How it won’t be the same without you, my beloved Dee Dee

IT was Christmas every day in Meenirves, the house we lived in on a terrace in Sandymount. It was actually in Ballsbridge, but it was much more hip to say we lived in Sandymount.

The moment you entered our home, you were sucked in by the warmth of the atmosphere of welcome that suffused you, as you entered this phantasmagoric Aladdin’s Cave, with fairy lights everywhere, illuminating the stairs like an airport runway, glitter balls and mirrors reflecting soft light into every corner.

Further illuminating the scene was a collection of lamps: a cornucopia of standard lamps, table lamps and an extraordinary set of lamps concocted from oddball artefacts and bric-abrac, which we had collected over the years.

On paper, it sounds pretty gruesome, but in reality it was a tempered vision and I was never less than happy to think that the clutter made our lives better, and every time I walked in that door, I felt safely back in Kansas with Auntie Em.

Our plan was to downsize from Meenirves, a three-storey Victorian terraced house to a two-bedroom bungalow in Monkstown, so we sold the house.

But fate capriciously turned on us and my beloved wife, Dee Dee, on her birthday, was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour and eight weeks later she was dead.

Dee Dee’s kitchen was black and red, a daring coupling which made the room feel by times like a stage, a platform, a pulpit, a panic room, a nightclub, a concert hall and a confessional.

In the middle was a big round table and many of the world’s problems were solved and plans hatched, not to mention the banter, which was the lingua franca of many of our gatherings.

Dee Dee cooked to gourmet standard and her Christmas dinner was a tour de force.

She produced and directed it and conducted an imaginary orchestra as she triumphantly presented the perfect turkey and ham and six vegetables, including the mandatory mushy peas.

But Dee Dee’s pièce de résistance was her meatloaf. For days after Christmas, a stream of visitors would enquire enthusiastically if there was ‘a bit of meatloaf’ that had been left lying around.

The steady stream won’t be there this year.

Meenirves has been stripped clean and the bare walls offer no comfort, so I think I’ve taken my last look at it.

I’ve moved into a two-bedroom apartment adjacent enough to enjoy the amenities of Meenirves.

The apartment had been freshly refurbished and everything was dazzlingly pristine and white, shrieking in my head like a bad soprano.

One other life that has been discombobulated by the turn of events is that of Parky, Dee Dee’s dog, beau and confidant.

When I moved, Parky was forced to leave home and go to a new mistress, our friend Kara, who is another soft touch for animals. He settled in remarkably quickly.

THIS year I will be having dinner in Kara’s house with a bunch of friends and relations. It is my turn to be a Christmas ‘orphan’. That’s what we called people who had nowhere to go on Christmas Day – and we fed a lot of orphans down the years.

As a gesture, only once did it come unstuck.

My dad told me that his friend Jerry couldn’t get home to Tipperary and asked would I mind if he came to our house.

We welcomed his friend who sat in MY chair... and sat in MY chair... and sat in MY bloody chair... so that I considered having a go at him with the electric carving knife.

There is a small consolation in that Kara took the round table from the Meenirves kitchen and that is what I’ll be dining from on Christmas Day.

And Parky will also be there as a reminder, though I can see he is bewildered at times.

When I say ‘hello Parky’, he looks at me quizzically, as if almost to say, ‘You’re that guy that used to be with Dee Dee aren’t you? Where did Dee Dee go?’