I’d go mad. I found a small bare
patch of floor and laid down my bags, but a Scouser – the ship was always staffed with
Scousers – tried to convey, first with his magical but baffling accent and then by
shouting, that I was blocking an emergency exit. Like a refugee, I got to my feet and, dragging
all my earthly possessions, moved on to another spot. Also, an emergency exit. In the end I took
my rightful place amid the fruit machines.
Rumours reached me of a lounge, an enchanted
realm of couches and free coffee. But it cost a fiver – an astronomical sum – to get
into. I went to see if it could possibly be real – and sure enough it was. I gazed in
through the glass and to my astonishment caught sight of Mr
Petty Pan
O’Shockolahhhh
, who was in there with the nun, the pair of them reclining like
pashas, guzzling enough free coffee to float a boat. My bitterness overflowed.
Around 6 a.m. we docked in
Dublin, the ship stopping itself by – or so it seemed – driving at high speed at the
land. Once we’d picked ourselves up from the floor, we streamed out like ghosts into the
frozen Irish dawn where, conveniently, public transport didn’t start for another two
hours. Through the mist the outline of a man waiting at the exit slowly revealed itself to me.
It was my dad. He’d come to pick me up. We hadn’t seen each other in nine months. He
gazed upon me and demanded, ‘What in the name of God have you got on your head?’ I
was home.
First published in
Travel
, December 2007.
Christmas at Marian’s
I’ve always wished I could be one of those
women who can cook complicated dinners for twenty people at the drop of a hat, while remaining
cheerful, fragrant and unshiny. Those fabulous creatures who can receive flowers, offer drinks,
stir an oxtail jus and turn down the oven
all at the same time
.
My lovely mother-in-law, Shirley, is one such
woman – she is fabulously capable and makes it look so easy.
I’m convinced this ability is a gift
you’re either born with or you’re not, and sadly I wasn’t. I’m not
entirely useless – I’m good at crosswords and I’m unusually skilled at
untangling delicate gold chains – but I’m afraid I fall down at the
hospitality-and-catering interface.
I like having people over and feeding them
– I think cooking for someone is a very loving thing to do – but the highest number
I’d ever prepared dinner for was … four. And the highest number of different
foodstuffs I’d managed to have ready to serve at the same time was three (potatoes,
chicken, cauliflower, for what it’s worth).
Then suddenly, a few years ago – and
I’m still at a loss as to how it actually happened – I somehow managed to invite
thirteen members of my family, including Shirley, to my house for Christmas Day. Through an
appalling mix-up,
I’d mistaken myself for a grown-up
.
I admit I had my own house. I even had my own
kitchen, butmy style of cooking was to throw everything in one big
casserole and feck it in the oven on a low heat for eight hours. I had quite literally
no
idea
where to start cooking a
grim. A bare, wretched place. No expense had been spent on gussying it up – Irish people
weren’t too popular in Britain in the 1980s. Handy enough if you wanted a road dug, but
you don’t want them getting notions. Like cattle at a mart, heads bowed with resignation,
armies of smelly-overcoated, bacon-and-cabbage men trudged up the bleak ramps towards the ship.
I trudged along with them, pausing from time to
time when I caught the heel of my shoes in the hem of my coat and almost toppled over on to my
face. The price, of course, of being fabulous.
Once on the ship, the idea was to find a place as
far away as possible from anyone else in order to get a few hours’ sleep before the ship
docked. There were rows and rows of upright chairs but they were ring-fenced with fruit machines
which emitted a constant racket of pings and crunches. I’d go mad. I found a small bare
patch of floor and laid down my bags, but a Scouser – the ship was always staffed with
Scousers – tried to convey, first with his magical but baffling accent and then by
shouting, that I was blocking an emergency exit. Like a refugee, I got to my feet and, dragging
all my earthly possessions, moved on to another spot. Also, an emergency exit. In the end I took
my rightful place amid the fruit machines.
Rumours reached me of a lounge, an enchanted
realm of couches and free coffee. But it cost a fiver – an astronomical sum – to get
into. I went to see if it could possibly be real – and sure enough it was. I gazed in
through the glass and to my astonishment caught sight of Mr
Petty Pan
O’Shockolahhhh
, who was in there with the nun, the pair of them reclining like
pashas, guzzling enough free coffee to float a boat. My bitterness overflowed.
Around 6 a.m. we docked in
Dublin, the ship stopping itself by – or so it seemed – driving at high speed at the
land. Once we’d picked ourselves up from the floor, we streamed out like ghosts into the
frozen Irish dawn where, conveniently, public transport didn’t start for another two
hours. Through the mist the outline of a man waiting at the exit slowly revealed itself to me.
It was my dad. He’d come to pick me up. We hadn’t seen each other in nine months. He
gazed upon me and demanded, ‘What in the name of God have you got on your head?’ I
was home.
First published in
Travel
, December 2007.
Christmas at Marian’s
I’ve always wished I could be one of those
women who can cook complicated dinners for twenty people at the drop of a hat, while remaining
cheerful, fragrant and unshiny. Those fabulous creatures who can receive flowers, offer drinks,
stir an oxtail jus and turn down the oven
all at the same time
.
My lovely mother-in-law, Shirley, is one such
woman – she is fabulously capable and makes it look so easy.
I’m convinced this ability is a gift
you’re either born with or you’re not, and sadly I wasn’t. I’m not
entirely useless – I’m good at crosswords and I’m unusually skilled at
untangling delicate gold chains – but I’m afraid I fall down at the
hospitality-and-catering interface.
I like having people over and feeding them
– I think cooking for someone is a very loving thing to do – but the highest number
I’d ever prepared dinner for was … four. And the highest number of different
foodstuffs I’d managed to have ready to serve at the same time was three (potatoes,
chicken, cauliflower, for what it’s worth).
Then suddenly, a few years ago – and
I’m still at a loss as to how it actually happened – I somehow managed to invite
thirteen members of my family, including Shirley, to my house for Christmas Day. Through an
appalling mix-up,
I’d mistaken myself for a grown-up
.
I admit I had my own house. I even had my own
kitchen, butmy style of cooking was to throw everything in one big
casserole and feck it in the oven on a low heat for eight hours. I had quite literally
no
idea
where to start cooking a
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