Róisín Ingle on . . . diary malfunctions

My mother bought me yet another diary for my birthday as part of her mission to keep me orga

nised. It’s got red flowers on the outside, so I won’t lose it. As an extra service she has filled in some significant dates. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Spandau Ballet reunion concerts. She made this intervention because I went digital diary-wise and as a result I kept having what I like to call “diary malfunctions”. Everything was recorded on the calendar on my phone and the calendar on my work email but unless it was written down by my actual hand on an actual piece of paper I couldn’t seem to remember anything. Then when even the paper trail stopped working I began to keep appointments in my head. I don’t recommend it. Not at 43.

“Are you using your diary?” she asks. “Of course,” I say, wondering if it’s still under that pile of books beside my bed or whether the children have commandeered it for writing their endless letters to Santa. Last year, the Santa we visited at Dublin Zoo was delighted and a little bit shocked when the children told him they didn’t mind what he brought them as long as there were “surprises”.

“Children just don’t say that anymore,” he marvelled, and I glowed with pride at my Father Christmas-approved parenting skills. This year we made the mistake of letting a certain catalogue from a well-known toy store into the house. They have been studying it since Hallowe’en with a zeal I hope they will one day apply to honours maths. They are now on their fifth iteration of the Santa Letter. Surprises? Pah! Unless the surprise is an extra Elsa, you can keep it, Santa.

Am I using the diary? No. But I smell very nice. For my birthday my children presented me with a replacement for the bottle of expensive Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir perfume I lost two years ago and have been muttering about to anyone who’ll listen ever since. Then when I was out at my fancy birthday lunch, a package was delivered to the table from my sister which contained a beautifully wrapped bottle of . . . Pomegranate Noir. That evening Queenie told me down the phone that she’d tried to send me a birthday package from the North but thought better of sending liquids through the post. What liquids? “Just a wee bottle of that perfume you keep moaning about losing.”

So I am all sorted scent-wise, I estimate, until 2025, but my inability to keep track of appointments is reaching crisis levels. It’s got to the point where even when I am making the appointment I half want to say there is a good chance I will need reminding and even then, I might not turn up. When a woman, let’s call her Mary, emailed to say she was coming down from Belfast and could we meet for coffee to discuss a few ideas, I had this sinking feeling before we’d even agreed a time.

I was sitting at my computer when the email came. Subject: “Mary”. I call the familiar hot and cold feeling that overcame me at that moment “work shame”. I looked at the time. It was five o’clock. One and a half hours after I was supposed to meet “Mary”. I couldn’t even bring myself to open to the email. I just took to the keyboard and launched into the most elongated, effusive, florid and contrite email apology I’ve ever constructed. I was very sorry. Appalled at myself. Mortified. Although none of that was of any use to “Mary”, I supposed.

Later, at home the reply came from "Mary" that actually she had got a flat tyre on the motorway outside Belfast and never made it down to Dublin. The first email had been her assistant (she had an assistant?) apologising for not making the appointment. So I allowed myself to get a little indignant. I could have been sitting waiting for her in a cafe. I didn't have time for that. I am a very busy woman. But mostly I just enjoyed the sensation of "work shame" evaporating into relief.

Sometimes I feel like Anthony Hopkins's butler character in that scene from Remains of the Day after he has uncharacteristically dropped a tray. The next day he is seen standing at the point where he messed up "looking at the ground as though he hoped to find some precious jewel he had dropped there". If he could only figure out what went wrong, the dreaded "work shame" might lift.

However, I do know what is wrong: I need an assistant. S/He must be tolerant, understanding and love the smell of pomegranate noir. Applications to the usual address.

roisin@irishtimes.com