This morning, the ten year old played
Edelweiss on his out of tune violin for an hour, all the time wearing a gum
shield. The eldest teenager lay vomiting in bed, whilst the other one banged
her head against the fridge in protest at the lack of sandwich fillings. “Why
can’t this fridge should look like the one in Subway?” she groaned. The only
child not moaning, sick or playing somber music had burnt the toast.
This was half past eight in the morning and
the first tea of the day had not even been made. I sat on a chair with a dog on
each knee, my eyes closed and breathing deeply because sometimes when you feel
that you are about to go into overload, that’s the best thing to do. I’ve seen
the Buddhist monks do it and you never see a stressed Buddhist. The phone went.
“I need you to take me to hospital”. It was
Phil in a panic. “Why?” “I’ve got to see an expert about something urgent, are
you around?” I looked up at the chaos in the kitchen. I told Phil to be ready
at 9.15 and promised to get him to the clinic by 10.30. I filled the kettle,
hit the switch and got in the shower and out again in record speed with my own
personal violinist accompanying me in the background.
With no time to drink tea, I reached into
the press for ‘the gift’. A concerned friend brought it back from the States.
She worries because when I go out in the car I take a mug of tea with me. Just
a normal everyday ceramic mug because I don’t like the plastic travel kind.
She’s always telling me that it’s dangerous and I might burn myself. I respond
by telling her that in twenty years I’ve never spilt a drop.
She came round last summer with what looked
like a handle-less green plastic bucket with a white lid on it. “It’s an
American travel cup!” she said with glee, showing me how to put in place and
twist on and off the chunky lid. I held it in both hands because my hands are
small and it was impossible to hold with one alone. I thanked her, secretly
believing that never, in a million years, would I need to drink two litres of
tea. I put it away thinking that one day it might make a nice plant pot.
Today, with a longish journey ahead of me,
I reached in the press for ‘the gift’ it would be ideal. I read the label,
KEEPS COFFEE HOT FOR FOUR HOURS. American’s don’t really ‘do’ tea but I do and
filled it to the top with Barry’s Gold Blend. I’d have enough of the milky
stuff for the journey there and back.
I made a note to myself to genuinely thank my concerned friend, grateful that
I’d been too disorganized to plant bulbs in it.
The kids got into the car. I followed
slowly behind with my arms around the green American travel mug. The lid was
twisted safely on. Still, that amount of hot liquid commanded respect. “Where
are you going to put it?” asked the violinist. The problem with America is that
everything is so BIG. Big bagels, big skyscrapers, big coffee travel mugs and
big cars with big travel mug holders in them. It was almost as big as a wheel
on my Citroen C4.
“I’ll hold it!” The violinist took it and
cross-eyed, stared at it without blinking once all the way to school. Once they
had all got out, I put the beast on the front seat and strapped it in with a
seatbelt and headed to Phil’s house. “WHAT THE ****” is that?” Phil said as he
opened the door. “Barry’s Gold”. “I don’t drink ******** tea”. “It’s not for
you. It’s for me”. “What’s with the shoes?” I asked him looking down at his
feet.
“New shoes. Penny’s in Newbridge, €8.
Brought them for the appointment”. If I am going to see the gynecologist I’ll
buy new knickers. Phil was going to see an eye specialist and bought blue suede
shoes. He also wore blue socks and matching blue trousers. I unfastened the
bucket, he got in and I balanced it between our seats and drove off up the N7.
“Your car is filthy.” Phil is always
direct. I love him for that. “You should supply hand gel and one of those white
zip through body suits for your passengers” he went on. “I’m going write to RTE
and get a film crew to make a TV show about the state of it”. We got to the Red Cow when it dawned on me
that neither of us knew exactly where the specialist clinic was.
“Where now?” I asked, breathing deeply like
the Buddhists but this time with eyes open. “I don’t know!” Phil replied,
tapping at his phone furiously. “I thought you might have Sat Nav,” he snapped.
“I do but I can’t find it”, “WELL IT’S A SURPRISE YOU CAN EVEN FIND THE ******
IGNITION WITH THE MESS IN THIS CAR”. He was now very agitated. This was a
serious clinic appointment. I pulled over, putting my foot down and braking a
little too heavily.
With a thud, the American travel cup
dropped forward, the lid fell off and two litres of tea went over Phil’s blue
suede shoes. Like sponges they soaked up most of the warm liquid. What they
didn’t soak up, his socks did. If you had the window open this morning you
might have heard his screams. He walked into the clinic, half an hour late
leaving milky wet footprints behind him.
“I’m getting a ******* taxi next time” he
told me when he got back in the passenger seat. “The hairs on your legs grow
faster than you drive and I’ve
probably picked up a disease from this car”. I’ve just washed out the American
travel mug. The hyacinths will looks gorgeous in it next month.
