Off to town to get a job. The Green cinema on St. Stephen’s Green, an old Irish institution had a sign ‘Staff Wanted’. It was a lovely old theatre, the only cinema in town boasting ‘love seats’ – two seater seats for couples. A family run affair, two sisters despite being octogenarians were still holding the fort. Mrs. Daly and Miss Noone, both favoured pleated tweed skirts, twinsets and pearls. When it opened its doors it boasted state of the art technology, some seats equipped with a Fortephone apparatus which enabled patrons suffering from deafness to hear the soundtrack. By the 1980’s it looked a bit tired but that made it all the more appealing.
On a day off school school with my friend Mary, we called one afternoon looking for a job. Yes, they could take us both on that Saturday evening, but a training day on Friday was necessary to acquaint ourselves with the mysteries of usheretting. I was apprehensive but Mary fancied the guy in the projector room.. offer duly accepted.
Miss Daly, one of the sibling propieters, handed out torches. Tooled up, training commenced. As the complexities of torch holding were explained, it became obvious that there was more to this showing people to their seats business than meets the eye. ‘Keep the torch low’ Miss Noone commanded, flicking the torch discretely along the aisle’s edge as she walked. Only after a couple of hours training had we adequately mastered the level of torch holding skills required to be fully fledged usherettes.
Despite having to wear a kimono type overall, the sense of empowerment my torch brought made up for it. ‘This way please’, ‘No smoking in rows 10 to 14’. I was beginning to enjoy bossing adults about (well I was only 15). There was a real problem with people buying standard seats trying to get into the premium love seats. Observation skills and a sharp eye were required to patrol the aisles. The power could go to your head, ejecting punters attempting to commandeer a love seat without the proper ticket.
Overly amorous couples in the love seats fell into Mrs Daly’s area of expertise. ‘Stop that carry on now’ she’d prod some unfortunate spotty teenager in the shoulder with her torch. This work required a bigger torch than mine.
A horror film called “When a Stranger Calls” was showing. I got to see the first 40 minutes of it each night, but never got to see the happy ending as my shift finished at 10pm. So I’d watch until I reached a level of terror that turned me to a quivering wreck, but miss the bit at the end where calm is restored and your heart rate returns to normal. I invariably left the cinema looking over my shoulder. Once home, too scared to go to sleep with the light off.
We worked there for the Summer and left when school started back in September. Mary went off the projector guy anyway.
Optician: That comes to Eur 638.75
Mmm!! Which to choose. Blindness or spectacles
My blog is almost three months old. It began as a technical challenge, playing about with WordPress, trying different themes, mucking about with plugins, most enjoyable. Now that I’ve acquainted myself with the wondrous mysteries of the Twitter machine I’m addicted.
Glasses add an aura of mystery, sophistication, serenity.. in manner of Grace Kelly.
Will need special goggles if I ever get a sudden urge to take up diving, skiing, bunji jumping, female boxing, surfing or even just frolicking in the sea. However, the alternative view could be to my advantage – ‘sorry, can’t go frolicking in the sea today – havn’t got the right glasses’.
Easter eggs, who could have imagined these sweet treats could have inspired such rivalry.
The weekend before Easter she would bring the goodies. With a selection of Buttons, Roses, Flake or Milk Tray eggs on offer we would surround her claiming ‘first pick’. Placed on display like a prized ornament they would adorn the shelf to be admired for a week. Only after mass on Sunday morning could they be opened. Very carefully (as the silver paper was to be saved) I would skilfully remove the foil, scoff the back of the egg, replace the foil so that it looked intact, untouched. This was all part of my game plan. The prize in this game of psychological warfare was to lord it over everyone else when you were the only family member with remaining chocolate. That done, the egg would be returned to the shelf to be admired again. After a couple of hours, myself and my sister would eye each other to see who would last the longest before returning for another bite of the cherry. If she gave in, I’d allow myself another piece. The egg at this stage no longer looked untouched, nevertheless it would be put back together again, returned to the shelf to be admired and the test of willpower would resume. Back and forth, taking smaller nibbles each time. Eventually, there would be a small piece left and I would sigh and declare “I’m sick of chocolate, I’m saving some for tomorrow”. This was obviously part of the act, it never lasted until tomorrow.
My brother always won this game. He was the undisputed king of self denial. He always had a piece left the next day so that he could wave it in front of us, taking smug to a whole new level. “Mmmm, don’t tell me yours is all gone”.
Don’t feel too bad, you’re in good company. A host of celebrities have been outed as suffering from the same affliction.
They were fine when I was twenty, but sadly have been in decline for some years now. I recently tried on a pair of boots which were tight around the calf. Beautiful rich soft suede leather with 4 inch heels, fit like a glove and very comfortable. Ecstatic at my find, I stepped over to the mirror to admire my choice of footwear. It was at that very moment I caught a glimpse of knee overflow. The tight calf’s seemed to compound this situation. My euphoria was short lived. I had what resembled a case of severe cellulite dimpling in the knee area. The white skin served only to highlight my ugly joint syndrome or Age Related Knee Deterioration which is I think the medical term. I don’t carry excess weight anywhere else(possibly deluded as well) so why God did you have to pick on the knees.
I’ve tried wearing ultra support tights popular with grannies everywhere. I’ve attempted fake tanning them to death leading to epic fake tan fail and orange hands. Exercise in the form of weights and cycling, I’m convinced made them worse. Massage, cabbage water diet, all to no avail. A friend has suggested contouring. I’m not prepared to set aside 3 hours daily for knee painting.
I have become accustomed to keeping them under wraps. I’m not concerned in the least. My knobbles will never see light of day again. My trendy skinny jeans will never give away my secrets.
Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours had been in the charts for over a year and every teenage girl wanted the look. Stevie Nicks was the coolest. She had the original grungy hippy vibe, in her floaty black garb and her shaggy perm, she was every teenage boys dream. Therefore every teenage girl wanted the shaggy perm. Including me.
Nevertheless, I had to have a perm and the only way I was getting it was to succumb to Eileen’s perming skills. I suppose with hindsight the beehive should have been a giveaway, an inkling as to the standard of style Eileen aspired to.
I pulled my hood up, went home and hibernated for three months.
This isn’t me but bears an uncanny resemblance
I am the youngest of ten children. I know it’s regarded as either obscene or selfish to have large families in this day and age, but growing up in the late seventies in Ireland, it wasn’t unusual. Despite what you might think, I had an idyllic childhood. We lived in a tiny three bed terraced house in suburbia, with one TV which we all watched together, in the one room. My mother’s pride and joy, the three piece sofa, managed to accommodate all of us. The sofa alone sat four people on proper cushions, and one on each antimacassared arm. It was a time of learning extreme bladder control. If you got up to go to the loo, your place would be gone. Many a sibling altercation began with ‘that was my seat’.
Thank God the 70’s was the golden age of comedy as there was no money for any other form of entertainment. Recording your tv programs hadn’t been invented, you had to be at home at 9pm on Tuesday night if you wanted to see Porridge. Top of the Pops the highlight of the week was Thursday’s sorted. TV schedules dictated that we lived our lives in a comforting routine. You couldn’t miss The Generation Game, Starsky and Hutch on Saturday night followed by Match of the Day. You could predict what you would be doing any given Wednesday night at 8.30 based on what was on TV (I think ‘Dave Allen at Large’ was Wednesday or was it The Good Life). Saturday morning Swap Shop. When the TV wasn’t on, the stereo was. My overriding memory of the 70’s is great music and great clothes and great telly.
We thought The Waltons was just normal family life. Nothing unusual there. I wish we could return to the 70’s, when the house was full, the telly blaring and nobody ever worried about diet or exercise.
Granted there were some things I hated. I’m sure it wasn’t all sugar coated happy families, and I’m sure terrible things were happening in the world, but I wasn’t aware of them. In the interest of balance I have to admit there were things I could have done without.
NiftyFiftyShades 