Where'll I hang me Swans?

More brown paper and another box, full of photos that Himself had taken in Galway of local scenes and the children. Holidays, baby shots, school photos. We have to choose. There aren’t enough hooks and we are not allowed by order of the landlady (she with the cleaning fetish) not to put up any more hooks. ‘Where’ll I hang me swans?’, he says referring to the Claddagh photo. So the Hookers and Swans now hang side by side. I left him there with the rest, I had a date at the hairdressers, had to get the hair done, a new me. I was going short and we had a dinner invitation to the Mayors house...not here a wet week and well in.


I fear the do will be the price of a small house. One lady was having a foot spa while her colour cooked, another said she would have her ‘usual fruit tea’ while she discussed the merits of one masseur over another. I am soooo low maintenance, I think to myself, as I look at my greys and my ripped Converse. The ladies, all freshly tanned back from the hols, compared and contrasted previous years, and where they were off to for half-term. Barbados was mentioned. Their holidays are not like ours. We move in different circles. I am escorted to have my colour washed out, ‘will I turn on the back massage for you’ the nice girl says, ‘never had one, give it a go’ I said and the chair kneads my back. I still can’t figure out if it relaxed me or irritated me. Nonetheless, I am happy with the outcome and arrive home, on the bike, a new woman. ‘It’s the very same as mine’ the Small Man says. He’s right, should have just gone to the barbers, much cheaper but wouldn’t have been privy to the same conversations.