Warm in your Dream

“Ok, it’s decided,” I announced to The Bessie, over brioche and cafe au lait at the patisserie down the road from our hotel. I’d been staring at the Arc de Triomphe and suddenly it was all clear to me.
“What?” she asked.
“My life,” I said, sipping my hot coffee. “I’ve decided what I’m going to do: I’m going to move to Paris and become a poor,struggling writer. I will compose a wondrous, but under-appreciated novel, that will become revered after my premature death and will be a beacon for generations to come.”

Wandering around endless Parisian streets, it seemed the only option for me.
Anything rather than go back to my dreary, crumbling life in Dublin.

How could I return to a large, cold, empty house in a country that seems to be constantly damp when I was standing in the most beautiful city in the world?

My imagination was coming alive.
I was coming alive.
So many colours, endless supplies of cafés and pastries, an abundance of picturesque avenues and life-changing events all seemed to be telling me I needed to do this.
I needed to be that crazy writer who ups and leaves her humdrum life to pursue the craziest and most fragile of her dreams.

The only problem was that I wasn’t that adventurous or crazy.
I wasn’t even a writer.

Back in Dublin a few days later, I sat eating fries in the same diner I’d been visiting for years.
My friend’s mother popped in for a second and told me she’d heard ‘what happened’ and that she was sorry.
She then proceeded to tell me that she’d been reading my blog and that  I should “write a book”.
I made my usual array of nervous jokes in the face of compliments I didn’t know how to take, but through it all her earnestness was really touching.
The urge returned and I found myself calculating how long I could survive in Paris with my measly savings, since I wouldn’t be able to get a job without having the language (which I have little chance of learning).

“You know,” I told my friend, “after the break-up, I tried to comfort myself by saying that being single would help make my blog a little more interesting. I thought I could be the next Carrie Bradshaw, writing about the complications of my newly-acquired relationships with strangers. It’s not really working out that way though. I’m not big on the random, drunk scoring of strangers and you can’t write an honest account of relations with a person you know, because they or their friends will end up reading it. It’s just mean.”

And so I’m back at Square One, although it feels like Square One-Minus-Five.
I’m living the uninspired life, because of a need to get by financially.
I’ll continue to drag myself into my dreary job, which isn’t just content with taking the 9-5 working hours, but leaves me too drained to function during the evenings.
Sure I’d love be daring like Hemingway or Fitzgerald (yes, I did go to see Midnight in Paris the other day) and experience Parisian life, while churning out great novels, but unfortunately, I’m a little lacking in their talent and so there are practicalities to consider.
But is that what makes a good writer?
Is that what it takes to write The Great Novel?
An utter belief in yourself and your ability, the daring to go for it, the willingness to live in poverty and the single-mindedness to never give up?

It does seem that way, but admittedly, a huge fortune could also help.
Maybe I’ll start doing the Lotto…

Musing at the Diner

Sitting in the same area of the same Eddie Rockets that we conducted the first two years of our relationship, I didn’t know what to feel.

“So what happened with you two, or am I allowed to ask?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked and it wasn’t the first time I had to shrug my shoulders and have a quick think about it.
And even with all those opportunities, I was yet to come up with a satisfying answer.

“I dunno,” I told Sinead honestly. “It just wasn’t right anymore.”

We chatted about other long-term couples that had broken up in recent times.
It was the same formula: couple got together during college, stayed together for years, many lived together, everyone thought they’d be together forever and then BAM they were no more.

“I think it’s just the way it is now,” I mused over a chocolate malt. “I mean, years ago people did their Personal Growth thing during the last years of secondary school and in the couple of years afterwards so they had it together by the age of 20. But now, we don’t start until after college and those few years are supposed to be the time you sort yourself out, find out who you are and become comfortable with that. I did my growing as part of a relationship. Most people that do that grow into One Half of a Relationship and not into a person.”

“I know it sounds very American and cringe-worthily clichéd, but I feel like I need to ‘find myself’,” I said. “I’m not sure who I am or what I can handle or even what I want right now. I’m completely different from the Me in my final year in college.”

Sinead nodded her agreement. “You just need to live life a bit and have some fun!”

After a chat about general Life Stuff, I said: “Isn’t it crazy to think back to that summer in the shop five years ago when we had The Plan?”
“Oh God yeah,” said Sinead.
“The guy I liked was away for the summer and you had just met yours and we made a pact to win their hearts. And we did,” I added somewhat triumphantly. “And since then my whole life plan has changed so many times, I’ve had a few other boyfriends and a ridiculously long relationship with a boy I lived with, and now I’ve no idea what I want to do with my life. You also broke up with your guy and you’ve been around the world and you’re moving to Australia next week.”

It was head-spinning to think about all that had changed and how it seemed that all the work I’d put into life over the last few years had been erased and I was starting again.
Out on my own.

“On the plus side,” I said as an after thought, “my conversation topics are far more exciting as a single person than they were as the Long Time Relationship Girl. It’s nice to know there’s a silver lining.”

A little letter to….The Boy

The 21st of May 2011.

We joked wryly about the apocalypse that everyone else laughed so flippantly over.
On the inside, on some level, we were believers.
Everyone joked as the day ended and they were still in one piece.
But we didn’t.
Our worlds – correction: our world – did end that day.
By midnight, we’d dismantled the life we’d created together and I slept alone in what had been our bed, staring at a blank future.

Subconsciously, I’d tried to warn us a few weeks early.
Without fail, whenever I feel like I’m losing control of things, I cut my hair stupidly short or I stubbornly attempt to pierce the cartilage in my ear yet again.
This time is was the hair.
I was too preoccupied with other things to pick up on it and you just didn’t see anything unusual about it.
Why would you?
I haven’t felt the need to do either of those things in four years.

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While I’m away (see below), check out my new post on RTE’s Red Radar site.
The RTE People said they’d beat me with large crustacians if you don’t all comment on it and praise me…

Fantabulous Foto Friday

Hello Folks!
Hope you enjoyed the guest posts featured here over the last ten days!
Thanks again to the lovely ladies for helping me out!

My big move (ie: the reason I took the break) hasn’t happened, due to us realising what a HOLE of a place the house really was, so I’ve spent that last couple of weeks house hunting.
I’m feeling quite hopeful right now, because I think myself and The Boy may have struck gold, but I don’t want to jinx it so shhhhhhh.

Anyway, May is going to be ker-ray-zay, between continuing the house hunt, actually moving, potentially welcoming two new kittens (eeeeeeee) and heading to Paris with The Bessie.

I’m going to give myself a break from blogging for the month.
I could keep trying to churn out posts, but they’d be all complete shite and you guys deserve better than that.

So I will see you all again at the start of June, when I will dazzle you with pictures and anecdotes and general hilarity.

Don’t forget me!
Love you all!
Hermia
oxox

My Narnia

Today’s guest post is by Sinead from Her Style Diaries…

Everyone has a happy place. Some of mine are capones down the road that sell the nicest homemade chips and pizza, in any boutique/vintage store, sharing  a blanket on the couch with the boy, online, blogging and shopping , in my car,  watching jersy shore, but my secret little happy place is, my wardrobe.

Is that shallow?

Ah well shallow it is then….

This is where i start my day off and end my day.
I have been able to make one of our  two bedrooms  upstairs in our small country style house a walk in wardobe with all of my prized possessions like shoes hats jewellery clothes and bags .
The other room is made into our office which is another nice little place to be blogging and sorting bills grrrr

I wanted our bedroom downstairs just to be a place where we sleep and relax and zone out so that only has a bed in it with some lockers and one small wardrobe for the boy and a small tv, its all natural colours and is very calming indeed. It has a beautiful veiw of the sea and the clare mouthains and  we can even see the cliffs of mor on a really good day from our bed.

The upstairs room/wardrobe has an actual walk in wardrobe that lets say, hobits would love, but thats because its a country style house and has all the little nooks and crannys around the place with storing in the walls ect so the wardrobe room is a bit slooped but it hangs all my dresses and jumpsuits on two bars. It has a light. It boasts hooks for all my headbands and hats and all my necklaces. All my shoes live in here aswell but im hoping for more shelves so i can take them out of their boxes and up on to a well deserved throne.

All my bags hang of the back of the door and and i can see each and everyone of them..
love that, cas im guilty of forgetting what i own as im sure most of us are, so i like to see what i got so i can mix them up and play around, some are in baskets waiting for their day out which could be soon now…cheer!

I come here to paint my nails and use the varnish remover because the boy starts choking and having a breathing problem as soon as he smells it…. get over it like…  its not that bad…   sigh

My makeup station is this room. Everything i need to beautify myself not that it would take much … aha ahem : )
Everything i own is in this room. Besides all my winter stuff well most of it , cas you just never know do ya?)
This room is heaven to me -  i love being in it and feel very at ease that everything is at hands reach.
A double bed rests over at the wall. Lovely for reading or blogging. My gym gear lays on here and i do try not to ignore that!
Missy also lays here alot on her leopard print blanket.

Its a great little place. I can sing up there , dance stupidly, dance naked! walk around naked , very liberating, blog, read,  try on millions of different outfits, take hours to get ready just because i can, i can hide stuff up there like stuff that has those silly tags on them that really cost an arm and a leg but obviously only cost a fiver!!!   cough cough

So in all honesty i do spend alot of time in this ridicuosly small room that holds probably everything i own fashion/beauty related but….

So thank you thank you thank you to neils sister elisa for moving out into her beautiful new home next door and letting me take over narnia for  the forseable future!
It realy does make me stupidly happy that i have this place ….

I love it here… its like    ….  a shrine   ….. to …     well me!

Everyone has a happy place,  so what’s yours?

Let Me Tell You About the Time I… was freaked out in La Senza

You guys should look forward to some more entertaining guest posts next week, but to round this first week off nicely, we have the amazing Karin from Karin’s World…

Normally I don’t bother with La Senza – I actually think their stuff is a bit over-hyped and priced for the quality of it. But this was after Christmas so there was a sale on, and we all get a bit mad when bargains are to be found.

So there I was, wandering through rows and rows of bras, minding my own business, when I happened upon the bargain bucket. Basically, it was full of a mish mash of various underwear all thrown in, most of it down to like a euro or something. I wasn’t particularly interested, until I noticed a guy, about mid forties, rooting through it. Guys don’t really beling in La Senza unless they are:
A - with their girlfriend
B - buying expensive negligie for a girlfriend and pretending like they know what size their other half is and that they know a good bra when they see one
or C - admitting defeat, keeping the head down, and just heading straight for the counter to buy a gift card.

So clearly, this man was partaking in none of said activites. Even if a guy is just browsing for a gift, he should not be finding it in the euro bucket. Basically, this dude had no business eagerly rooting through women’s discounted underwear.

I was a bit bemused, and slightly curious, so I hung around that end of the shop just in case he would do something that would enlighten me as to what the was up to.

And then, a girl – about fifteen, I would guesstimate – appeared next to him. And he handed her several pairs of underwear.

Let me stress this point. The man in his mid forties handed the young teenage girl several pairs of cheap knickers.

One of two things must be happening here. Either this man is a creepy ass pervert who must be removed from society immediately, or this is his daughter. I really hoped that it was his daughter, until I realised this would be almost as bad – can you imagine your dad picking out your underwear at fifteen?!

Turns out it was the latter, as I did actually hear her call him dad. Which leads me on to the next and clearly most important question: why in the HELL would you go into a sexy underwear shop with your father in the first place?!

To be honest, I was kind of staring by this point (wouldn’t you?!) which the poor girl seemed to cop, as she mumbled something to her dad and shuffled around in that uncomfortable way you do when you are clearing praying for a huge hole to appear in the ground that you can jump into.

Her dad was mortifyingly unfazed by this, and continued to yap on about pairs on pants that he thought were nice! (eww eww EWW) but the poor girl had obviously decided enough was enough; a couple of other people were kind of watching the situation now. Without waiting for further conversation with her totally embarrassing Dad, she legged it for the door, and he wandered along after her, having a good look at everything else as he went.

So there you go… the lesson is, don’t buy pants with your dad!!