Irish Coffee

Shellshock in the pineapple chunk by M.D.M. 

Tonight, despite being so exhausted that I could lie down and sleep on the tiles, I am shaking cream in the carton to whip for an Irish Coffee and staring out at the sunset over the purple hills. 

I am beginning to feel like Randall P. McMurphy after the big Nurse had her way and won the day.
I am immune to the calling from the hall.
Tonight I am not Bridie, or Pat, or the Nurse.
I am just a tired Michelle.
I have set a tiny tray with a schooner and spoon on a napkin, on a saucer, as if it was about to be proffered in The Horseshoe Bar, by a Dublin barman with a spotless linen towel and the gift of the gab for the Yanks.
"Did yee ever hear how they came to be made" he would ask as he polished the already sparkling slim jims.

 "A buddy of mine ou at the airport was seeing all a dem gettin' off a da planes, FREEZIN' dey were " he would begin.
Someone has recently boiled the kettle and it is warm. I throw the water down the sink and fill it with fresh cold stuff from the crazy tap.

 It runs on air for 3 minutes and then a deluge. I have forgotten to take our own coffee from the room and sniff the communal jar in mild disgust. 

I realise that I am not breathing as I pour the thick cream over the back of the spoon, watching it settle and float with not a speck in the dark liquid,the beautiful white top settling into soft peaks. 

It just needs a coffee bean on top, the slightest dusting of chocolate, or cinnamon, to be perfect. 

I carry it back up the hall at speed.
I am a dab hand in a kitchen.
Ditto a bar. 

In previous incarnations I have shaved cheeses as a breakfast chef in Germany, poured gin & tonics in a West End pub in London for  luvvies and drag queens from the theatres next door, fried 150 eggs in one go on a rolling ship in a force 9 gale, served a rugby team drinks till 5am in Wales sans underwear, 

( it's a VERY long story ) thrown men out of, AND into pubs and off licences, run 200 seater carverys that turned over 5 times on Sundays, bars, cafes, bistros, hotels, hostels, and had my own cafe/wine bar at the height of my madness.
I know my way around a glass.
Siobhan is asleep when I come back.
Not just lying with eyes closed, but properly asleep, despite the trauma of the 3 person  - (plus hoist) -  lift she has just had to the commode. I thought it may possibly have woken her, but no.
"Oh, look what I have Mrs" says I.
There is no way I can get at her properly.
I am hemmed in and out by the gargantuan chair and I nearly break my back trying to lift her up a little. This is not good for me or her, as her osteoporosis will have made her bones sore and God alone knows the last thing I want to do is hurt her. I cant get the glass near her mouth without slopping it all over her neck and chest or dipping her nose in the cream.
In the end both things happened.
I rummage in the drawer till I find a beautiful cerise chiffon scarf and knot it gently over her bare neck.
"Music, lets have music with the whiskey" I say and flick the remote. 

There is a programme on TG4 that is so bad it is great. I know this because I watched it tonight. It is people singing on what looks like the pulpit of a church with a giant organ in the background.
And people dancing in front.
It is the worst type of music in the world too. 

Country Irish. 

Think Big Tom & The Mainliners and imagine a woman in a Heatons blouse with a thick watch and a home perm singing in a wobbly falsetto some dirge about something or nothing.
I am beside myself by the time the duo comes on to sing "Islands in the Stream" -

 ( the blonde woman nearly cuts your man in two with a look when he hogs the notes ) - 

and by the time Dana ( yep , Dana ) comes on to butcher The Voyage with an extraordinary arrangement that involved a 30 second musical interlude between each line, I am ready to hurl myself and the glass out the window.
The last time I saw people dance like this was in Keegans of Broadway when they had the big bands coming. 

Twisting and jiving, and mugging into the cameras, the women with combs in their hair,  their A line skirts matched with nude  flesh tights, and black court shoes  - 

the oul fellas with the shirts stuck to their backs, their combovers stuck to their heads and a large bottle of Macardles  stuck in each pocket.

It looks like I have opened the door to the 80's.

I expect there will be Tayto Pub Crisps on the table beside the untouched Irish Coffee when I look down.
A combination of exhaustion, sadness, nostalgia and temper hits me in a wave and my eyes grow hot and I can feel a sob about to burst from my throat.
Then it stops.
Dead.
Like someone stepping on a hose and turning off the flow.
"Well, this is new!" I say aloud.
It is at this exact moment that the door is knocked, then opened.