The clock fell off the wall and I cannot tell my mother-in-law about it. Ritually telephoning us for the past seven years, every Saturday evening, at nine o'clock sharp, she hears its chime and remarks on how well it sounds, as her sun-baked voice travels effortlessly over the wires all the way from early morning California.
The telephone went unanswered last Saturday night. And the clock, her good-luck omen, lovingly packaged and sent with us when we returned to live in Ireland from the US, is now at the clock repair shop, its trusty chime silenced. Time will tell, the repair man told me, no pun intended. I cried. He looked sympathetic, a tad embarrassed. I wondered how many people displayed their emotions in his orderly tick-tock office. I noticed that he had a new box of Kleenex on his desk. I took one..
The next day my son broke the side-view mirror on our old flat-top jeep with his soccer ball. Prior to that I was upbeat. I had just announced that the plans were finalised for a two-week stint in Lanzarote. He said: "Fine, Mom, that's the good news. Now for the bad."I drove to the local car repair man. He said, perhaps a little too philosophically for me, that he thought the incident was a reflection of the times. "World Cup fever. Bet your young fellow thinks he's Ronaldo. That will be 70 euro, please." I threw the soccer ball in the nettles. The tall nettles.
Central heating
And who was the wise guy that said things happen in threes? Because by that afternoon our central heating system gave up on us. Darn it, but it gets cold in July. I know it's not supposed to, but it is so cold this July in Ireland that I keep the radiators working full time, if I can get away with it.
Dreaming of the aforementioned planned dose of sunshine, I tried on my rarely used bikini in the safe confines of our icy bedroom. My white skin rose up in goose bumps. My body is sun-starved. I wondered if it was too late to cancel that holiday. Then the word "sunbed" flashed into my thoughts. A potential remedy. There is no way I am going to appear in this bikini, in public, with this body. My mood improved when the heating expert got the heat going again. My husband complained. "Turn the heat off - it's like an oven in here. For God's sake, it is July'. And so it goes.
Blue seas, palm trees
There is always Treasure Island. Dare I admit that it has turned out to be my favourite TV programme? Forget the psychological character analyses - I love to look at those bikini-clad bodies. The bandanas. The white teeth. Blue seas. The suntans. The palm trees. Why, even the sandals look interesting.
At the grocery store I load up on lunch stuff for the kids. Summer camp has started for the week. At least they are getting some activity. My mother concurs. She wonders what on earth I would do with them in this weather anyway. She is so right. This weather requires the imagination of 80 award-winning Montessori teachers working overtime. With the radiators turned firmly off, and desperate for some fresh air, we went to the beach. For a stroll.
It was my idea. To heck with it, I thought. Brave the showers. Pretend it's summer. We hadn't been near a stretch of sand in months. Our stroll developed into something more like a quick dash. Sweaters and boots can be very appropriate beach gear in July.
The car park had a long line of cars, all occupied. Windows rolled up. Heaters running. Long faces. Newspapers to noses reading about rising prices and belt-tightening. One brave soul whose optimism got the better of him splashed around in the grey waves, his skin sporting a reddish tinge. Perhaps he was a tourist, a rare enough sight these days. Or a Finnish economist on a fact-finding mission.
It was a real spectacle. We all watched him as if he was doing something freaky. My son, just seven, said there was a mad guy in the ocean. I thought about sunbeds and bikinis and ran back to the car. I turned on the radio. The Taoiseach was rambling on about how, realistically, "tings" were not looking so great, but our precautions need only be temporary because "tings" would improve.
I switched to tape. Jose Feliciano sounded a whole lot better.
Fix the heirloom
When we got back from the beach the telephone rang. It was the clock doctor. He sounded chirpy. He was delighted to inform me that it was possible to fix the heirloom after all, but he cautioned that it might take some time. I said I didn't mind waiting - really, missing a few more transatlantic phone calls on Saturday nights at nine sharp is OK with me.
I planned on keeping busy. I was off to find a sunbed.