. . . on the long finger
THE DOLL’S HOUSE in our playroom is an outstanding example of miniature architecture in my opinion, although I am no Kevin McCloud. It’s handmade by a Northern Irish craftsperson and has a grand, if rustic, design. While I love the doll’s house, it is also intermittently a source of deep discomfort. The mini-house has come to symbolise my personal snag list of all the small things in life I have put on the long finger.
One of my more irritating character flaws is this failure to carry out simple tasks at the appropriate time, so that jobs which would originally have taken mere seconds to complete become insurmountable challenges when ignored. They expand like that tiny buddha somebody once gave me that swelled to 10 times its original size when placed in water. Except these long-finger annoyances aren’t tiny buddhas, they are tiny trolls that grow into giant trolls, which every so often jump out and stamp on my head as a reminder of every little thing I haven’t done.
So the doll’s house is actually a troll’s house, which is why I keep pleading fear of small enclosed spaces when certain small people try to make me play with same.
Some background. Once upon a column I wrote about one of my first eBay experiences, which involved the purchase of a bath mat. The bath mat was a bargain but when delivered also turned out to be a bath mat designed for a doll’s house, a fact I neglected to cop when making my successful bid.
Having neither children nor a doll’s house at the time, I didn’t have much use for an itsy bitsy bath mat and decided, with the recession biting, I should be charitable. I got quite a few replies to my jokey offer to pass on the miniature bath mat to the most deserving reader. The winner was Emily who said she had a friend called Fred who had moved into a smaller apartment. It would be a gift. Emily won me over, even if I doubted the existence of Fred. I e-mailed telling her the news and promptly forgot all about it.
Until the doll’s house arrived in my home. Now every time I look into the well-appointed rooms I think of Emily, pining for her bath mat, and I wonder where I put the stupid thing, and then I think of all the other things I’ve failed to do. Emily emailed me again, after a respectable gap in our correspondence, leaving a friendly reminder. I e-mailed her straight back to say it was pretty much in the post. Then, I swear, I meant to look for the mat in the attic, but I must have got distracted and forgot. The long finger just grew longer, a bit like a certain wooden puppet’s nose.
But these giant trolls can’t let anything lie. The other night I went along to Speaking Suppers, an evening run by two enterprising women that combines unexpected company and lovely food with an opportunity to practice speaking in public for three minutes – this month’s topic was Christmas – without risk of either judgment or ridicule. I met several brilliant people, heard some great stories and got involved in a sing-song with two of The Pogues. (If this sounds like your kind of night, you can find out more at speakingsuppers.com.)
Also, that was the night I met Emily. In the two and a half years since I promised her the bath mat she has lived in my mind as this kindly lady in her late 50s who started collecting doll-house furniture aged nine when she was given her first mini-chaise longue. In my head she is mousy-haired and battling gamely to cover her grey roots with a series of home-made dye jobs. She is also quite fond of hand-knitted cardigans of the multicoloured kind.
In reality she is a young, blonde, whippety force of nature who collars me at Speaking Suppers. At first I have a bizarre flashback of meeting her at the Spencer Tunick naked photo shoot. But it’s even worse than that. She is Bath Mat Emily. And she really wants her bath mat.
On the plus side, it turns out she is the forgiving sort and quite entertaining as it goes. In exchange for a promise that I will send her the bath mat – I had my fingers crossed – she tells me a great joke, which given the season that’s in it I’ll throw out here as an alternative to the gags in your office-party crackers. (Disclaimer: Only use this joke if you can do a passable Northern Irish accent, otherwise it won’t work. The writer will not take responsibility for lack of audience laughter if joke is attempted without said accent. End of disclaimer.)
Q: What ez tha dafference betwane the liahn, the wetch and the wordrobe?
A: Narnia business! Narnia! Get it? Och, I’ll get mah coat.
Anyway. Thanks for being so patient, Emily. Sorry for the slight delay with your bath mat, and of course I believe in the existence of Fred. I’ve said it before, and let’s face it I’ll probably say it again: the miniature bath mat is in the post.
In other news . . .
My favourite baubles on the Christmas tree (which has been up in my house for seven days already – sue me) are sparkling wonders made of glass that were hand-painted in Kraków, Poland. I bought them a few years ago from Jadzia Kaminska, who is sharing a stall with funky furniture queen Shayne Gordan at the Mount Juliet Christmas Village in Kilkenny, from today until December 23rd