Just Another Lazy Weekend

June Considine lives in Malahide, Co Dublin and is equally well-known as a writer of fiction for both adults and children. Her last two novels, The Prodigal Sister and Stolen Child were written under her pseudonym, Laura Elliot. She is married to Sean and they have a grown-up family of three, Tony, Ciara and Michelle.



Q1 Do weekends find you at the coalface or drawbridge up?

It depends. If I'm battling with a deadline, as I was last year when I was working on Stolen Child, I wrote most weekend mornings. No phone calls or emails to interrupt – but, ideally, I prefer to relax at weekends.



Q2 If you can do you grab a lie-in

I'm an early riser. I love listening to radio and will tackle any chore, no matter how tedious, once I have my earphones in my ears. But if I'm engrossed in a good book, I'm happy to snuggle under the duvet and enjoy breakfast in bed.



Q3 What do you remember most about weekends as a child?

My father spent his working life at sea and the weekends with his family were special. I was a reluctant scholar and being off school was pure bliss. I remember the exquisite relief of confession on Saturday evenings, the belief that my soul was a shining, white disc and, with any luck, would remain so until at least the following morning. Then there was the restful silence of Sunday afternoons, gone now since Sunday in Dublin is just another shopping day.



Q4 If you could do anything you wanted this weekend, what would it be?

Spend it with friends on a barge exploring the Shannon waterways, stopping off at out-of the way pubs and restaurants.



Q5 If you could buy anything at all this weekend, what would it be?

A size twelve dress. I've just returned from a fortnight's holiday in Peñíscola, a beautiful Spanish seaport with wonderful restaurants. Unfortunately, the results are showing on my weighing scales.



Q6 At weekends, do you eat out or do you rustle up something yourself?

I enjoy cooking and always make a special effort on Sunday evenings. That's usually dinner for two, unless I organise a family get together, which can range from a group of ten to over twenty if I include my siblings and their families. Once I've time on my side, I'm happy trying out new recipes in the kitchen.



Q7 A night at the flicks or a DVD?

Saturday night for the cinema. I've just been to see The Lovely Bones. I adored the book, which has one of the most gripping opening sentences I've ever read. I was interested to see how it transformed into a film and I particularly enjoyed Soirse Ronan's performance as Susie Salmon. Sunday belongs to the DVD. I'm currently making my way through The Tudors box set. Who cares if Jonathan Rhys Meyers hasn't got a ginger beard or packing a massive belly, I've quite lost my head to history.



Q8 If you had time to read a book this weekend, what would it be?

The Help by Kathryn Stockett or One Day by David Nicholls. I've just finished both, loved them and intend reading them again.


Q9 Do you switch off your mobile and log out of your emails at weekends?

I leave on the mobile but ignore my emails.



Q10 Sunday morning - do you go to church?

No. But I love the tranquility that pervades empty churches of any domination and often enter them at no particular time or day to absorb that silence and peace.



Q11 Your perfect Sunday?

A walk along the coast of Malahide. Then breakfast in a little cafe called Provence, which is always packed and buzzing. A lazy afternoon with the newspapers or meeting friends in Howth for a few drinks beside the fire in the Abbey Tavern. It's one of the few pubs that still looks, feels, smells and remains a pub, rather than a carvery or a TV lounge.



Q12 And when do you start to get depressed at the thought of the week ahead?

I don't. I love writing and every week throws up different challenges and possibilities. I'm currently working on my next book so I'm at that delicate stage where running a marathon on nails or tackling the junk in the attic seems like a easier option than working my way into a new plot and new characters. But I know I'll get there if I keep working on it. When I want to arise on a weekend morning and switch on my computer, I'll know I've arrived at that stage.

Published Belfast Telegraph on 26 June 2010

Decluttering The Empty Nest

De-cluttering the Empty Nest

June Considine

My friends warned me about the empty nest syndrome. Fledglings gone and parents left along in the silent, empty branches. So when my children said, “Mother, Father, it’s time to fly,” we braced ourselves for the inevitable separation. Little did we realise there is no such thing as an empty nest. The fledglings may scatter to the outer reaches of the forest but they leave their debris behind.

In our case that consisted of three crates of comics (that had, according to our eldest fledgling, the potential to become collectors’ items), along with his collection of rare second-hand vinyls, a guitar with broken strings, and his snooker table. My eldest female fledgling left behind three full book cases, a cabinet of CD’s, a large black dog named Smudge, another guitar with broken strings, five pairs of Doc Martens and a set of juggling balls.

The youngest fledgling, having spent four years at art college, left sculptures and canvases, a headshop of chemicals, a large and alarming glass orb representing the human brain, and a suitcase of dairies, locked and tied with many yards of string. They all left wardrobes of clothes that, they insisted, would be reclaimed as retro fashion in later years.

Over the years, our resolve to deal with this debris weakened. Apart from the dog, the rest of their belongings were inanimate, easy to ignore. We began to dump our own junk, broken computers and printers, golf clubs, musical instruments, Christmas decorations, electrical goods that my husband was determined, one day, to repair, and crates of family videos which, when shown to our fledglings, were greeted with the command, “Fast forward, please.”

Occasionally, I uttered dire warnings about impending clear-outs

but they ignored such threats. They knew we were too busy chasing our own deadlines to tackle the weight of their history. There was always tomorrow...tomorrow... and tomorrow would have remained a vague aspiration except for the impending visit of four Scottish friends. Suddenly, the word “de-clutter” became our mantra. We looked at our attic, a vast area of unused space, usually entered by my husband balancing precariously on the edge of the banisters and hoisting himself upwards. After the installation of a Stira folding stairs we sent an urgent S.O.S to the fledglings. Return and decide what you want to salvage or suffer the consequences. Realising we finally meant business, they trooped home to confront their past. This proved to be rather a long-drawn out process as they kept running into each other’s rooms waving objects and shouting, “Do you remember the time....”

However, eventually, they separated the chaff from the wheat. What was considered fit for posterity was placed in lidded crates or large jumbo sacks and heaved upwards. My daughter’s art pieces, including plaster-of-Paris casts of her friends’ upper bodies, were wrapped reverently in sheets of plastic and laid to rest under the eaves.

We are a family of readers and look upon the defacing of books as acts of vandalism. As the date of our visitors arrived loomed ever nearer, we began to task of separation. Pulp went into the green bin, worthy books that we would never read again went to Oxfam, and our favourites were returned to the shelves. As one person’s junk is another person’s treasure, Oxfam also served us well by accepting our discarded bric-a-brac. The broken computers and all electrical goods went to our local recycling plant, jumbo sacks of clothes were left in readiness for door-to-door collections and we disposed of unwanted furniture through a recycling internet site.

While all this heaving and huffing was going on, I decided to ‘touch-up, the skirting board in the kitchen. But I’d forgotten that a paintbrush is a colonising force that refuses to recognise borders. It invades virgin territory, halls and landings, spare bedrooms, the darkest cubby holes whose existence I’d forgotten. I bought paint samples and slashed them on the walls. I became obsessed with the subtlety of shading. I demanded my husband’s opinion.

“It’s cream,” he said. “They’re all cream.”

Astonished that he could not distinguish between Soft Linen, Antique Cream or Matted Rye, I sent him back to the attic and rang a professional painter.

Eventually, we stood back and took stock of our clean walls, clear shelves, empty spaces and groaning attic. We hung the last picture, smoothed the duvets, flicked a duster across the furniture and collapsed over a bottle of wine on the same instant, I suspect, as Eyjafjallajkull exploded.

Well, you all know the rest. Our house was totally devoid of dust and debris –but the same could not be said for the path flight between Ireland and Scotland. As we sat alone in our minimalist surroundings, our fridge loaded with enough food to feed an advancing army, frantic texts were exchanged between ourselves and our visitors. The air flight was consumed in dust, the ferries overrun. But still we hoped until the final text, received, hours before their anticipated arrival, read, “So sorry! Can’t even manage foot passage on the ferries. Hope you didn’t go to any trouble on our behalf.”

“Of course not,” I texted back. “It was just a case of changing the sheets.”

Published in the Daily Mail This Life Page on 29 May 2010.