I liked this aul' volcano ash initially. We live three miles from Dublin Airport and although we are not on any flight path we cannot get over the lovely stillness in the air without the planes. I even stopped shouting at the kids.
And the air feels different, like going out into the open from a stuffy house ( does that make sense)? I have never seen such magnificent sun rises and sunsets, there will be a quare clatter of poems churned out on the subject I'm sure!
But as my poetry is poo I decided to be a domestic goddess instead and washed my windows. Pink Windolene and the Irish Times.
Well, they keep telling us we need to get back to basics and for my money you can't get more basic then that. Although if I was being true to my upbringing it should have been the Evening Press I was using- sadly defunct. I loved reading Con Houlihan's column even though I hadn't a bulls notion about sport, but my God - that man could write. I remember him saying once that 'any man who misplaced an apostrophe was capable of anything.' I thought it the most intelligent thing I had ever heard although it sounds a bit Oscar Wildeish to me and Con may have nicked it.
Back to my windows. So there I was streaking this chalky pink shit on a J -cloth across the admittedly filthy windows. I felt utterly content, the sun was shining on the back of my neck and I love that first heat of the sun every year. I could hear Mick next door cutting his grass. Mick next poor is always cutting his grass - he obsesses over it. Jemser reckons Mick must get an orgasm when he cuts the grass because there does not appear to be any real need to cut it half the time. Mick-next door's grass cutting habit appears in almost every thing I write. Why's that? Any Freudian out there please tell me.
So, utterly content window-washing lawnmower listening me dutifully rubbed the Pink Windolene in and pulled it off again with another J cloth - My Ma used old kids' vests. Do kids still wear vests? Or is that a paedo question?
I then attempted to polish the windows with the news paper but only succeed in leaving big gloops of it,pink papier machier-like, on the windows. But I kept going and valiantly rubbed and scrubbed and polished until my windows were almost invisible.
I felt very satisfied with myself that evening and sat down with a cup of tea and two Jaffa cakes and happily contemplated my domestic goddessnish.
Then I got up this morning and the bloody things were covered in the finest of volcano ash.
I'll take the hose to them the next time.