Little blue book
A Thoroughly Good Blue is launched. It’s an anthology of writing by the M Phil class in creative writing at the Oscar Wilde centre in Trinity College Dublin, where I am a student. We are an international group: 15 writers from three different continents, reading from our work in swift succession. Flash fiction on legs with a bit of poetry thrown in.
The title of the anthology comes from a quotation of Oscar Wilde. It is a metaphor for the artist’s search for perfection. To reinforce the message we have lots of blue on show, even the balloons. Paul Murray, of Skippy Dies fame, launches the book with a masterly mix of eloquence, erudition and laughs.
Mammies fly in from America, grandads come from Coolock and my grandson sees his granny read out loud in front of the class. The hall is full, the applause thundering, the drink flows, and an occasional homeless man comes in to sample the cheese. When it’s over, we take out sweeping brushes to drive the last of the relatives and friends out of the Printing House and into Trinity’s New Square.
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Retiring types
The best in the world has us riveted to the screen. The family is lined up in pyjamas in front of the television, supping tea, munching on bowls of cereal and bursting with pride to watch our local champion. The pride of Bray: Katie Taylor, the best in the world. Even the two-year-old grandchild was mesmerised by the speed of our Katie. In the afternoon, Leinster saw off Ulster in the Heineken Cup, and by the end of the day we’re exhausted from all the excitement.
The following night we celebrate the retirement of two friends who are the latest to make the transition into life without work. Well, actually, retirement is anything but life without work, as I’m finding out. One friend has never been busier, and the other had to leave the dinner early to chair an important meeting. On a Sunday night.
Old pleasures
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There was a bit of Co Carlow in my constituency for years, after the electoral boundary commission redrew the boundaries and stuck it in with Wicklow. When it happened I was flummoxed. What could I say about Carlow in my election literature? “Well,” my father suggested helpfully at the time, “you could always tell them you were conceived in Carlow.”
I didn’t have the nerve but, ever since, I’ve had a certain fondness for the place, so when my sisters-in-law suggested a trip to Altamont Gardens near Tullow I jumped at the offer. It’s a glorious place in which to wander about. The variety of shrubs is stunning and, in the middle of the gardens there’s a fairytale lake. Combined with a visit to Kilmacurragh Gardens in Wicklow (also free), it’s my idea of a heavenly day out.
When I first retired I felt guilty about enjoying myself but I got over it when a friend told me that we must set a good example to the young. It was our duty, she said, to show them that getting older can be fun.
Second coming
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The visit of Lara, the granddaughter from Norway, was over too fast. She and her parents flew home before the good weather came but, each morning, regardless of the weather, she was happy to beat her way down Bray promenade. Dogs, birds, fish in the aquarium were all grist to her mill.
Lara is only two but as strong as a Viking princess. In Norway, children are reared to be hardy. In kindergarten they’re out of doors in extremes of weather. Bitter winds, hail and snow. A bit like early May in Ireland, come to think of it.
Listowel Writers’ Week is under way and some M Phil students, including me, have been asked to do a reading. In 1989, I won the short story award at Listowel but it was my great regret that I couldn’t attend the event because a general election intervened. To get a second chance in life is magical. Yes, of course, like Molly Bloom, I said yes.
The day we travel down to Kerry is the day of the referendum, yes, and it is an early start but the polling station is open in time so, yes, before we set off, yes, I cast my vote. Yes!
Liz McManus is a former Labour TD and minister, and an award-winning fiction writer. She is working on her second novel, The Disappeared