The Ground Beneath Your Feet

An old school friend one of my best lives just around the corner from me here in London. A bean-counter in the city, he currently earns the kind of salary I d always imagined I d be content with when I hit middle age: not obscene, by any stretch of the imagination, but more than enough for him never to have to worry about paying for the next round of drinks. Or golf.

The weekend of the recent All Ireland hurling final saw both of us flying to Dublin for a few days. I was travelling home for the match, while he was picking up a set of keys for the spanking new Dublin apartment he bought recently, and plans to reside in with his lovely girlfriend once his current contract expires in London.
What with him being from Laois, and all that, I thought it might be nice to invite the pair of them down to Birr for the Monday night post-match knees-up, so that he could experience what it feels like to live in a county that occasionally gorges itself at the trough of All Ireland success. He was quick to snap up my invitation as I promised them a cracking session, knowing that a good night s roistering was in store, win, lose or draw.
Sadly, it all came to naught in the end, when he rang me to say that they wouldn t be able to make it as they were having a floor put in that day. That it took the best part of 10 minutes gentle coaxing and persuasion on my part to extricate this excuse from one of my oldest friends is indicative of what a feeble justification for piss-up evasion it really was.

Him: Sorry, but we can t come to Birr tomorrow night.
Me: Oh really, that s a shame. What s up?
Him: Ah, just some stuff to do with the new gaff.
Me: Oh dear, you re not having any problems with it, I hope.
Him: Nah.
Me: So why can t you come down?
Him: There s some work being done on it.
Me: Oh right, fair enough. I thought it was finished?
Him: Oh it is, it is. It s just something else cropped up.
Me: What kind of something else, I thought it was ready to be lived in?
Him: Well, it is. But, it s just that we re having a eh, some stuff installed.
Me: Some stuff?
Him: Yeah.
Me: What kind of stuff? Why are you being so vague?
Him: I m not being vague.
Me: You fucking are!
Him: Okay I am being vague, but only because it s embarrassing.
Me: Embarrassing? What could you possibly be having installed in your apartment that s embarrassing? Actually, don t answer that.
Him: No, the actual thing isn t embarrassing. It s just that it s an embarrassing reason for not being able to go out drinking.
Me: You have to tell me now.
Him: But, you ll only take the piss.
Me: Probably, yeah.
Him: And you d have every right to.
Me: Oh God! You re not picking out curtains, are you?
Him: Nah, that s done.
Me: So what s so important that you can t make it down? Come on, I m dying to know now.
Him: Look, my girlfriend and I can t travel down to Birr for what promises to be a really good night out because I m having a floor installed tomorrow.
Me: What?
Him: Look, I know it s a shit excuse but I have to be around to make sure it s done right. I m not happy about it, but it s the truth. I cannot go drinking because men are putting down a floor in my apartment and I have to watch them.
The rest of the conversation was a blur. One of us perhaps both of us broke down.
My sobs were fuelled by childish thoughts of betrayal, his by the knowledge that for an outlay of hundreds of thousands of pounds, he had bought into an adult world where necessity dictated that boring nights in watching wood varnish dry would occasionally have to take precedence over raucous bouts of carousing. The truth had dawned; we were finally growing up.
And before you start mistaking this column for an episode of The Wonder Years, I should probably point out that there weren t really any tears. Unless, of course, you count the ones which coursed down my cheeks as I laughed hysterically at his and hers obvious distress at having to forego a good night out in order to supervise the laying down of a floor.
The irony of the situation was not lost on any of us: the hoors could put the bloody thing back to front and upside down if the mood took them, and my mate and his girlfriend wouldn t know the difference. Still, they had to be there for this inevitable rite of passage among doting couples everywhere: first shag, first date, first kiss, first fight, first holiday, first floor.
Needless to say, there s a lesson there for those of us who have yet to embark on such adventures in domesticity. If ever you find yourself carrying the apple of your eye over the threshold of a brand new apartment that s just cost the business end of 200K, make sure the boys from Des Kelly s have been round first, or else you ll find your biggest step in life to date could well plunge you into a dark abyss.
It would appear that the bottom really has fallen out of the Dublin property market.