P sets the scene taking us down memory lane to Merrion Square, Dublin. It is the dawn of the 90’s and P. from Sweden, is staying with the birthday girl B. B is living in a bed-sit, a large room at the back of a Georgian house that has been converted into mainly offices bar a few apartments at the back of the building. It is a sterile place, freshly painted, newly carpeted.

B stands in a yoga pose frying up pancakes on her two ring hob. Furniture consists of a bed. There is no table nor are there chairs. We picnic on the floor. A rug is laid out anchored by a bottle of cheap red wine. I have just entered the room in my silver heels and casting a cursory glance upon the situation declare it, ‘an interesting mess’. The wine is drunk, cigarettes are smoked, pancakes eaten and then we discuss Dostoyevsky’s, The Idiot . You get the picture,  and once the bottle  has been emptied away into the night we go.

Back then, B & I loved to go dancing at Lilies Bordello or the Pink Elephant. We’d throw various shapes to pop music, the mirror ball reflecting our youthful arrogance. We were drama students, our sole ambition was to conquer the floor, the club and the night in question. We revelled in our ridiculous motions, as we kept other dancers at bay with random chaotic movements and crazy shape shifting. We were monsters, animals, robots, we were grotesque and funny, stupid, silly. We were having the time of our lives.

Attracting men was not our goal. We did not shimmy or gyrate to entice – we did not have to. By the mere virtue of youth doors swung open and we were plied with drinks and so much attention we were all but contemptful of the predictability and weakness of men.

Now we are grown and those silver shoes, a mere scuff on my memory. We wear our life experiences on our faces, our bodies have changed and changed again as we rear families of our own. These days there is hardly any time left for dancing except  on special occasions. This is one such and tonight we dance to celebrate B and the conquering of time.

back to confessions…

My sister was ill, nothing life threatening, a bout of flu or perhaps a sore throat. She lay wrapped in blankets on the sofa issuing orders about which channel to watch. This was before remote controls had been invented. To change channel entailed a minor expedition from the comfort of the sofa up to the television set whereupon a knob would be turned or a button pressed.

Due to her incapacity, the privilege of program choice was sister’s and I, given the duty of acquiescing to her demands. It was a chore borne with supreme reluctance. We loathed each other and fought constantly. Already, she had wailed  ‘Mum!’, when I  ‘inadvertently’ pressed the wrong channel for the third time.  Mother was teetering… on the edge. She warned us if there was one more peep, just one…  it would be straight to bed; no TV, no father and definitely no presents.

It was way after eight and I was approaching my ninth year.  At the time I was a pupil of Alexandra College, a school for young ladies and in the run up to Christmas had made the socially disastrous decision of announcing to my class mates that Santa did not exist. This revelation caused an outbreak of high-pitched hysteria, as twenty little girls wailed inconsolably.  I myself joined in, realizing I had committed social hari-kari.

I cannot remember my motive for sabotaging my social status but I do recall that for the past eight years I had been a steadfast believer. I was the child who believed in all things metaphysical; in Santa, fairies, elves, imps, goblins and ghosts.  With evangelical enthusiasm, I did my utmost to coax such magical creatures from out of their invisible worlds and into mine. Strategically placed doll’s tea sets were hidden about the garden, alongside miniature platefuls of stale broken biscuits or jam jars of home made potions.

Every Christmas Eve I would keep guard at the bedroom window peering fervently into the night sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa on his sleigh.  I stole scraps of tinsel from school and held them aloft as if a Claus beacon.

Being Jewish we did not celebrate Christmas. Still, I prayed that if Santa would overlook my religion I would be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Alas, there were no sleigh sightings, no presents at the end of the bed, no stockings full of sweetmeats or clove pricked oranges.

It was getting late. It was some time after eight when our ears pricked up and we heard our father’s car roll into the driveway. We flew to the hall door and had it open before he’d even reached the porch steps.

‘Are you two still up?’  He asked, knowing it was not yet bedtime. It was not yet nine.

We were wet nosed puppies yapping at his coat tails, bubbling with excitement as there hanging

from his left hand was a huge bag out of which emerged the biggest box of chocolates in the world. It was an immense square ornate box of assorted chocolates.  The lid decorated with a scenic countryside vista and wore a resplendent bow.

My mother appeared from the kitchen and told my father how poorly my sister was. My sister, as if to emphasise the point looked up at him with pale, wan, wide eyes, the edges of her mouth aptly down turned.  She must have tugged at his heartstrings cause the next thing was he gave her the box. He gave her the box of chocolates….   With the proviso, she shared some with me.

Share?

Sharing with my sister was not an option. The only thing we shared was the physical abuse of one another, kicks, pinches, thumps, and hair pulling. We understood this.  My mother understood it. It was understood. We three looked at my father in disbelief. Whatever one of us got the other had to have. It had to be replicated, that was sibling law. Perhaps the box had originally been intended for us both, perhaps not. All I know was that father reached into the bag, and pulled from it, (almost as an after thought) another box.

This other box was as different to the first box as it could possibly be. There were no pretty pictures depicted, no assortment of any kind. It was a small rectangular box. One of the smallest boxes available found in any corner newsagent and contained the most pedestrian type of chocolate.

I am sure I turned a shade of green, to be more specific a shade of mint chocolate green. My sister had already untied the bow, lifted the lid, and with ostentatious delight was cooing over which chocolate to choose. Meanwhile, eyes downcast, I was visibly disappointed with my, After Eights.

This gift, this magnificent box of chocolates given to my sister was a dagger through my heart, a punch in the guts. Never was such sibling rivalry roused, I fumed and frothed and plotted revenge.

I cannot say for sure if I was inspired by the plight of the Maccabbi’s and the miracle of the longer lasting Chanukah oil – but as the festival was upon us, it may have infiltrated my subconscious.  My sister was well enough to devour her box of chocolates with the glee befitting such confection.  In retrospect, she may have been oblivious to my fevered jealousy. She did not have to do anything to inspire my hatred; just being in possession of the box was a red flag and I the incensed bull. Every time that pretty lid lifted, it was to me a love victory, her victory, and every time she perused the chocolates; be it the nougat crunch, orange truffle, coffee cream, or fudge divine, it was a gloating triumph.

Pitched against my sister with my pride pricked I felt I had to find some solace in being given the shitty box of chocolates. There must be, I surmised something advantageous about my humble box.  Obviously, my options were limited as her box was undeniably bigger, plainly the more delicious and here in lay its weakness. Her chocolates were utterly mouth wateringly, Moorish, whereas my mine, weren’t.  Thus, my only pathetic warring advantage was that my box would last longer. a bet was wagered and accepted.

Yet, did my sister attempt to prolong the rapid depletion of her box?  Not a bit of it. Every chocolate was gobbled with relish.  I on the other hand set out with a stalwart self control to limit myself to two wafer thin chocolates a day and extended the ecstasy by slowly nibbling each wafer.

I felt so triumphantly smug for I managed to make the box last not one, not two, not three nor four days (by which time my sister’s box had been entirely scoffed) not five, six nor even seven days, but eight days. My tiny box of After Eights lasted eight days.

It would have lasted longer, but on the eighth day in response to my sister asking had I any left, I    discovered the box was empty. Someone had gorged on my after dinner mints leaving only the wrappers.  I pointed the finger of blame directly at my sister and went ballistic.

I recall that night as the night my mother tipped over the edge. Her rage scared us into silence and instant apologies. Sent to my room, elbows on the window ledge I gazed into the darkness, despairing of the unfair world I lived in. There was no justice. There was no truth and as my sobs abated out of the corner of my eye a bright spark scorched the night sky; a flash and flurry of colour and it looked to me, well it looked to me as if a man in a hurry was racing across space.

For all my restraint and denial, I lost this war to my sister. There was no denying she had the better chocolates and more importantly, she properly enjoyed them. Sadly and it is with a certain amount of shame I admit that this episode in my youth had two lingering consequences; the first, a penchant for   After Eights and the second, a tendency to squirrel away my pleasures.

Hark the tedious victim cry of womanhood.

Was it me? Was it something I did?…

I wonder if it’s a female thing this propensity to apportion blame on oneself for a relationship disaster.  I can’t recall many of my male friends blaming themselves for their love affairs going tits up… whether it is or isn’t gender specific, it’s a meaningless moan.

There’s nothing pretty about self-pity; wallow all you like but it will only make you ugly and age rapidly. This is a scientifically proven… er…. fact….

‘If only I’d….’

When I hear a friend bemoan their man-less state with such self-blaming tactics, I am forced to agree. Woman, just take look at yourself, desperation is seeping out of every pore… you are sweating neediness.  Ooohhh yuck! Ask yourself this; if you were a man, would you go out with you?

You may think I being needlessly harsh but no one likes a loser, especially a self-confessed loser, it’s elemental my dear.  Blaming oneself for each disastrous romantic scenario is a total waste of energy.

No one is lucky in love 24-seven, so finding yourself in an unwelcome state of single-dom may just be a run of bad luck. You know… one of those periods when it continuously rains on your parade; when it seems as if you are invisible to one and all; when getting a drink at the bar turns into an ordeal and the barman serves everyone but you. When strangers bump you in the street and goddamn it every seat on the f-ing tube is taken, or the worse case scenario ever….   LIKE EVER…

You are at a gig in the late 80’s, watching as it happened The Waterboys.  This was when you still lived at home. You bought the tickets months back and have learnt off the lyrics, cause the WB’s are like your favourite band, period! You have dreamt about falling in love (and more….) with every band member and finally the day of the gig has arrived.

Your dad drops you into town. You and your best friend are all shrill and squeaky with innocent excitement… and push your way through the crowd, up to the front row and the band come on and you are jumping up and down… and then you notice the bass player is looking at you.

Yes, directly at you.

Your cheeks redden, you are smiling up at him thinking, ‘Finally, finally, my luck is changing.’ Cause the truth is, you haven’t ever had a boyfriend… and this man is gorgeous… so you smile back at him and he smiles back at you and….

Wait until everyone at school hears about this. They are going to be so jealous! This is what you think … I mean, Jesus F-ing Christ girl, you are having a Courtney Cox/Bruce Springsteen moment!

By the end of the gig, you have (in your mind), already moved in with him.  The band take their encore, he nods at you, smiling all the while and suddenly you are bashful- and then you see him whisper something to the bouncer and point to you – your heart is pushing through your skin cartoon styleeee and then….

Then you notice the bouncer coming straight toward you.  Oh yes, he is coming straight toward you… and you elbow your friend in the ribs, and…

Reality dawns.

The bouncer ignores you…. and goes… wait for it… for the blonde-haired dolly bird standing directly behind you.

Goddamn it sister!

If only I’d not worn my braces. If only I’d plucked the centre out of my mono brow. If only I’d lost all that puppy fat! If only I was the blonde-haired slut!

Yeah right!

As if!

Whatever!

Look, it happened a long time ago and I’m over it, but my point is we have all been there.

Alternatively, your run of bad luck in finding love could be due to your adept talent for attracting bastards. Hey… and the best thing about this is, it’s not even a conscious desire, so it really isn’t your fault – it’s sub conscious, borne of a self loathing that only years of hard core therapy can rectify.

Anyway whether a) or b) thinking like a loser won’t get you anywhere and certainly not near a person.

So… enough already with the self-pity and moaning.

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