I HAVE made a daring secret purchase. It’s not the kind you can smuggle into the back of the wardrobe.Any day now, Thomas, the delivery man, should ring the bell and ask me to open the door.
We shall do the dance of the delivery people – step in, step out – photograph the package on the doorstep.
I know a lot about Thomas – God be with the days when we’re on first name terms with the delivery men.
The thing is, the parcel shall be quite large and I haven’t shared the surprise with my husband. Since the parcel requires assembly and that is his department, I might have to tell him… but not yet.
We have what the estate agents might call a bijou home. It is currently stuffed with three people’s stuff as well as three people who aren’t going anywhere any time soon, like the rest of the country.
Once, 20 years ago, we were strolling down the street on holiday and I fell in love with a large wooden owl in a shop window.
“So beautiful,” I sighed. “But where would we put it.”
“I can think of a good place,” he said, not in an encouraging way.
This leads me to think that he may not welcome my rowing machine. But better to act first and say sorry afterwards.
The rowing machine cometh. Ha, ha ha. I do confess to my friend. Long ago, in first lockdown days, I wore a crop circle in the back garden while chatting away to her.
“Perfect,” she cries re the rowing machine. “Set it up and imagine you’re in Paris and rowing your way down the Seine. Get himself to hang a bunch of onions round his neck and walk about speaking beautiful French.”
I can imagine his French will be bleu, when Thomas arrives and he sees the size of the undertaking.
My mother knew she needed to clear as well, in her latter days. The attic was bulging with stuff. On a beautiful summer’s day, she’d say: “I’ve only two things that I need you to do: clear the attic and take me to Carrigart”.
“I will on my a***,” I’d tell her.
There is a certain delicious pleasure in uttering profane words to your mother when you are 58 and she is 89 and there is not a damn thing she can do.
“Nuala Mary McCann, your language! Your father will be spinning in his grave,” she’d say. And we’d laugh and trade Carrigart for a trip up the road to Cushendall and a rum n raisin ice cream.
But the rowing machine that is on its way has prompted me to channel my inner Marie Kondo and get clearing. I started small. I opened a box of old cards and a million memories tumbled out. I stalled.
There were old photographs when my hair was naturally red and our boy was the most beautiful baby/boy/young man in Ireland – still is, obviously – and even, for goodness sake, my wedding speech notes.
I remember the top table and the two crossed hunting rifles on the wall behind us – always handy if things don’t go to plan, said one of our guests.
We wanted the most relaxed wedding we could have – so there was no line-up, nobody had to make a speech who didn’t want to and all speeches were before the food – because you really want to enjoy your dinner.
The notes for my speech had me snorting with laughter. I married an organised man, I am not an organised woman. So I said that in the run-up to the big day – July 1994 – he had filled in the calendar as usual.
In June, he had written: “European election – VOTED”.
Later in the same month: “World Cup – IRELAND 1 – ITALY 0!”
All this had intrigued me, and I turned to July to check what he’d written for our big date.
Would it be 'Oh happy day'? 'Oh day of my dreams'? No, the entry was to the point. “Oh God!” he wrote and – worse still – it was written in pencil.
So here we are 26 years on and I’m wondering how he ‘s going to take the rowing machine surprise. Will he be my Coxswain? Are we sailing into stormy waters?
Hark, is that Thomas I hear a-rapping at our door? Stand away from the door, Thomas, j’arrive! Quelle surprise! Pistols at dawn?
We might have a use for those old hunting rifles yet.
