AIDA AUSTIN

AIDA AUSTIN: Mark Hayes: ’Just jump out and hit the ground at 10mph’

So there I was, Sunday night, somewhere in the Hollywood Hills, about three in the morn, drunk as a skunk, debating whether or not to jump out of this moving car.

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AIDA AUSTIN: ’I would like to get into your car without feeling like Velma’

FRIDAY, 10pm, and I’m in Cork Airport, anticipating the moment of my sister’s arrival from London with the feeling that this wonderful moment cannot come quickly enough.

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AIDA AUSTIN: ’I think, Mrs Beeton could not have been more formidable’

Home, 5pm – and we have just finished renovating my studio’s modest kitchen. 

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AIDA AUSTIN: "It was like thrashing about all day in a swimming pool of glue"

HOME, 11pm, and my husband and I are in bed.

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AIDA AUSTIN: ’Never mind the tax,’ he says, ’just drive.’

IT IS the evening before my return to Ireland and I am sitting at the table in my sister’s apartment, eating Thai fish cakes with buttery green beans, and cloth table napkins.

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AIDA AUSTIN: I lift up my spray gun nozzle and point it at his face

1 PM, and I’m in the shower cubicle, choking on bleach fumes; my excitement at selling the house, I think [scrub... scrub], has been worn thin [scrub... scrub] by constant cleaning.

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AIDA AUSTIN: "Just look at that sky, not a single cloud in it"

London Pride, Piccadilly – and love is in the air. I can’t get away from all the affection.

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AIDA AUSTIN: "It might feel sad if I hadn’t painted my eyelashes shut"

MONDAY 1.30pm: I am up a ladder, repainting the back eaves of our house, with a two litre pot of paint — and vertigo.

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AIDA AUSTIN: "My sister's gentle purring ensures I remain just awake"

East London, five o’clock in the morning. I’m in a taxi, heading from my son’s house towards my sister’s apartment and, I hope, complete oblivion.

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AIDA AUSTIN: ’That’s a trick question. I’m a fecking writer, give me a break’

IT’S 2am, the witching hour, and I’m in London, standing in my son’s kitchen, holding a coffin-sized box of hopes and dreams; inside it are flowers which I am now going to make up into four “small, affordable, classy bouquets”.

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AIDA AUSTIN: ’Flower market? You’ve got the wrong place, love’

IT’S 12pm, midnight — and I’m galloping across Highbury Fields with my son towards the tube station, late for the last train because my son mislaid his wallet.

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AIDA AUSTIN: "This,"I say, "is the bedtime routine I’ve yearned for"

Week one.
11pm and my husband’s recently-ruptured achilles is having a knock-on effect on our long-standing bedtime routine, “with promising results,” I think, after entering the bedroom after my shower. 

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AIDA AUSTIN: "If my sisters and I were a litter of pubs, I would be the runt"

8pm, Sligo — and life has transposed, like it always does, into a scene from The Edwardian Farm. 

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