I'm leaving my job and going back to work!

"Oh you are so lucky!" they say, "You know what you want to do! I have no idea what I want to do!"
Yes, I know what I want to do, but I'm not sure how lucky I feel.
I've always known that I wanted to write, and at times such as this, I know that I need to.
Sounds a tad dramatic, doesn't it, especially in the context of this colyoom. Much as I love writing 'Double Vision', and inflicting upon you my weekly dose of neurotic outpourings, the scribbling of non-fiction does not keep me sane.
Sure, it pays the bills, and the discipline involved within writing a colyoom of a certain length, week in week out, year in year out, has helped me to hone my editing skills, but as regular readers know only too well, I am still prone to plunging into the mental abyss, appearing disturbed, deranged and depressed, whilst producing this 1000 words a week.
No, what keeps me sane is the creation of fiction.
Well, even that is not wholly true, but as is often the case, the converse is an absolute certainty.
If I do not write fiction, I eventually become depressed, and all of the aforementioned 'd's above.
Were I sculptor, (but then again no?) or a man standing at an easel clutching a palette, my apron smeared with the oily colours of the painting rainbow, you might well expect an artistic temperament, but in my experience, writers are somehow perceived as less artistic and more artisanal.
Well, let me tell ya, it makes no difference how you see us, because speaking personally, I know how mad it feels on the inside.
Throughout my adult life I have struggled to balance what we might as well call 'normality' with this preposterous need to create. Given that 'normal' is a pointless and irrelevant definition, I can admit to being able to pass myself off as 'normal' pretty well, for a while anyway.
I can keep the day job going, and make sure all the rent, bills and financial blah-de-blah holes are covered. I can take my two week holiday in Portugal and have a lovely time, appearing to most people as if I am just a regular kind of guy.
Well anyway, that's how it seems to me. Those close to me might tell me that I am deluding myself.
Point is, I can perform all the traditional roles of a functioning and contributing member of society, but alongside that lifestyle there plays an internal game of Chinese Water Torture: within my soul there runs an incessant drip-drip-drip of resentment and confusion, because all the while I'm doing the 'normal' thing, I am denying my own needs.
Hence, you poor colyoomistas had to suffer a long Winter of depression and discontent, until, come the Spring, I realise for the umpteenth time in my life that the writing of fiction is not a luxury item, it is a need; a prerequisite for sanity, and unfortunately here, as they say, is the rub: my creative process is disgustingly fragile.
Hats off to Kafka and T.S. Eliot, who managed to produce works of creative genius whilst holding down day jobs (in insurance and at Lloyds Bank, respectively). I wish I was able to do similar, but I am not.
Hence I am now leaving a most excellent job that I have very much enjoyed working at for 2 years, and choosing to go for broke by working on a fourth novel that has been an elusive work-in-progress for 12 long years.
Why now? Because I realise that I have to.
It is as simple as that.
Since 1985, I have completed three novels and three little plays, each of which was performed and one of which one a prize.
Zippetty-dip!
Prizes are all well and good, but what I seek is far more elusive that external recognition. Even though none of my novels were published, I can happily say with confidence, yet without conceit or bravado, that each of them is good enough.
Of course I will be delighted when my current novel is published, and my back catalogue released thereafter, but I know, as a writer, as an editor and as a reader that their unpublished state is neither a reflection of how well they were written, nor a judgement cast upon my skills, style or abilities.
Having grown up in marketing, I know how fickle are the choices of publishers, agents and their ilk. My first novel, a passionate low-life rant called 'Look Again' was read by the manuscript committee at the estimable publishing house of Faber, and was declined by a vote of 6-7.
Did I feel crushed? Absolutely not.
My only ambition as far as my writing is concerned is to improve: become more skilful, wiser, more able. Each novel, although a complete entity unto itself, is really nothing more than a stepping stone along the path to greater writing.
If all this sounds rather bombastic and melodramatic, so be it. My creative process might have been better served left hidden, but I am excited, and want to share my news.
I am going back to my work, people!
Facing the prospect of penury does not wilt me. Sure, a few weeks hence my lack of money might well surface in this space in a bit of an auld whinge, but right now, I am exhilarated, excited and just a little nervous.
Why? Well, because after all this high fallutin'-rootin'-tootin' rhetoric about creativity, if all I come up with is a big pile of stinky boring prose, I'll deserve whatever punishment is most appropriate.
There have been times when I have had plenty of money and no time.
Looking back at those periods all I can recall is constantly plotting my escape.
Equally, there have been plenty of times when I have been broke and had all the time I needed.
Sometimes these were days of desperation, when I was idle, frustrated and unable to write; at my most wretched.
Most of the time however, given time and peace, I filled those days with the creation of fictional scribbling.
I'll always choose time over cash, and peace over rushing around. There may not be roast beef on the Adley dinner table for a good while, but my soul will feel sustained.

cadley1 at eircom.net

doubledoublevision.blogspot.com

allancavanagh.blogspot.com

She's harmless and innocent, so why do I want to kill her?

It's just as well that security is so tight at airports these days. The bloke at the baggage X-ray machine told me my Olbas Oil and Anti-Snoring spray had to go.
I shrugged and didn't bother to ask how eucalyptus oil in two differing forms might constitute a threat to mankind, while my snoring might well do just that.
Anyway, in retrospect, I am pleased that he was on the case, and I am delighted that I do not at this moment have a gun in my possession.
Because if I did I would most certainly use it. A pistol would do, but ideally a nice Uzi would be more pleasing. Seeing her shplattered with bullets and riddled with holes.
Then again, probably not such a good idea to shoot too many rounds when you're 33,000 feet up in a pressurised metal box.
One good shot to the head. A deadly blow delivered with cold-blooded venom. That'd do it.
The worst thing is, I'm sure she's a really lovely woman. She absolutely does not deserve to be ruthlessly murdered for anything she has done in the last hour. But I can't help it. I want her dead, gone out of the Universe.
I was the first person to board this Ryanair flight. As a passenger carrying only hand luggage, I had scored the right to check-in online, when I booked my ticket, and printed my own boarding pass at home.
This meant that not only could I go straight through to security and my departure gate, avoiding long queues in the main Departures Hall, but also I was able to join the Priority Boarding queue for the plane.
Mind you, as you might imagine, I didn't feel too great when a young woman with three tiny kids was told she could not join the Priority Boarding queue. She protested that people with small children could always board early.
The sad, embarrassed and harassed ServisAir worker explained that it was not up to her; it was Ryanair's choice; there was nothing she could do; contact the airline; sorry.
Ryanair changed everything about flying.
What was once an expensive and special treat has now become a cheap and dehumanising chore.
Last week on the radio I listened to a mother giving out about how Ryanair had taken her off a flight because she refused to pay ¤75.00 for a wheelchair and helper for her son to board the plane.
Despite explaining to ground crew that she had her own wheelchair, and that she could carry her six year-old cerebral palsied son herself, they told her neither was possible.
Ryanair owner Michael O'Leary has performed miracles. This year his airline will carry over 50 million passengers (more than British Airways) on 454 routes over 24 countries. In tandem, his airline regularly scores humanitarian own-goals, and often makes its passengers feel like miserable cattle.
O'Leary takes the stand declaring that you get what you pay for. On this particular occasion, I have secured a return flight to London for only 85 quid all-in, and now, because my only bag is on my shoulder, I fit Ryanair's' Perfect Passenger profile, and get to board early.
So there I am, sitting smug and sound at my window seat when she comes along, tapping me on the shoulder, asking if there is anyone sitting in the other two seats.
An innocent and perfectly reasonable request, but her tone and style make me want to throw my hands up in the air and declare
"Ja! Ich bin Jude! Ich bin Jude! Point me to your death camp! I'll come quietly!"
As to exactly why she elicits this reaction I cannot tell you. She's in her fifties, of medium height and build, with grey hair, a white blouse and brown trousers. She's a completely typical west of Ireland farmer's wife. Abrupt she was, but nasty, no. Not a bone of her body was evil, and yet, a hour later, I wanted to kill her.
Having secured permission to sit, she brought along her slightly larger friend, who sat next to me, and placed herself on the aisle seat.
She could have been one of those souls you see on RTE when the Angelus sounds, hesitating whilst doing some kind of inane task to look contemplative and heavenward as the bells rang out over the Haemorrhoid Isle.
From the moment the plane's wheels left the ground her mouth did not stop farting words.
When she talked, every single sentence was prefixed with that stalwart of Joe Duffy listeners
'Wayll ennyweh...'
and when I say every sentence I mean every single sentence.
'Wayll ennyweh...''Wayll ennyweh...''Wayll ennyweh...''Wayll ennyweh...''Wayll ennyweh...'
Thankfully she was polite and respectful enough to allow her friend to do most of the talking, but even then she managed to turn your friendly neighbourhood colyoomist from an accepting and liberal human into a nascent insane killer.
Every two words, not three, not five, but every two words spoken by her companion were accompanied by
'Yes yes yes.'
Sometimes she gave in to the rebellious nonconformist nutter insider her, and varied her song to sing
'Yes yes yeh.'
Hence the soundtrack ran something like this: 'So Bridget-'
'Yes yes yes.'
'-told Tom-'
'Yes yes yeh.'
'-that she-'
'Yes yes yes.'
'-was cooking-'
'Yes yes yeh.'
And so it went. The two harmless women chatted away in easy patter, of topics jam and Am-Dram, while the bloke to their right went silently and seriously apoplectic.
Was she like this all the time? Did she not realise how annoying, and indeed rude it was?
Had not one person in her life admonished her, or ever pointed out that it really kind of helps to be able to get at least half a sentence out of your mouth without the person you are speaking to doubling your words for theirs.
Or maybe it's just me. Maybe somebody should accuse me of being an intolerant grumpy old bastard from wayback, who has lost the ability to enjoy the company of his fellow human.
'Yes yes yeh.'
cadley1@eircom.net
http://doubledoublevision.blogspot.com

allancavanagh.blogspot.com

Best of both worlds? I'm a tourist, but I live here too!

Tum tee tum, this is fun. I'm sitting at my breakfast table in Casey's of Baltimore, staring out over the bay where small boats bob in the wet wind, a soft mist hangs tropical over tops of hills.
Choral music seeps gently through the ether, and over by the fireplace, two waitresses are kneeling, squealing and laughing with joy at the chirpy sound of the chicks nesting high in the chimney above.
Sauntering over to the simple but thoughtful buffet laid out in the dining room, I sip my orange juice, and am taken aback.
Not only is it fresh, but soft, sweet and silky.
Yea, I have drunk of many orange juices, but this baby takes the biscuit, not least because its excellence was so unexpected.
Grabbing three days of freedom, the Snapper and I head off to West Cork.
I'm excited, as this journey will close the book on a personal and very pleasurable odyssey: after walking the cliffs at Mizen Head, I will have either trod upon or driven alongside the entire west coast of Ireland.
Loving the Ennis bypass, we plunge south, and park the car in Schull. This trip is a pootling adventure, with no advance bookings, but I have already checked out a couple of Schull hotel websites, and expect to find them in flesh and stone when we arrive.
But no, we cannot find the hotels of Schull. Despite an abundance of touristy brown signposts, we walk up and down the tiny town, drive in and out of it, until eventually deciding that Schull doesn't want us.
The Snapper and I are tired, but neither of us gripes. The sun shines low and bright between black cloud downpours, and Shaaany Car zips along through rainbows.
We head to Rolf's, which has been recommended by a friend, where we are met by a rather disinterested woman, who appears to be prepping the veggies whilst working in reception, and not really wanting to show us a room, even when we ask to see one.
High above Baltimore, Rolf's represents the new face of Ireland, as given life by the likes of me and all the other blow-ins who arrived over the last 20 years.
The communal areas look so lovely, warm and friendly, it is a shock to be shown a small dark bedroom that is so cold the carpet is queuing up to get out.
And so we end up at Casey's; an altogether better result.
Completely unpretentious, Casey's manages successfully to balance three different functions.
At the roadside there is the original pub.
Behind, a restaurant that serves perfectly good grub that will satisfy the local and tourist palate alike, without surprising or intimidating anyone.
Above, there are bedrooms, offering standard modern facilities and comfy beds.
All of which conspire to make me feel relaxed, happy and yet, blown away by the orange juice.
Having waited a healthily long time for my Full Irish to arrive (I hate it when breakfast arrives in two minutes - you know it's just preheated ingredients microwaved to buggery and back) I am amazed at how good the food is.
Each rasher, banger, pudding and egg has been cooked perfectly, and offers exceptional flavour.
A sticker on Casey's front door declares the place is listed in the 2007 Michelin Guide, but my brekkie is not fancy shmancy Michelin cooking. No, this is just bloody excellent Irish home cooking.
As I eat I overhear the couple at the table behind me. They talk in German, until her son calls on her mobile. She then speaks in English, and when she involves her husband in the phone conversation, he responds in English too, revealing an Irish accent.
Don't know why, but that makes me happy too.
Saturday night, and the Snapper and I walk into town to see what's going on.
Nothing is going on.
The place is empty, and everyone we meet is heading up to Casey's, where there is music promised later.
We find the one restaurant open, an eccentric French place called Chez Youen. Truth be told, we had been trying to book a table there for a couple of days, but nobody ever answered the phone.
The waiter is a tall, far-too handsome Frenchman, who carries himself with an arrogance so Gallic it is almost a caricature.
The food is superb, but presented with disdain, as if the waiter is saying:
'You feeelthy h'Irish pezzants, you h'are not wurrzy of ziss gastronomic h'excellence! You are not hivven feet to look at ziss food, you h'ignoran' spurrd heeterz!'
It's not just us. All the customers are scared, but it is worth it. Just about.
The next day we listen to a debate on NewsTalk Radio, about the loss of 'Irish charm' in the hospitality industry.
Apparently, since the influx of Eastern European and Latin workers, Irish pubs, hotels and restaurants don't offer the same 'Irishness' to tourists.
Lets get something straight here. Whilst the Irish are masters of craic and charm when they are being served, I harbour hardly any recollections of joy felt when being served by an Irish person.
Sometimes surly, resentful and even churlish, Irish waitstaff often pale in comparison to our new arrivals.
Admittedly, it is vital that everyone working the floor can understand the menu and converse a little with the customer, but beyond that, let's just be happy that we're lucky enough to suddenly have an eager smiling workforce, wherever they are from.
After dinner it's back to Casey's, where the bar is hopping.
Don't know whether it's our body language or anoraks, but we feel and are treated like the tourists we are.
Backs are turned towards me as I order drinks at the bar, and we find ourselves sitting in a windowsill, as the locals get into the spirit of the night.
When I earlier saw the sign declaring 'Traditional Irish Pub' I felt a shiver of fear, wondering with dread what kind of clichéd wooden monstrosity the owners had pieced together for the Yanks and the Germans, but I was wrong.
This is traditional all right.
The band strikes up 'Gee It's Good To Be Back Home' and right in front of us, three huge female backs at the bar suddenly raise their hands and voices to help out with the chorus.
As they wail and pierce the air with careless melody, I wonder:
Maybe too traditional, altogether!
cadley1@eircom.net
http://doubledoublevision.blogspot.com