Well first of all a nice girl with an oirish accent as strong as my Scottish one calls me up and has a ‘bit of a chat’ with me about my children’s gap year. And then they ring again for the interview - sorry but no, I am not whisked off to Bush house in a black cab to be put into a little sound proof room with earphones, instead, while I am at work but everyone else is at The London Book Fair, I am able to nip into a vacant office during the lunch hour and conduct my very important press conference while the girls in the Sales Office threaten to stand outside making wailing cat noises.
So, then different oirish accent comes on the line: Is that yourself, there, Marion.
Aye, it is indeed, there, Kevin, I nearly answered though unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your stance on these things) I don’t have the gift of the accent, so I did my usual growl and muttered something barely intelligible with a few ochs in it.
I then held on the line until the people in the studio had finished with the local news headlines;
jingle ....A story just in about the scandal in the Limerick Mental Hospital where a member of the public was able to go in to an asylum with a knife in a bag, and t'would seem this was just the tip of the oiceberg, I t'ink, said the news presenter. (Seems eminently sensible course of action to me - they are MAD those people in the asylum)...more jingles Radio Talk FM, Dublin (actually I don't know what it was called - I just made that up).
This was followed by another jingle then a nail-biting competition where the first five people to text in would win a 50 Euro unleaded petrol voucher. My finger was twitching…
Next, there was a call from a musician who had left his banjo in the back seat of a Dublin taxi, after a five hour gig at 4 o'clock in the morning (I think that drink may have had something to do with this oversight) appealing for its return.
I’m telling you...who needs Paxman?
Then it was my turn, but despite my agent telling me to plug the book, plug the book, darling, plug, plug, plug the book, darling, there wasn’t the opportunity. You could say that my role was something of a walk on part, which given that it was radio should illustrate something. Sadly I hardly got a word in edgeways because one of the other ‘guests’ Deirdre, whose kids, you and the rest of the Irish prime time commuters will be pleased to hear (at encyclopedic length), had a very successful gap year. To be sure, to be sure, it was like an episode of Father Ted but with me as the self-effacing Mrs Flynn, squeaking ineffectively in the background, drowned out by Deirdre.
Tea? Sure, you’d like a wee cup of tea, go on, go on, go on.
So I hung up and came back into the office and carried on with my work.
Reprise: Tea? Sure, you’d like a wee cup of tea, go on, go on, go on.
Actually nobody likes my tea at work. This is how you get them to stop asking you to make it for them.
In other news…
In the style of Bridget Jones. Words of Novel No 2 written: O.
So, then different oirish accent comes on the line: Is that yourself, there, Marion.
Aye, it is indeed, there, Kevin, I nearly answered though unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your stance on these things) I don’t have the gift of the accent, so I did my usual growl and muttered something barely intelligible with a few ochs in it.
I then held on the line until the people in the studio had finished with the local news headlines;
jingle ....A story just in about the scandal in the Limerick Mental Hospital where a member of the public was able to go in to an asylum with a knife in a bag, and t'would seem this was just the tip of the oiceberg, I t'ink, said the news presenter. (Seems eminently sensible course of action to me - they are MAD those people in the asylum)...more jingles Radio Talk FM, Dublin (actually I don't know what it was called - I just made that up).
This was followed by another jingle then a nail-biting competition where the first five people to text in would win a 50 Euro unleaded petrol voucher. My finger was twitching…
Next, there was a call from a musician who had left his banjo in the back seat of a Dublin taxi, after a five hour gig at 4 o'clock in the morning (I think that drink may have had something to do with this oversight) appealing for its return.
I’m telling you...who needs Paxman?
Then it was my turn, but despite my agent telling me to plug the book, plug the book, darling, plug, plug, plug the book, darling, there wasn’t the opportunity. You could say that my role was something of a walk on part, which given that it was radio should illustrate something. Sadly I hardly got a word in edgeways because one of the other ‘guests’ Deirdre, whose kids, you and the rest of the Irish prime time commuters will be pleased to hear (at encyclopedic length), had a very successful gap year. To be sure, to be sure, it was like an episode of Father Ted but with me as the self-effacing Mrs Flynn, squeaking ineffectively in the background, drowned out by Deirdre.
Tea? Sure, you’d like a wee cup of tea, go on, go on, go on.
So I hung up and came back into the office and carried on with my work.
Reprise: Tea? Sure, you’d like a wee cup of tea, go on, go on, go on.
Actually nobody likes my tea at work. This is how you get them to stop asking you to make it for them.
In other news…
In the style of Bridget Jones. Words of Novel No 2 written: O.
