NEVER mind the piles of books and papers including my school report dating back to 1971 (and yes, I get an A star in swottiness and an F in street cred) – when you have finally got around to replacing the roof after 22 years of talking about it, then you have a lot of history to clear.
There are mountains of letters and cards. I come upon postcards from my big sister: “Nuala, I will be down to Dublin on Friday. Meet me under the arch at Trinity at 3pm.” Everybody used to meet there.
I find Valentine cards from my dad: “Will I ever catch you, from the city desk?” He never liked to think we wouldn’t get a card.
There are letters written from far-flung places and near-flung ones too. My best friend from school and I kept up a regular summer correspondence lamenting the pain of O level mathematics and the dearth of decent men.
We didn’t see each for eight whole weeks because I lived in the big smoke of Ballymena and she lived down the road in Portglenone. We didn’t have mobiles or email in those days.
I disappeared off to Paris when I was 18 to au pair for a family of strangers – I didn’t even have an address when I went.
"Your father was so worried," my mother tells me now.
"Eventually, we got a telephone number from someone who knew somebody and we rang, and when a man answered, I said: "Ou est Nuala?"
"He came back with a whole torrent of French and I panicked but in the middle of it he said "A l’eglise" and I knew that meant at the church, so we figured you were all right."
Back to the attic clearance. Although I should be winnowing and clearing, I end up sitting in a corner, laughing and crying all at once.
I find my notes for my wedding speech. “You spoke?” asks my son. “I wasn’t getting married and not speaking,” I tell him. That was 24 years ago.
A mortar attack was launched from the church car park the weekend before and we were the last wedding in the old church that was being decommissioned so they had removed the stained glass windows and replaced them with plain ones.
Another couple came in after us and booked their wedding for 1.30pm when ours was meant to be at 3pm. But theirs was in French and English and they had a lot to say, so our priest rang and said to hold off for half an hour.
"What the hell", we said, "so we’re half an hour late". It was a lovely day, our guests stood outside and chatted. I vaguely remember that the room where the wedding reception was held had two large hunting guns or swords on the wall above our heads.
"If it all goes wrong, those will come in handy," joked one of our guests.
And my speech – I had forgotten that. My notes from the attic reminded me that my kind mother sewed 24 pearl buttons onto my wedding dress, even though her eyes kept wandering to her beloved raspberry bushes out the back. It was perfect gardening weather.
When I made the actual speech, there was a bad moment when I was talking about driving my future in-laws to Donegal. I meant to say that I was just passing by Errigal but the words came out wrong.
"I was just pissing by Errigal," I said – that got an unplanned laugh.
In the same speech, I also noted my new husband’s love of planning. He marks everything on a calendar and, that year, in the run-up to our summer wedding, he had written on the calendar as usual: "20 June – European elections: 28 June – World Cup, Ireland qualify".
I was keen to see the note for 22 July – our wedding day: "Oh God!!!" he had written under the date.
There have been times when we’ve said "oh God" to each other down the past 24 years. But even when the world hits rock bottom, he still knows how to make me laugh.
Maybe I just struck gold.
