Tonight Cilla, I’m Going To Have To Choose...
If you love someone, set them free. So
says Sting, whose only shock/rock comment in the last 20 years has been that he
is a marvel at the ‘aul Tantric sex, and if I
am correct, this involves you both holding hands for a few hours while you gaze
at your partners navel, before even the
chance of any jiggy starting. My double fix
of Corrie would be well and truly over! I really must sort out my Corrie fixation!
But is Sting right? Or then again, should we
even be listening to the music of someone
who’s named after the vicious part of a
wasp’s a**e? I’m not sure about the whole
thing, I mean, where would they go, most
men need a map to get out of the house.
No, I think, if you love someone, you
should set yourself free, and see if they
hang around. Let me explain. As I sit here at my little desk typing, there are pictures of three men in front of me. First up, the hubby on our wedding day, with a bald head and his arm around Elvis (will explain that one in another issue!). Next up, George Clooney on a Vanity Fair Cover with his arm around a model (the wagon!). And finally, Terry Wogan on the cover of his autobiography (with his arms around no-one, but then again the sequinned tie might be the reason for that). Looking at them all, I’m trying to figure out what life would be like living with each of them.
The Clooney/Bermingham Household…
Let’s start with gorgeous George. It’s breakfast time in the big lover house, and George is planning the weekend for himself and Laura. Cue George... “Laura, I was thinking about asking Brad and his brood over for a barbecue on Saturday, what do you reckon honey?”. Laura, thinking she would rather skewer her eyeballs rather than listen to do-gooder Jolie yet again, tries to let George down gently. “Sorry pet, but you can’t get Superquinn sausages in L.A. Or were you thinking of eh, you know who on the menu tonight?”, as she nods in the direction of George’s pot-bellied pig and at the same time making sawing motions at her throat. “But babe, Brad is a real good guy, we’d have fun, you and Ange could play in the pool with the kids, and I’ve ordered a swing set and clowns”. “Listen here Clooney, what have I told you before about grammar (“real good guy?” - keep up!) and anyway, I think if we are ever to have darling children of our own you should know the value of honest parenting and not be trying to buy them off, so in a nutshell, no, they are not coming around, sorry”. “You’re right of course sweetie, you know, I might just buzz Oprah and see has she any contacts that might give us both some parental coaching should we be blessed with the gift of another human life”. “What was that about a gift? Oh, sorry, yeah, kids. Well, while you’re at it, could you also get Dr. Phil’s number and ask him why your inner psyche insists on you calling me pet names instead of Laura, you’re wrecking my head. Thanks babe”. And on and on it would go, him trying to save the world and being a totally good guy, while I, well, while I would still be Laura from Dublin.
Go On Wogan, Ya Good Thing.
And would I fare any better in the Wogan/ Bermingham household I wonder? On the plus side, he is rumoured to be Irish so at least he would kind of ‘get’ me so to speak. On the down side though, he is considerably older, but then, as my friend always says, if you’re looking, why try and keep up with a young guy who will recognise your cellulite and stretch marks because his mother got some having him. Why not go for an older guy who will be grateful, and at worst, if he doesn’t have his own teeth, hopefully he’ll have the dosh to buy you veneers. So, anyway it’s teatime in the big clover house and Terry has just come home for his tea. “Darling, I had the most hilarious moment today on the eighteenth with Jonathan, I must tell you about it”. (Now the mere mention of the word golf puts me to sleep, immediately). Zzzzzz... zzzzzzzzzz... zzzzzzzzzzz... zzz. “Sorry, what was that Tell, oh yeah, golf today, hysterical, sure. What do you want to do now, it’s teatime?”. “Hoho, nothing gets past you, what do you think? Let’s have dinner”. Now readers, if you change the inflection of the last three words of the previous sentence, you will understand why many relationships fail between males and females
(it’s a brain chemical thingy). “Dah, Wogan, what did you think I meant, of course let’s have dinner”. “Precisely! Now why can’t I
smell anything?”. “Don’t you start, I only
hoovered today, dinner’s going to be great
craic if you’re going to nitpick all night!”.
“No darling, I meant why can’t I smell the
dinner?”. “Well that would be a bit bloody
difficult Terry seeing as how we haven’t
gotten to the restaurant yet!”. “Oh”, says
Terry, a bit deflated. “I thought we could
eat now and have an early night”.
And sadly folks, Laura cannot stay around
to answer that dilemma as that is just fantasy turning into a nightmare. My apologies
to the lovely Terry in advance, but darling,
our relationship could only ever be aural.
Reality Bites
And what of my real life, is that like something out of a film? Of course it is, several actually! The most common movie set would be the graveyard clip from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Here goes. It’s dinnertime in the big mother house, and Laura has just walked in from TV3 to find hubby standing at cooker. Diddle, diddle de… de, de, de... diddle, diddle, de... de, DE, de... “Hiya sweetheart, what are you making?”. “You’re dinner as it happens, how was your day?”. “Great, but I’m exhausted, I can’t wait to just throw myself on the couch and just veg”. “Oh really?”. in a tone resembling Dr. Evil from Austin Powers. And then it clicks. What seemed like the amicable husband/wife banter of a weekday evening, has now suddenly got all the ten- sion of a killer thriller. From the corner of her eye, Laura’s peripheral vision picks out the ironing basket that she promised to tackle three days ago. (Peripheral vision? Our ironing can be seen from space there’s so much of it!). And so they stand there in silence, eyeballs flickering back and forth from creased shirts to love hurts before deciding on “Oh for God’s sake, we could all be dead tomorrow, let’s eat!”. And judging by the gargantuan pile of clothes, if we are alive, we’re gonna be naked to boot!
Final Fantasy-
And so, if I had to choose between my three fantasy relationships, who would I pick? Would I go for Blind Date number one? George, with his salt and pepper locks, his millions in the bank and his pen- chant for bringing farmyard animals into the kitchen to leave manure on a floor that’s just been scrubbed? Or Blind Date number two? Terry, with his smiling eyes and witty repartee, but who grates on the nerves with a bejay**s or a begorrah every five minutes? Or Blind Date number three? The long-suffering hubby who whips up an omelette and salad the minute I decide I need to shed a few pounds, and then takes me out for a slap-up Chinese when I lose it?! Tonight Cilla, I’m going to have to choose contestant number... three. So there you have it Sting, if you love someone, don’t set them free, just hope to God they love you back, warts and all!
Why not email me?
I’d love to hear from you and perhaps we can cover some of your concerns, funny experiences and little life lessons along the way. Here is something to get you going... I have an irrational fear of the Luas tracks and go into a state of sheer panic if I have to walk or drive over them. Please email if you have similar fears, of if you’re an expert on these things and think that this might simply be the first step towards old age. Will I be found at bus stops jostling to get to the top of the queue in a few weeks time?!
You can email me at laura@hlaw.ie
Illustration By Barry Smith
