I was daunted at the prospect of living alone – me, who had always prided myself on not needing people
WHEN I ACCEPTED A NEW JOB and needed to relocate, I temporarily moved into my old school friend’s spare bedroom. I was reluctant to outstay my welcome and risk spoiling a solid 30-year friendship. Mary, my school pal, and I are single, fiercely independent, and, more importantly, both of us are accustomed to living alone. Naturally we’ve developed little oddities and certain OCD habits that would make sharing for long periods an impossibility. I am the solitary type whereas Mary is more sociable. Occasionally I like to spend weekends with friends and family, but after a couple of days I always feel an urgency to recede to my quiet cave and recoup with the excuse that ‘too much interaction is bad for my creativity’.
The days and weeks passed unnoticed. Mary suggested I stay another month and then another. In the evenings I found myself waiting for her car and suddenly I was more daunted at the prospect of living alone – as much as I was initially at the prospect of living with someone. I could hardly believe it – me, who had always prided myself on never needing people! I have travelled the world alone and assumed, for years, that I prefer books and dogs to humans. Now I was just looking forlornly at the empty car space. So we made it a permanent arrangement.
Now each night Mary and I sit in the same chairs and talk about our day in our separate jobs. We watch sports and movies, talk about the men we fancy and at times behave as if we’ve regressed to our adolescent years. I have a screen-saver on my phone of Ger Loughnane, the Clare GAA commentator. Occasionally I pretend to stare at his picture, somewhat starry-eyed, and during very dramatic moments I will even kiss my phone – therefore Ger Loughnane’s face. Mary’s screen-saver rotates between the New Zealand rugby chap Dan Carter and a bottle of Spanish Rioja wine.
Like a husband and wife who begin to look alike, although we’ve not yet morphed into the same person, we’ve developed shared interests. Mary loves to keep fit, she jogs and does those mad exercise classes that turn her face purple and make her hair sticky and sweaty. As she demonstrates some of the exercises, I break out in a cold sweat at the mere notion of doing them, and like a concerned old aunt, I tell her to ‘stop immediately’ and pour a large glass of wine. ‘Those stretches,’ I tell her, ‘can’t possibly be good for the internal organs.’ I do have a pair of runners, ‘somewhere’. With a little coaxing I find the runners and with a little bit of ‘peer pressure’ I join Mary for her evening walk. Half joking, half in earnest, I ask if we could bring a mobile defibrillator. When I complain that I’m going to drop dead and be found with a sweaty, ancient sports bra and dated runners, she tells me not to worry, she’ll remove the runners and cut the bra off before I’m carted away.
Mary and I attended the Presentation Convent in Thurles. We were not enthusiastic students. Mary liked to eat her salmon sandwiches in the class before lunch. When the teacher’s back was turned the class would be overcome with the smell of salmon, and then the crusts were fired across the room, beginning a game of classroom tennis complete with bread-crusts and muffled giggling.
More than 20 years later we’ve decided to learn a language together and now, like two diligent students, we spend 30 minutes a night speaking Spanish and comparing notes. Even our texts and emails to each other are filled with gracias, por favor and talk of vino.
There is only one area where we can’t agree. In fact, we don’t discuss it. It’s like a religion that defines us. So what’s the only thing that has the ability to come between us and shatter our harmonious arrangement? Hurling.
Mary is from Kilkenny, I’m from Tipperary. Now, I’m not going to use the word ‘detest’ and ‘Kilkenny hurlers’ in the same sentence, but suffice to say there is very little love lost! During the summer Tipperary were hammered in one game and Mary suggested that we watch the replay that night. When the Kilkenny manager appeared on the television, ‘that man can’t be happy,’ I bellowed.
‘I’d say he’s a lot happier than your manager,’ she retorted, before going on to pontificate about his greatness. I told her she was exaggerating and began to sing It’s a Long Way to Tipperary to drown her out. Over the next 20 minutes, war ensued until, finally, an eerie silence descended. Then, some time later, Kilkenny were hammered and so it was their turn. I suggested, as you do, that we watch the replay. Another 20 minutes of raw anger.
During the last Kilkenny/Tipperary encounter, Mary and I decided on a new tactic – not to watch the game together. So now we watch the match separately and when we reconvene, just pass a few quiet comments and admire each other’s dignity. It works.