Events of 2003:Friday 3rd January 2003Brian has pancreatitis. I am having a job trying to explain to the doctors that he's not an alcoholic, as they seem to regard alcoholism as the most likely cause. Another cause that they didn't tell me about is complications (i.e. accidentally brushing up against the pancreas) during previous surgeries, which in Brian's case are legion. So I reckon that's the most likely one, but being a hospital they don't like to say that. He's not supposed to have any food or drink for a week to prevent his pancreas from kicking in. The vigilante tea lady (who is contracted separately from the healthcare professionals) offered Brian a cup of tea two nights ago, apparently unable to read the huge NIL BY MOUTH sign above his bed. Foolishly, Brian accepted, so he was up most of the night with pains and bilious belching. Charming. Maybe there is some kind of literacy problem in Cashel Hospital, because I was in the restroom, and there is a sign that says:
I am this close to getting a pen and explaining the difference between "their" and "there". I might even introduce the heady contraction "they're" to demonstrate a point. Update May 2003: Someone has actually corrected this sign, by which I mean that someone has put a line through "their" and written in "there". Still, no one has thought to replace the sign. What does this say about the state of our health service? If they can't spell "there", what hope is there for "benzodiazapene"? Friday 17th January 2003So it looks like I'm getting married. Nadia and myself have decided on a low-key ceremony in Los Angeles. Originally we had planned to get married in Las Vegas, but it turned out that Nadia did not want our marriage to be a post-modernist statement, filled with irony and self-referential humour. In retrospect, I can see her point. The date at the moment is the 7th of February, but that is subject to change at any moment, so don't write it down or anything. 
Nadia and myself at the cliffs of Moher. Thursday 20th FebruaryHawaii!We are on honeymoon on Kauai island. The first thing I notice is the names of the places. Hawaii is a land of many vowels, but few consonants. For this we should be either thankful or bitter, depending on whether or not you used to live in Yugoslavia. It is dark when we arrive, but warm and humid. During the week, I will liken the atmosphere to "living inside someone's mouth". At the moment, however, the novelty of the thing is enough to staunch the flow of inevitable cynicism. Saturday 22nd FebruaryWe're still in Hawaii. This is a small island, and everything is red. It looks like it's based on some sort of solid foundation, until you go picking at it, and discover that the island is made out of crumbly, red clay. It's just as well there are few indigineous animals out here, because all you'd need is three woodpeckers and a fortnight to make the whole thing disappear. It's also very hot, still. Things are different here. On Kauai, people keeps their doors closed to keep out the heat. This took some getting used to. Tuesday 4th March 2003I just got back. I haven't slept in three days, so I'm a little frayed. A little on edge. As soon as I arrived in Shannon it started raining again, but it's not so bad. At least it's sunny in Cuba. Where my luggage is. I have been assured by Aer Lingus that they will return my luggage to me by taxi later on today. Which is nice. If only there was some way I could arrange to lose my luggage every flight. Thursday 20th March 2003We need to go to the social welfare office to arrange for a work permit for Nadia. We discover that the staff in the social welfare office are both very unhelpful and full of shit. This may be an unfair generalisation, and possibly only applies to the lady with whom we were dealing.
I didn't actually say that. But I should have. Then maybe I could sleep at night. Nadia's reaction was that she should have told her she needed the number to immediately begin seeking social welfare benefits. That would have been amusing. Although not as amusing as if she had stuffed a cushion under her top and kept patting it surreptitiously throughout the "interview". It's always five minutes after the crucial moment you think of these witty retorts, isn't it? Yes; it is.
Monday 14th July 2003I can see the headlines now: Local Couple Arrested As Child Smuggling Ring Smashed. Thankfully this did not come to pass. There was trouble; strange rumblings outside my window last night as I was trying to get some sleep in the hot, humid aftermath of a sunny day turned sour. No thunderstorm to take the bite out of the ambient moisture. No sympathy for the devil. The strange rumblings turned to mumbled speech and a short sharp noise - a car horn. I got up, bleary-eyed and naked, and peeked out the curtain. Nadia was, by this time, alerted and concerned:
I rushed to pull on the nearest pair of jeans I could find, and made my way to the door. Two gardas. These men were here On Business, and in no mood for small talk.
They moved with us to the kitchen, Nadia was standing behind me.
The conversation had taken a nasty turn. I didn't like it, but these people were in my house. In some strange way it was like they were one of us. There was no way out. The kitchen only has three exits, and running was not an option. Anyway, if you run away from your home, where do you go?
Realisation dawned. A wave of relief was closely followed by the grip of a new, more focused fear. I knew what the trouble was now, but would they understand? The look in their eyes told me that they would not. However, the languid goat is always thin. Hasta la victoria siempre.
In retrospect, I could have phrased it better, but there was no easy way to say it. Nadia and I were married in February, and ever since then, Nadia has been talking about babies. Babies this, babies that, babies the other. We are agreed that we don't want any right now, but when we do get down to it (I think that when Tanya (Nadia's older sister) finally gets around to producing our niece or nephew, it will be Condition Red for us), it will probably be the most talked-about event since Beckham signed on for Real Madrid. As part of the ongoing information campaign, on leaving Ward 10 in St. Joseph's hospital, Nadia decided that she wanted to see some babies, thinking that they would be arranged neatly into rows, as they would be in US hospitals. This was not the case. The lady in charge of the maternity ward approached us in what can only be described as a hostile manner.
We left, bemused. Obviously, the lady had contacted the security staff, because as I was leaving the car park, the security guard was looking at me in a certain way - that kind of way that cops reserve for oncoming motorists at checkpoints. I stopped and asked if there was anything awry. He said everything was OK. I foolishly took him at his word. When will I learn? Someone in that hospital called the police on us, thinking we were going to steal the babies. There are several flaws in that thesis, which I need not go into right now, but I will:
Friday 17th October 2003My mother had an accident this morning. She finds it difficult to walk, and this morning she had a little fall that left a nasty gash in her knee. So it was action stations this morning speeding from my house to my parents' house, to the shop, to the hospital and back again. All this before ten o'clock in the morning. No coffee needed today. Tonight, propitously, was also the night myself and my friend Daniel had booked to go to a Robert Fisk lecture. And the new couch was arriving at 6:15, and Nadia was gone to Paris with her sisters and it was all going horribly wrong! I forgot to eat dinner. My cousin Catherine came back with me, and some Chinese food. The couch lifters were already here, and waiting for me. Then all I had to do was drive Catherine home; grab hold of Daniel; make sure that we were all set for the lecture; and bob's your uncle. So, I drove up to Daniel's house, parked my car there, and we drove in using his car. We made it to the Robert Fisk lecture, which was being held in Clonmel's only dramatic theatre, the White Memorial Theatre. There was a small crowd waiting to get in by the time we arrived, which included what passes for an intelligentsia in a town like this. For a jostling rabble, we were very well behaved. Justifiably disappointed with this state of affairs, the editor of the local newspaper, who was standing in front of me, said that we should throw a few rocks and make him feel at home. "Bob", as he called himself, spoke mainly about Iraq and all the crazy things that were going on, and all the sensible things that weren't going on. He had two video clips with him: a clip of Saddam Hussein relaxing in the mountains, on his holidays, gaily frolicing about the streams in full dress uniform; and a clip of some political dissidents (or as Saddam would call them after his arrest, "thugs") being hideously tortured by some uniformed Iraqi army men. There was no smart-aleckry in the theatre then. It took me nearly four hours before I could crack a joke about it. And that's saying something. Grim. About half way through, Brendan (the boss of the Arts Centre, which was hosting the talk) stood up to say that the car park was closing. We didn't feel like moving, to be honest, so Daniel decided to leave his car where it was until morning. At the end of the lecture, we were told we could buy copies of his book and have them signed. However, I really needed to go to the bathroom, so I wanted to get out of there and home. But Daniel's car was locked away until morning, so we had to walk back to his house, which is two miles away. Two miles. Oh yes. It doesn't sound like a lot; but when your bladder is full, and you're not so drunk that you can eject its contents down any old alleyway, two miles is a long way. We made it, I looked after business, and drove home, and, arriving in the door, fell over the new couch. Friday 14th November 2003My mother is becoming increasingly unwell. We decided to visit her in the local hospital today. It used to be call St. Joseph's hospital, but now it's called "South Tipperary Regional Hospital", as part of the Irish government's National Spatial Strategy. Whenever I hear about developments under the NSS, I keep thinking about Stalin's "Five Year Plan"s for some reason. Access was an issue. When we arrived at the hospital, they seemed to be in the middle of some sort of construction, because there was scaffolding and temporary wooden partitions everywhere. Where the main door should have been was a bunch of wooden walls. This did not deter me, though. I simply hopped over the walls and sauntered up to the door along what I regarded as a clearly defined path. What I imagined to be a door was just a big sheet of glass, through which a reception desk could be seen. I thought there was some manner of entrance that I had missed, so I shouted at the man behind the glass if he knew how I could get in. He told me through the medium of modern dance that I would have to go all around by the mortuary, to the temporary entrance, and then work my way all the through the entire hospital to get to his desk, on his side of that pane of glass. What he didn't tell me was that he called security straight after our conversation and told them to be on the look-out for me. As with the previous hospital security alert, this would seem to defy common sense: how many times do they have problems with people trying to break into a hospital? It's a public building, open to all, for heaven's sake. Sure enough, when I eventually found the expertly concealed mortuary, the security guard recognised me. He didn't try to stop me, though, so that was something, I suppose. I shouldn't be surprised if they have a picture of me on the inside of all the main doors at this stage.
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