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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile


10.03.22

We are slothlike this Monday, malingering in bed into the afternoon, drinking cup after cup of coffee while reading historical romance novels. No office, no yoga, no walks on this dull wet day. Even the dog is inside, curled up in his favourite chair in the sitting room.

Over the weekend the husband was away on a lads' trip in Athlone. I wrote at the castle cafe in the mornings and worked in the bar in the evenings. On Saturday I attended a birthday party for the sound engineer at the art centre, where I drank pints of stout from a plastic cup and ate a sliver of "space cake", which tasted like zucchini bread; when I started to get paranoid, I vamoosed. Beware fairy food, eh?

Yesterday morning, the castle garden was abuzz: the local women's group weeded and clipped away all that was dead and dying, ferrying trays and pots and implements, Vera and Aoife doling out scones among them. I envied them: their sense of purpose and community and fellow-feeling, and I could feel my restlessness growing ever more. All those fruitless writing sessions. And deeper, still: our childlessness. Later I booked flights for Venice in November, despite my deep antipathy for the practicalities and potential catastrophes of travel. Venice: was I only fleeing from the cause of my disquiet?




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