WISH YOU WERE HERE ...

After a few weeks with the in-laws in Scotland we come home. Up near Inverness there were three weeks of constant sun, temperatures in the twenties, an abundance of soft fruit growing wild on the bushes, free alcopop tasters in the supermarkets. Pink Scottish people smiled at each other in the streets. It was unusual.

Things were different in Ireland, we heard. Phone calls home were grey and cloudy, with sneezing and coughing in the background, the sound of people walking in puddles.

“Have you heard about the rain?” everybody asked with the same note of frustrated desperation. Weather-related riots sounded like a possibility. “It’s quite nice here,” I said at first, but people were in no mood to hear it, so I told them that, yes, it was awful with us too.

We drive for four hours across Scotland, onto a boat, then two hours down to Dublin. Even with small people in the back, the trip is less stressful than flying. There is no decanting of shampoo, no shameful removal of shoes, belts and piercings.

At the border the only indicator of a change in jurisdiction is the colour of the road markings. “See?” I say to a car full of yawning people who don’t care. “White lines in the north, yellow in the south.” They don’t remember what it was like before. Over the next hour I fill them in.

AND SO, WE’RE BACK ...

Having been away for a while, the differences between home and Scotland are striking at first, then fade away in a matter of hours as familiarity is regained.

People drive faster and closer here, and there are more people everywhere. The average age in Dublin is 20 years younger. There is more neon and advertising, more colour in the buildings and shopfronts. There is a messiness which makes me feel relaxed. Edges are more clearly defined in Scotland. Lines are straighter. The towns are orderly and make sense. But the energy level is different here. By the third set of traffic lights I’m driving like a Dublin person again, and by the time we get home it’s like we’ve never been away.

MY MIND’S A BLANK ...

A television crew come to the house to do an interview about my book which has just been published. There are three of them, very professional and laid-back. They know what they’re doing; within two minutes of arriving they’ve chosen the best place to film and the chair in which I should sit.

They set up lights and microphones while I talk with the director about what he’s going to ask me. It will be a short piece, maybe a minute, and the questions are straightforward and general, just enough to give a sense of what the book is about.

I am relaxed. We’re in my living-room and I’m talking about a book that I wrote. But still. The camera rolls and the director asks his question and suddenly there is white noise blasting in my ears and only one idea in my brain, which is that I know nothing about anything.

My throat goes dry and I become aware that there are words coming out of my mouth. Maybe this is what hypnosis feels like. You know it’s an onion, but you just keep chomping away like it’s an apple.

On the street outside a bus passes and the sound guy puts up his hand. “Sorry,” he says. “We’ll have to do that again. “No problem,” I say, trying to remember what exactly this book is about.

BOOK BROWSING ...

Later in the week, I go into a bookshop on Grafton Street. I walk with purpose to the back, past the bestsellers, the new releases and the dumpbins.

I wander through the fiction section as if I’m looking for something, then after a minute walk slowly back towards the entrance. Just inside the front door is a shelf full of my books, facing outwards and I stop in front of them and stare.

It is an exciting moment, certainly, but unsettling too. This thing that I alone have known about for a couple of years is out in the world, competing with all the other thousands of books.

My baby is going to work. I feel over-whelmed and walk out onto the street. Ten minutes later I go back in for another look.

Chris Binchy is a novelist

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