Slide Further Under the Duvet, get yourself comfortable and let Marian take you places you've never been before ...
Places like the Irish air-guitar championships, a shopping trip to Bloomingdales with a difference and Cannes with a chronic case of Villa-itis. Along the way you'll encounter knicker-politics, fake tans, sticky-out ears and passionate love affairs both with make-up and Toblerones. And of course, agony aunt, Mammy Walsh is on hand to solve all your problems.
Hilarious and poignant, down-to-earth and moving, Marian's long-awaited second volume of journalism and previously unpublished writing is the modern woman's perfect companion. So put the kettle on and grab that Kit Kat Chunky – everything else will wait.
never employ ‘fucking’. Rarely, very rarely. Like the time when Margaret arrived home to tell me she’d left her droopy-drawers husband, and even then I waited until I was in my bedroom and only said it to Mr Walsh. (I believe the exact phrase I used was, ‘For fuck’s fucking sake, why can’t just fucking one of my fucking daughters stay fucking well married for five fucking minutes?’ And Mr Walsh replied, ‘Fucked if I know.’ And then I said, ‘No fucking need for language like that.’ Then we had a
Although from the looks of things, it seems I’m already dead. ‘No!’ I say loudly and it seems to boom in the sky overhead. ‘I’m not going.’ A clamour of ‘But you have to, it’s your time. Your time is up!’ reaches me from the other bank. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck,’ I say, ‘I’m not going.’ Family above me, family down here. I’m trapped. ‘… heart-rate stabilizing…’ ‘We nearly lost her that time.’ ‘She’s a fighter, this one.’ ‘Oh yes? Might explain all those old bruises on her then.’
glasses and danced gracefully around his clee-yongs, like he was doing speeded-up t’ai chi. In other words, the biggest gom on the planet. Feckin’ great! True to form, I pushed down my fury, gave my incipient ulcers another shot in the arm, and stapled a smile to my round, trusting but miserable face. Then Gomboy opened his mouth and spoke. ‘’Allo Marrrrrreeeeannnne. I am Chrrrrrristian.’ French! He was French! Not a gom at all! In an instant everything changed. Before we go any further, I
of teenagers. I remember myself at that age – confused, angry, scornful of adults – and I so live in dread of saying something inane or stupid to make them roll their eyes and whisper, ‘Christ!’ that I tend to give them a wide berth. But the lads here were very pally – and astute. They noticed that Himself was wearing a Watford hat (his football team) and by a really strange coincidence, while we were actually at the orphanage, Watford were playing Chelsea on the telly. Since they’ve been managed
shenanigans. Also she hides in garden hedges and photographs people going in and out of houses. I wish she wouldn’t do this, she’s always catching throat infections and I’m the one who has to listen to her whingeing. She also happens to be very ‘good-looking’ and men are forever falling in love with her; there’s a chance that you might too and the situation with your wife would no longer matter. It’s only fair to tell you, however, that in such an eventuality, Helen will still charge you. PS I
