via The Daily Telegraph
You’ve always dreamed of seeing Italy, but your parents discourage this. They discourage most things, living as they do in a battered farmhouse in the west, where they consider cake a foolish luxury and don’t much care for gifts.
You were determined to be a career girl, and refused to go to the secretarial course the nuns recommend. You will be a woman in charge of your own destiny, not one foolish enough to believe in true love.
A rich financier makes you believe in true love instantly.
You live in Dublin, near enough to walk the quays and feel the spray. You know how to pronounce “quays.”
The parentage of the fey twins that live down the lane is questionable.
You do go to Spain on a bank holiday, but are made too nervous by the topless beaches. Italy will have to wait until widowhood.
Vacations terrify you, as when you were young they inevitably signaled that one of your parents was really going on a drinking binge and would need to go back to the hospital.
For some reason, the entirety of your city visits one restaurant where they never describe the food very well. You worry about how thin the house manager has gotten, and glare at old biddies who ask why she doesn’t have children.
The priest has lost his faith again, and wonders if it’s possible to do good even if you’re not sure God was such a nice fellow to begin with.
Your most beautiful friend is undoubtedly, absolutely, without question sleeping with your husband. He is weak and can’t resist. She is far more elegant than you, and never has a cloud of frizzy hair. Your husband used to find your frizzy hair adorable, but although your beautiful friend is cold, she has sleek, luscious hair. They bang for five years and she never apologizes.
Someone has uttered the words “dead marriage” within the last 48 hours.
You married the rich financier, but find only emptiness in your extraordinary wealth. An older man who is “not quite right in the head” reminds you how important friendship is. This cannot make you give up your weekly hair appointment, though.
You and your friends all feel sympathy for the silly young woman two flats over who got involved with the married man. You can tell from her roundness and subsequent slimness that she “went to England.” Her pale beauty seems much faded, and you wonder if there are any nice young waiters she would like at the restaurant where everyone in the whole of Dublin goes.
At least once a month, someone utters the word “vegetarian” at the restaurant that everyone goes to. It is a word said like it has just been invented. The chef is proud of his “vegetarian” dish, which still probably has beef broth in it. Everything is improved by beef broth.
Your parents’ marriage is depressing and sad. They speak to each other of nothing and never laugh together. They insist they are very happy and anyway it’s too late for them, and your soul dies the day you realize they are right.
Every time you have sex, someone drowns. This is not considered a notable occurrence, this is simply how sex works in Ireland.
Once a day, you feel a prickle on your neck, as if someone is watching you from across the lake. They are, and it is either your real mother or the man dangerously obsessed with you.
America is a far off place which half your siblings departed for the day they turned eighteen. Every detail you ever hear about it is wrong, but you will never know this. Your mother is shocked when your sister wants to marry a Polish man from Chicago, but you tell her it’s a sign of the times and she nods, refilling her teacup.
It is never entirely clear if you are in the 1950s or 1990s. Either way, you continue to wear daring skirts with twinsets.
Nine times out of ten, fathers are alcoholics or gambling addicts, but everyone continues to insist that Irish alcoholism and gambling is a thing of the past.
Your catering company has ruined your marriage and your partner’s relationship, in fact it seems entirely too fraught with drama to present good food regularly, but Yelp doesn’t seem to exist and you are very successful.
Getting old has not dulled your spark, unless you never had one, in which case you will find one and buy a new slip.
Your husband’s brother is definitely stealing from you.
Ooooohhhh nice…
You’re a not fat, but your certainly are big and tall. Will the doctor’s son ever really love you enouhg to marry you?
You’re a very ugly child, but a strange spinster-lady bought you a dress that made you look beautiful for the first time. Then you die.
Your sister is your mother, your uncle is your brother, and your aunt lives a dreary life in NY.
Everyone thinks you’re a lesbian and that’s why they invite you to parties. Maybe you should just go for it?
Why am I singing “Your sister is your mother etc.?”
“There once was a man named Oedipus Rex / You may have heard about his odd complex / His name appears in Freud’s in-dex / because he loved his mother…”
A+ Tom Lehrer reference
I regret only that I cannot remember the egregious forced rhyme that I’m sure is in there somewhere.
And you may end up like Oedipus
I’d rather marry a duck-billed platypus
Than end up like old Oedipus Rex!
(I googled the lyrics)
“It is never entirely clear if you are in the 1950s or 1990s. ”
I’m not the only one who sometimes has that problem with her books? I’m so relieved.
Same.
Ditto.
To be fair, this is a problem that Ireland had in general in the 1990s. (Hurrah for legal divorce. THAT WAS 1995!)
Several of your neighbours and acquaintances have already been in Maeve Binchy novels.
Your most beautiful friend is undoubtedly, absolutely, without question sleeping with your husband.
I own a copy of this Maeve Binchy book, lmao. I actually recall rather enjoying it, tbh.
Same. Just reread it too!!!
You have an urge to take up flower arranging, and find that you quite enjoy it.
How about… “You have a random acquaintance who always looks perfect and always knows exactly what to say and is never awkward and never has a hair out of place and probably never poops even.”
or
“That psychic you don’t believe in was def right”
God I have such a love/hate relationship with Maeve Binchy. Each of her books are exactly the same except for the character’s names and general plot outline.
Unless your name is Rosemary, in which case you are definitely a 100% bitch in each and every book.
As a Rosemary, I’m quite flattered 🙂
You live in Dublin, near enough to walk the quays and feel the spray. You know how to pronounce “quays.”
Help, I thought that quay/spray didn’t rhyme and now I’m questioning myself, and the Internet claims it can be either!
I, for one, love going on a spree at the key. That’s how this works, right?
I sure thought so!
They don’t rhyme! At all!
Also being that they are the quays of the river Liffey, there is no spray.
And if there was, you would not want to be feeling it, its at least 90% piss.
“Every time you have sex, someone drowns. This is not considered a notable occurrence, this is simply how sex works in Ireland.”
(nods decisively) This checks out.
Slightly worried now about how many people I’ve inadvertently killed by having sex in Ireland.
Unless lesbian sex doesn’t count, for the drownings, in which case we’re grand.
This post just made me realize that I’ve been confusing Maeve Binchy and Rosamunde Pilcher for a very long time.
You are not the only one. The absence of Cornwall on this list was really confusing for me until I got to your comment.
Piltcher would have more thick sweaters, dreamy guys in sports cars that die in them after you’ve had a row, and trips to beaches that don’t mention anything about sand getting in your hair or shoes.
My mom was hardcore #TeamPilcher but refused to touch Binchy, I have no idea why.
Pilcher can be distinguished by the presence of eccentric but adored painters.
I have read all of these, several times.
All of your parents’ marital problems are solved by moving into a smaller home.
You are plain and dress accordingly, which is odd because he finds you very attractive and helps unlock your passionate nature. I loved this!
You take an Itallian class, your husband thinks that you are a lesbian.. You have a painful longing for a fly cemetery, even though that sounds disgusting..
Oh man, I remember devouring a few of her books as a kid…the Glass Lake! ah! I just read the synopsis and I can see why my young self was fascinated.
brb, off to re-read…
The Glass Lake was legit one of my favorite ever books as a teen, but I haven’t reread it since. I wonder if it holds up? I very much enjoyed Stevie, Kit’s bit of rough with a heart of gold.
Perfect. Favorite line “Every time you have sex someone drowns ” Maeve’s books are all about that.
I love the photo. Maeve is seriously snuggling that tabby <3
“It is never entirely clear if you are in the 1950s or 1990s. Either way, you continue to wear daring skirts with twinsets.”
I want to go to there.
I love the photo. Maeve is seriously snuggling that tabby.
Dale Cooper improves everything. Much like beef broth.
You have ridden the same bus with the same man for 35 years. You both know that you are soulmates. You have never spoken to one another. You will continue not to speak to one another, but the one who dies first will leave enough money for the other to open a charming little shop.
I loved Maeve Binchy’s books when I was about 13, but I never really understood just how isolated the west of Ireland actually is until I visited there recently. It put perspective on things, and also made me want to revisit the books, until I realised that my fond memories are probably better left alone.
btw–thank you for this post and thank you to all the commenters, it brightened a dark damp Scottish afternoon.
And you may end up like Oedipus
I'd rather marry a duck-billed platypus
Than end up like old Oedipus Rex!
(I googled the lyrics)
Apropos of nothing, “maeve” and “binchy” sound like absolutely opposite moods.
Apropos of nothing, "maeve" and "binchy" sound like absolutely opposite moods.
I am now able to classify my entire emotional life, thank you.
Thank you!!
To be fair, this is a problem that Ireland had in general in the 1990s. (Hurrah for legal divorce. THAT WAS 1995!)
Half the women in the neighbourhood have had an affair with your husband, though no one, including the reader, can understand the attraction.