Baltic Tuesday

I woke up with a bang.  My bedroom window shook as Joe slammed the front door heading out to work.  When Joe's up, everyone's up.  I looked at my phone.  It was almost 6 am. 

Time for my Morning Pages.  I roll out of bed and head downstairs to get my coffee and let Alan out.    As I enter the kitchen, I cock my head towards the utility room where Alan sleeps.  No sound. Usually, when he hears me coming into the kitchen, he immediately starts whining. I run the Nespresso machine; nobody can sleep through that.  Still nothing from Alan.  Perfect. I take my cup of frothy heaven and tiptoe back up the stairs.   

The wind is whipping outside as I settle into my leaba and prop the pillows around me—my favourite part of the day.

I'm still on a high after the retreat at the weekend.    It's like all that silence - mostly - and the lack of 'blue screens' have dissolved my usual early morning brain fog.  Since the previous Tuesday when on Joe's recommendation I ate a Flying Fish pitta from KC's chipper - the best chipper in Cork - followed by heartburn for the next three days, I resolved to never eat fast food again, nor eat after 6 pm and to walk 10,000 steps per day.   The 10,000 steps is an easy enough target if I walk Alan down to Douglas Fingerpost every morning and evening.    

20 minutes later, the pages finished. It's shit or get off the pot.    I put on my runners and listen again at the kitchen door—still no stirring from Alan.  Let sleeping dogs lie as my father used to say.  

When I open the front door, the wind nearly cuts me in half.     Should I add another layer?  No, Alan might hear me.  I battle up the road.  I have no hat, gloves not even a scarf.  I pull down the sleeves of my hoodie to cover my numb hands and break into a slow trot.  All the better to get this over with.   I look up at the street lamp and see the flurries of snow swirling, but the pavement is bone dry.  Perfect.   It's downhill all the way into Douglas, and with Boney M's Rivers of Babylon booming in my ears I run further than I planned.  As I pass Barry's pub, I feel so good I decided to go the extra half mile and visit my mother.  I haven't seen her since Christmas: she's terrified of the new variant of the virus and had asked us all politely not to call in.  We haven't been doing Zoom either as she cannot get it to work.  So it's phone calls and WhatsApp only.  

Some 10 minutes later, I arrive at her front door with my face the colour of raw meat and ring her doorbell.  I step back and look up at her bedroom window.  The curtains are closed, but her wooden duck is still there. At the beginning of Lockdown back in March, all the neighbours put teddy bears in their front windows for the little children to spot.   Mum didn't have a bear, so she put out the duck that Conor gave her the previous Christmas.  I rang again and still no response.  I checked behind the hideous green elephant ornament she kept in the porch, under the mat and lifted the flower pots guarding her front door.  I even checked the soil.  No key.  I push at the front door on the off chance she didn't close it properly.  I try to prise open the window of the downstairs guest room, the lock has always been dodgy, but it didn't budge.  The side gate was padlocked.  To her credit, she has the house well secured.  

I jog off again.  Halfway home  I remember I had my phone on me. I mentally slap myself on the forehead: I could've phoned her.  When I arrive home, Neil is in the shower. I have five minutes to get to work.  I quickly stripped off my sweaty bits and put on clean clothes.   When Neil emerged from the bathroom, I told him of my efforts to break into Mum's house.  

"Maybe something's wrong," he said.  

That hadn't occurred to me.  "I'll ring her now."

She answered on the second ring. 

When I tell her of my efforts to break in. She laughs.  "I wake these days at 4 am, I can't help it.  I have my breakfast and then get back into bed.   Right now, I'm toasty with my electric blanket and listening to Ryan Tubridy."  She pauses for a few seconds and then says, "Where are you?"

"I'm working."

"Where?"

"At home."

"Really? How?"

I sigh.  Since March, she has asked me that question every single time we talk.  She usually follows it up with "What do you do again?"

But instead, she says, "Isn't it terrible about these young people having parties?"

"What parties?"

"According to Joe Duffy, the virus is worse because of the young people not obeying the rules."

I bristle. "Well, I have one of them living with me, and he's either at work or watching TV at home. He has not been to a single party. In fact, he's only met one friend since Christmas and that's because his father died. Conor is doing all his lectures online and staying within his bubble, and Tom hasn't stirred outside his house in Dublin."

She ploughed on, "And people are apparently flying to Lanzarote because they have to have their holiday.  They don't care about the rest of us."

"Don't listen to Joe Duffy anymore."

"How's Alan?"

"He's great, he's trebled in size since we got him.  I'll bring him up to you at lunchtime."

"Perfect, see you then."

At 10 am, it's time for my second coffee of the day.  I open the door to find a human-sized turd on the carpet in front of me.  'Who would do this?' I wondered, and then the smell hit me, the gamey smell of venison.  

"What is Alan doing upstairs?" I look around, and I see through the doorway of Joe's bedroom, a pair of jet black eyes blinking back at me from the bottom of the wardrobe.

"Who let you out?" I asked.

What to do first? Clean up after him or get him outside fast before he pees for Ireland in the wardrobe.  I roar downstairs to Neil, "Can you come up here and take Alan outside?"  

Untidy doesn't even begin to describe the hovel Joe calls his bedroom. Every item of clothing seems to be on the floor along with towels, weights and used cereal bowls. It's four paces from door to wardrobe.  I tread carefully anxious not to step on anything Alan may have produced. Alan shrinks further into the back of the wardrobe.  I grab his collar and haul him out to Neil.  I then go into the bathroom to get toilet paper to deal with the turd. 

When Neil arrives back in a few minutes later, I say, "Well, did he pee?"

Neil shook his head.

"Oh no, that means there's a pool of piss somewhere in the house."  I rang Joe at work and put him on the loudspeaker, "What time did you let Alan out this morning?"

"I didn't."

"You didn't let him out before you went to work?"

"I didn't go near Alan at all."

The horror sank in.  That meant Alan has been roaming the house for hours, possibly since last night.   I scoured the floor in every room but could find no 'evidence'.  

As promised, at 1pm, I set off at a brisk pace with Alan to my mother's house.  There is no way I'll get there and back within the hour, but I need to rack up the steps on Fitbit.  I'm halfway down the Carrigaline Road when Joe driving home from work spots me-not only am I with the creature he loves most in the world, but I'm also wearing his jacket. He pulls into the side of the road.  I ask him for a lift.  I sit in the passenger seat with Alan on my lap, he weighs a ton.  I open the window so he can stick his head out.  It's bitterly cold but better that than dog smell.  

"How's work?" I ask.

"Grand," said Joe. And then he looks over at me and says, "What does 'Baltic' mean?"

"It's a Cork thing. When people say it's baltic they mean it's as cold as the Baltic Sea."

Joe shook his head in wonder, "At least three customers said it to me this morning."

My mother is delighted to see Alan and Alan is so delighted to see her I'm afraid he'll knock her over, but she manages to stay on her feet.

She offers us Cup-a-Soup.  We decline the offer as we have both already eaten.

"When can we resume Zoom?" she asks.  

I ask her to give me her iPad, and I show her how to access the link.  "Press it gently and press it once just before 7pm on Sunday evening."

After the 3rd invitation for Cup-a-Soup, I check my Fitbit, we need to be leaving soon. 

"Joe," I said, "Tell Granny about all the parties you're going to."

Joe looks puzzled, "What?"

Mum titters nervously and says, "Well, all you young people must miss going out."

Joe shrugs and says, "Yeah, but, that doesn't mean we're actually going out."

Six minutes to two. "Mum, we have to go,  I need to get back to work."

"Oh, righty O," she says and then pauses, "What is it that you do again?"

"Talk to you, Sunday Mum."

Joe gathers up Alan into his arms as we brace ourselves to head back out into the Baltic air.