THERE are many definitions of an optimist, such as a bald man who buys a comb or Ian Paisley, confidently trying to explain to the House of Commons Ethics Committee why he’s accumulated more air miles than Richard Branson. But for me, the ultimate in optimism has to be those few brave souls in Northern Ireland who drive a convertible car.
I think I spotted all nine of them on the roads at some stage over these last couple of days. There are two distinct groups among the convertible-owning tribe. The first are the hard-core drivers who travel with their roof down all year round, irrespective of weather conditions. The second group are the fair weather drivers who only take out their prize vehicles when the sun shines – which in Northern Ireland means about four times a year.
I admit a begrudging respect for the hardcore convertible types. You’ve probably almost crashed your own car as they’ve driven past during snowdrifts in March. These drivers – invariably male – sit, seemingly oblivious to the sub-Arctic temperature, while long-suffering partners huddle in the passenger foot well, cocooned in enough thermal clothing to take on Mount Everest.
As you may have picked up, I’m not the sort of person who’d buy a convertible car. I’m most definitely not an optimist by nature – in my world if it isn’t already raining then it’s invariably on it’s way. I’ve valiantly fought against my pessimistic nature, as every major life decision for those with my temperament is fraught with danger.
Weirdly, comedy is the only thing I’ve done where I’ve felt completely confident – right from the first time I walked on stage, I never felt nervous. But now I’ve written that, I’ll probably go to pieces when I do my next show… now, can you see how my head works?
I’m pretty sure my current ruminations on optimism versus pessimism have something to do with my ongoing house renovations. I feel like we’ve entered a never-ending Twilight Zone with our building work – too far gone to give up and yet no sign of an end in sight. We are now at the stage where action has moved from the external to the internal, meaning new gangs of hairy-ar**d men are invading my personal space on a daily basis.
Jovial Joe and his happy helpers, Darren and young Michael, have recently been joined by teams of roofers, electricians, plumbers, plasterers – often all at the same time – and a very refined kitchen designer. Since when did kitchen design become a thing? I never remember it mentioned as a possibility by our careers teacher, though to be honest in the 1970s, Mr Maguire was more concerned keeping us out of jail as getting us into a job.
Admittedly the kitchen designer is an impressive character. You don’t so much choose him as get accepted by him. Invited to an ‘interview’ at his home – straight out of Ulster Tatler – we sat like street urchins at his tasteful kitchen island where, with the flick of a switch, a flat-screen television dropped from a hidden cabinet on which was displayed a 3D diagram of our new kitchen.
I’m saddened to admit the joyful half sigh, half moan my wife emitted at the image on screen was a sound I had never heard before.
My wife’s ecstatic reaction just compounded my despair and pessimism. I’ve had enough hearing about bloody kitchen islands. It’s become an obsession in our house – the amount of time I’ve listened to where to position the island, its colour, the choice of work top… less time was spent drawing up the Good Friday Agreement for the island or Ireland.
Whoever invented the kitchen island needs taken out back and beaten with a soft-close drawer. I knew I was losing it when I recently heard myself say, "You know the only thing this island hasn’t got? Its own postcode."
It reminds me of thon poem, ‘For the want of a nail, the shoe was lost… for the want of the battle, the kingdom was lost’. Well, I’ve my own version, as follows.
“For the want of a bigger kitchen, more radiators were needed; for the want of more radiators, a new boiler was needed; for the want of a new boiler, a new room was needed; for the want of a new room, a kitchen designer was needed, for the want of a kitchen designer…”
Enough, I’m away for a wee lie down.
