So I arrived back in Dublin on Wednesday night. The weather was atrocious. The wind seemed to be in some sort of competition with the rain to determine who could make a greater contribution to the sum of human misery that was being shared amongst those of us waiting for lifts at the departures set down area of Dublin airport. By my reckoning it was a draw. Anyway, the lift came. I was tired and grouchy and wet and minus my wallet (a pickpocket artiste had worked his magic just as I had gotten off the RER arriving at Paris airport) so I wasn't much cheer for my obliging chauffeur/brother. A cup of tea and a perfunctory hello to my family was all I managed before I went to bed. I wanted to be up the next morning so as to beat the queues at the dole office.
Waking early, and still feeling fairly guilty about my air of wet dejection in the face of my family's warm greeting the night before, I busied myself with the task of going to Tallaght's social welfare office. After waiting in line for five minutes I presented myself at reception, took a number, and waited again amidst a sea of bored and confused faces. A few moments before my number was called a late middle aged woman with thin hair and poorly fitting clothes who had previously been milling around the queue for reception collapsed two metres in front of one of the interview booths and began fitting. Immediatley two members of staff came out to help her but there was little reaction from the banks of plastic seated postulants. My number flashed on the little digital monitor and I got up from my chair. As I did so a well spoken, well dressed woman droned into her phone about what had just happened and how disgraceful it was that none of us had budged. I had to fight the temptation to delicately point out to her that she too had done absolutely nothing to help. I went to the booth and the advisor listened patiently to my story: there was an illness in the family and I wanted to return home from France to help out, I thought I had a job but this had fallen through, I just wanted to get the application papers in case, as I expected, I couldn't get a job. She explained I should speak with someone to explain this in more detail and gave me an appointment for a few weeks hence. I thanked her and left as the woman on the floor, now attended by two ambulance personnel, continued to writhe involuntarily.
I returned home and watched TV for a bit, studiously avoiding the news and talk of four year plans and swingeing cuts, before meeting my father for lunch at the local pub. We sat in the nearly empty lounge and ate sandwhiches as some old man drinking Beamish alone at the bar intermittently interrupted our conversation to make a mess of cracking a joke (Him: How many legs are on a pool table? Me: Why would a pool table have legs on it? Him: None! Sure aren't the legs under the pool table! Ahahahahahah [wheezes] hahahaha!). Every now and again though as he trailed off laughing he would go off into a solitary spoken revery following one of his jokes. On one of these occassions though I'm fairly sure I heard him grumble to himself repeatedly "Die young... die young... It's better to die young, it is alright... die young... Cabra... seagulls... die young... die young... Mick![the barman]" I looked across the table at my father as he raised his eyebrows and noted sagely that the local wasn't the sort of spot you'd bring your girlfriend if you wanted to impress her.
So my father and I went our seperate ways and I returned home slightly overwhelmed by the day so far; my own mood, the poor woman, and the gnostic alcoholic at the bar. I struggled to make sense of it as my mother pottered about the house and the wind and the rain continued their work, discouraging me from taking the dog for a walk as I had planned. With nothing doing on the making sense of things front though I eventually buckled and grabbed my mp3 player and the dog's lead. Outside in the dark she strained against the lead and I followed. Walking into the wind and the rain underneath the orange street lights I switched on my mp3 and put it into shuffle mode. This came on. Suddenly life didn't seem so bad even if the wind did seem to be trying to saw me in two. I rounded the top of my estate and gave myself up to the music and its invocation of love and the natural order and all that is good in the world. As the song came to an end I waited for the next tune and wondered if this was going to be one of those moments when fate smiles radiantly upon me. This came on. Yes it was. Walking the dog home I smiled to myself as the title for this post swirled in my head, dancing with the music. Reaching my house I put the key in the door and the dog went in in front of me. My mother was cooking something and its sweet smell assailed me from the porch door. The fire in the sitting room was lit and a few logs and briquettes burned, distributing their largesse of light and heat to all corners of the room. I unhooked the dog from her lead, hung my coat up and sat down on the couch near the fire. I smiled again to myself and thought. I may be unemployed and know rhat suffering and misery aren't just confined to bad weather but I am capable of enjoying the simple things and appreciating the small gestures of kindness other people make for me. Understanding this may be but a small consolation. For me though, I feel that this is one realisation that will make all the difference over the coming months.
No comments:
Post a Comment