Primal Sneeze

Many moons, and even many more suns, ago I worked in Ireland for America. I worked hard, the company thrived and the profits were sent back to Uncle Sam. I didn’t mind as long as I was getting paid and I was enjoying the job.

Best of all were the folks I worked with. Okay, there were some right gobshites but they were gently eased out the door, or failing that, stood up against a wall in the middle of a field – bang! bang! – one shot to the back of the head. Metaphorically of course. Metaphoric weapons are far more effective.

But yeah, some great friendships were forged in the dungeons of Uncle Sam’s overseas sweatshop. Friendships that are just as strong today as they were then. Friendships that have survived despite geographic separation and no longer meeting face to face.

One such, and one of the strongest, was with a French girl. Stéphanie was hired to speak French. She was damn good at it I tell you. I suppose the years of practice stood to her.

Having worked as an au pair in Ireland years previously her English was excellent too. During her first time here she developed a love of céilí dancing and was, as they say, mad for trad. Very quickly we were go mór le chéile.

[This is a bit scary, but just this second a mail from her popped into my inbox. The first in weeks and all the more welcome because of it.]

What I remember most is the laughing. Non-stop laughing. One time the country manager walked into my office to find Stéph and I lying on the floor, hoarse from laughing and with tears flowing down our faces. Neither of us could compose ourselves long enough to speak to him. We had just read these.

Another evening we were heading to a gig. She had just finished work and was hungry so we stopped off at a garage where she bought a sandwich to eat in the car. “Oh god! It’s half ate”, she cried. “Don’t worry”, I said, “we’ll get another at the next garage”. “No ya spanner – I said it’s half eight – the concert’s already started”.

She burned a meal (her first attempt) for a group of us one afternoon. She got smashed on soupe (French slag for punch). I was driving, but got high on hilarity. There is a framed photo on my wall from that day. The two of us wearing motorbike helmets sitting astride a chair doing 90 around the kitchen while the others sat placidly shaking their heads. That bit made it funnier. Well, we thought it was funny.

Then the time came for her to return home. She had no choice. She was needed there.

There were hugs and tears and a going-away party. Promises made. Most of them kept. A lot of chocolate. All of it ate [see a bit above]. Boxes to be shipped. A nest of bunkbeds [see above a bit more].

Stéphanie gave me a set of Sheaffer pens as a staying-at-home gift. A ballpoint and a mechanical pencil in a presentation case. Chrome with rubberised grips, I loved them. Six years and many refills later I still use the ballpoint everyday.

Until yesterday that is. A terrible thing happened – I lost it. I turned the house upside down (sorry, I didn’t take pictures) and couldn’t find it anywhere. It was lost and so was I. I tried using another pen but it didn’t sit right in my hand – too heavy. Another was too light. The grip was too rough on another. I was like Goldilocks trying to find what was just right, but couldn’t.

This morning a terrible thing unhappened. It fell out of a coat where it had been caught up in the lining. It was 5am and the dog was the only one I could share my news with. “Feck the bears – the porridge is just right and all’s well with the world again”. He didn’t seem to care.

I never thought of myself as possession-person but it dawned on me that it was that pen that mattered. Buying another the exact same would have been no good, because it wouldn’t have been the same pen. It wouldn’t have the curious dint and the two scratches. More importantly it wouldn’t have been the pen Stéph gave me. It wouldn’t have been the link to happy memories.

So I spent the rest of the morning gathering up the bits and pieces that were given to me by true friends over the years. Mugs; beermats with simley faces; keyrings; books signed by the giver. All reminders of good times and great people.

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