Mammy Walsh's A-Z of the Walsh Family
Page 20
‘Ah …’ I didn’t want to watch Come Dine With Me. Normally I watched at least two shows a day, but suddenly I was sick of it.
I had an open invitation to Artie’s. His kids would be there tonight and I wasn’t sure I had the strength for talking to them; also their presence interfered with my full and free sexual access to him. But he’d been working in Belfast all week and I’d … yes, spit it out, might as well admit it … I’d missed him.
‘I’ll probably go to Artie’s,’ I said.
Mum lit up. ‘Can I come?’
‘Of course you can’t! I’ve warned you!’
Mum had a thing for Artie’s house. You’ve probably seen the type, if you read interiors magazines. From the outside it looks like a salt-of-the-earth working-class cottage, crouched right on the pavement, doffing its cap and knowing its place. The slate roof is crooked and the front door is so low that the only person who could sail through with full confidence that they wouldn’t crack their skull would be a certified midget.
But when you actually get into the house you find that someone has knocked off the entire back wall and replaced it with a glassy futuristic wonderland of floating staircases and suspended bird’s-nest bedrooms and faraway skylights.
Mum had been there only once, by accident – I had warned her not to get out of the car but she had blatantly disobeyed me – and it had made such a big impression on her that she had caused me considerable embarrassment. I would not permit it to happen again.
‘All right, I won’t come,’ she said. ‘But I’ve a favour to ask.’
‘What?’
‘Would you come to the Laddz reunion concert with me?’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Out of my mind? You’re a fine one to talk, you and your vultures.’
I had an open invitation to Artie’s. His kids would be there tonight and I wasn’t sure I had the strength for talking to them; also their presence interfered with my full and free sexual access to him. But he’d been working in Belfast all week and I’d … yes, spit it out, might as well admit it … I’d missed him.
‘I’ll probably go to Artie’s,’ I said.
Mum lit up. ‘Can I come?’
‘Of course you can’t! I’ve warned you!’
Mum had a thing for Artie’s house. You’ve probably seen the type, if you read interiors magazines. From the outside it looks like a salt-of-the-earth working-class cottage, crouched right on the pavement, doffing its cap and knowing its place. The slate roof is crooked and the front door is so low that the only person who could sail through with full confidence that they wouldn’t crack their skull would be a certified midget.
But when you actually get into the house you find that someone has knocked off the entire back wall and replaced it with a glassy futuristic wonderland of floating staircases and suspended bird’s-nest bedrooms and faraway skylights.
Mum had been there only once, by accident – I had warned her not to get out of the car but she had blatantly disobeyed me – and it had made such a big impression on her that she had caused me considerable embarrassment. I would not permit it to happen again.
‘All right, I won’t come,’ she said. ‘But I’ve a favour to ask.’
‘What?’
‘Would you come to the Laddz reunion concert with me?’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Out of my mind? You’re a fine one to talk, you and your vultures.’
