Cork and I Had Our First Fight

Photo: Markus Spisk

Cork and I had our first fight. I suppose it was bound to happen. Six months of connubial bliss and BAM – honeymoon’s over folks. Remember back in May when we got two week’s of warm weather – a.k.a. summer? It all kicked off the day the mercury crawled back into its skin. I was walking down the South Mall en route to a meeting when a metal clamp fell from the sky and landed inches from my feet.

There’s something to be said for not having had a second cup of coffee that morning. My usual caffeinated stride might well have resulted in a trip to the A&E. Confounded, I looked up to see if there was some faulty scaffolding overhead or ne’er-do-well getting a head start on the day – namely aiming for mine. Nothing. Nada. Zilcho. Not a thing.

Was the city telling me something? Was it something I said? Surely there are easier ways to get my attention. “That would have been a very non-glamorous way for the fashion editor of the Irish Examiner to go,” said my friend Neil. What he didn’t know was I was wearing my favourite tangerine suit. “Always make the effort,” as the old adage goes, “you don’t know who you’ll meet” – even if it is the coroner. 

And so I went about my day – a day that got progressively worse with the type of rain that heralds an Apocalypse yet makes one mildly smug at having got flood insurance. Not more than twenty-four hours after my brush with possible head trauma, I left my apartment for another meeting. Since moving Leeside, I never leave the house without wearing flats and carrying an umbrella. It’s too risky and after the previous fisticuffs with the sky, I wasn’t taking any chances.

Walking down Maryborough Hill to catch the 220 bus, I felt my footing falter on the wet pavement. More concerned with the cavalcade of cars witnessing the ungainly spectacle, I did my best to fall gracefully on my bottom while saving my vintage bag from dry retching its contents down the sharp descent. Side note: rappelling ropes should be provided for all residents north of the hotel. Just saying.

Walking down Maryborough Hill to catch the 220 bus, I felt my footing falter on the wet pavement. More concerned with the cavalcade of cars witnessing the ungainly spectacle, I did my best to fall gracefully on my bottom while saving my vintage bag from dry retching its contents down the sharp descent. Side note: rappelling ropes should be provided for all residents north of the hotel. Just saying.

In doing so, I managed to slide sideways and rip open my summer loafers. Caught between embarrassment and mild grief, I limped back to my place to extract gravel from my palms and conduct CPR on my favourite shoes. Damn you, Cork! Do you know how difficult it is to find a pair of size 8s?  I was beginning to wonder if we could ever recover from such an egregious altercation. A near blow to the head is one thing but my feet? That’s unforgivable or so I thought…

As with any relationship, time is a great healer. Puddles dry, annoyance subsides and silent apologies are had. Shoes are replaceable but places aren’t, so, I don’t see myself packing up anytime soon. You’ve got me for the long haul, Cork. In the meantime, I’ll be taking a gentle detour from the South Mall.