My cheap store brand coffee burned my hand as I bent down to pick up the post. Bank Note, wedding invitation from that annoying couple, another bank note and then an envelope addressed to me. Probably some cheesy postcard from Maire’s parents in Tunisia. They were always trying to rub their wealth in my face and thought that I was some sort of peasant because I grew up in Crumlin. I opened up the letter. A button. A fucking button. Well in fairness, a button was probably preferable to some picture of a beach in the sun so I could feel shit about the pissing rain here in Ireland. There was no writing inside the envelope, not even a ‘from Mammy with love’. In her failing health, it probably was the kind of thing Mum might send, but she barely remembers her own grandson so I highly doubt she has any idea what our address is. I suppose some weirdo thought It would be a laugh, or some new age freelance artist sent it, the kind that pins a tesco receipt on a wall and calls themselves the 21st century Picasso sent it. I put the envelope in a drawer with some expired credit cards and Joseph’s Birth Certificate.
I got in my 00 Toyota, put on Radio one and listened to Colm O’Mongain interview some squirmy TD and about badly built roads in the country. 8:42 am and I am in my office cubicle answering to particularly aggressive costumers of our insurance company. I was getting a mouthful from 63 year old Margaret from Tralee because her insurance didn’t cover her accident. ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t cover an 80’s Fiat with no front headlights driving on the wrong side of the road,’ I said to her. She responded by calling me ‘a fucking crook’ and that ‘I ruined Christmas’. She threatened to ‘take this further’. After receiving further abuse from a business executive from Foxrock I had my lunch of a ham and cheese sandwich, a packet of Tayto crisps and Barry’s tea out of a flask Maire bought in Tresspass. She thought I could do with losing some weight and that I could take it walking in the woods but to her disappointment and constant remarks I only ever took it to work.
After I finished my tea and the last of my crisps I felt a hand on my shoulder. Paul, my boss stood behind me. ‘In my office when you’re ready.’ I suddenly felt very paranoid. Was I too harsh on Margaret? Maybe the business man from Foxrock complained about me. When I entered his office I half expected to see a tumbler of scotch in the corner but then I remembered than this was Ireland in 2013 and not an American movie from the 70s. ‘Right, Derek, I know we’ve had our differences but you’ve represented this company with distinction for 10 years.’
He offered me a job promotion and told me that I would have to wear a suit to work from now on. My first instinct was to send a picture of myself in a new suit and giving the middle finger to Maire’s parents but thought better of it. I got home and told Maire who hugged me and spent the rest of the day planning holidays to Italy and going on Safari in Africa. We shared a bottle of champagne after Joseph was in bed. Despite Maire’s almost intolerable excitement, something didn’t feel quite right. Yes, something was definitely missing. I as I lay in bed drowsy from the champagne. The next morning I put on my freshly pressed shirt, the shirt that my father had worn or 40 years in his job as an accountant. It was ten years since I ever needed to wear a suit so it felt quite strange. Maire handed me a cup of fancy fair-trade coffee from the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta mountain range in Columbia. She brushed back my hair and straightened out my suit jacket. ‘Ah feck, Derek, go and put on another shirt. There’s a button missing on this one.’
normalstorys.com 