A diary disaster, pre-concert anxiety and a newfound love for hurling just about sums up my week
• THE other day, my sister and I were bemoaning the fact that we never do anything fun together any more. Nothing new there, except that for once, we (she) decided to do something about it. ‘What about going to see Daniel Davey, giving a talk at Glenilen in Drimoleague?’ she suggested during one of our regular our late night WhatsApp marathons (which cover everything from motivational gifs to ... more motivational gifs).
• ‘Never heard of him’, I replied. ‘That nutritionist guy who was on Dermot Bannon’s Room to Improve,’ she said. ‘Oh your man who makes the energy balls – oh I’m mad about him, I love him on Instagram, let’s do it,’ I replied, followed by lots of joyful emojis.
• Now, over the following days we managed to talk ourselves out of it around five times (it was on a school night, my smallie had piano, one of hers had a match, we could probably live without it, etc) but no! There was never going to be a good time to go anywhere, we just had to take a stand and go for it, we declared. We were worth it. And who knows, there may even be some free energy balls doing the rounds. At the very least, I figured it would just be nice to sit in silence in a room where no one wanted anything from me.
• So with all that in mind, I felt vaguely liberated, proud almost, as I navigated the windy roads to Drimoleague last Thursday night. I had the window down, the sun was shining, life was good. Everything was going to be ok after all. I parked up in the fancy Centra where I met my sister and it was all looking so promising. Sisters doing it for themselves and all the rest. With a few minutes to spare we turned into the carpark and dare I say it, we were feeling something approaching cocky.
• And that’s when it all went a bit pear-shaped. It’s very quiet, she remarked. Tis, I replied a bit uneasily. Are we in the right place, she queried in a weirdly high-pitched voice. Oh we were in the right spot alright ... just on the wrong night. We were a week early. Mother of divine god above tonight. We had to laugh! That was the only option.
• My sister rescued the situation and headed straight for her son’s championship game, with a ‘what are we like’ backward glance. I drove home nice and handy specifically to avoid bedtime. I let myself in quietly and was about to put the kettle on (more like pour myself a glass of something chilled) when I heard ‘Mommy? Are you back already? Just in time for a story!’ Ah. Where were those energy balls when you needed them most?
• Now, the thing is that even though I’m usually free all the time, I won’t get to see Daniel at all now because I’m going to see Bruce Springsteen the same night (I mentioned it last week, I know). To be perfectly honest, I’d almost prefer to be going to Daniel. At least I’d have a seat. I was telling a pal about Brucey (I was probably trying to offload my ticket, to be honest) and we were trying to think of some of his tunes. ‘Summer of 69’ is one I’ll definitely know anyway, I chirped. Oh yeah, she replied, that’s a good one alright. Her husband who was in the vicinity, reminded us that was, in fact, Bryan Adams. Oopsies. Anyway, I read that Bruce will start by 7pm and has to finish by 11pm to keep the residents happy, but sure you’d never know, he might wind up a bit earlier. I mean that’s a long time to be on your feet. I’m talking about myself.
• Right, who has watched/is watching Bodkin on Netflix? Given that it was partially filmed in Union Hall and Glandore, I was especially excited to check it out. My husband bailed after the very first episode and couldn’t make any hand of it. I have to say when I saw Pat Shortt just a few minutes in, I half expected to see those power walkers from Killinaskully appear after him, and I was tempted to abandon it myself. I persevered, though, mainly as I wanted to see if I recognised anyone – at one stage last summer, nearly everyone I knew was an extra on the set. One of the main characters is a journalist called Dove who stomps around in a range of trench coats looking strangely like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, all the men seem to have wild beards and peaked caps, the pubs are all packed (remember those days?) and everyone swears like a trooper. If you’re not distracted by all that, there is a good enough storyline going on. I think.
• The ‘official’ reviews are a bit mixed. There are eight episodes in total and I’m four episodes in and my verdict is that it’s a bit ... gas. Leave your critical senses at the door and just embrace it for what it is ... pure gas. I just hope that people don’t think that West Cork is really like what’s being portrayed. We don’t swear quite so much as they suggest.
• Anyway, the weather has been joyful, hasn’t it? Everything is just nicer when it’s not damp and drizzly (including my hair). And I’m embracing ‘No Mow May’ for all it’s worth. I’m all for protecting our bugs and bees, even though there are already so many ants and related species in my garden that I fully expect to come home one day soon and find our stuff packed up, and them all moved in. They are fascinating little critters, but I can’t help but wonder why they love my patio and its pots so much.
• What about Cork’s win at the weekend? Talk about lifting the spirits of the county! All roads lead to Croker now, hah! I might even be tempted to jump on the bandwagon myself. I’ll see how I get on in Páirc Uí Chaoimh with Bruce first but hopefully our hurlers are bringing some Glory Days our way (sorry – it was an open goal.)
