“Toiling away in obscurity — for free”

HOME, 8pm — “Bradley Wiggins is on the Honours list,” my husband informs me as I enter the kitchen.

“Well, bully for Wiggo,” I say, standing in the doorway, cold and wet. It has been a fitful day, punctuated by frustrations coming in mean little clouds from places on the horizon you’d never think of looking; puff; puff; puff.

I’m sporting a look that’s grossly aberrant — an old dressing-gown fastened with my husband’s tie, tracksuit-bottoms, and “farm-collie” hair, bound by an elasticated head-torch; it’s a look so far from fetching, it would make even the postman — whom I’ve surprised with many unbecoming outfits over the years — flee.

Pulling off my mittens, which for want of rubber gloves, I’ve contrived out of two plastic bags, I plummet like a shot bird into the chair opposite him.

“He totally deserves it,” he says, holding a picture of Wiggo aloft, pointing at it, eyes blazing with admiration, “amazing feat… oh god is that my nice tie?” he says, looking up, “and the head-torch is still on, by the way.”

“Well, just bully for Wiggo,” I repeat, with some asperity, reaching up to fiddle with the head torch.

Right now, I say, I’m feeling the lack of an OBE, or any kind of medal, come to that. Right now, I would like a parchment certificate rolled up with a satin ribbon, or to have my face depicted on a postage stamp. Perhaps someone could endow me with Freedom of the City.

I’d be especially honoured, I pronounce, warming to my theme, to receive an invitation to address the Oireachtas, because right now, were I to be given a podium and audience, I could hold forth on the matter of personal endeavour and reward for an hour at least, without pause or script.

I’d be pumped to address the Oireachtas on the matter of “Toiling Away in Obscurity for Free.” I’d be just pumped.

“The head-torch is on blink-setting,” my husband says, looking as if he wishes he was deaf, “you look really funny.”

“I mean, what’s the point,” I bluster, “of honouring people like Wiggo [blink, blink] with an OBE? He’s already got a medal for winning the Tour de France. Why does he need an OBE on top?

“Seriously, all he did was the same thing over and over again [blink, blink], something he’s naturally good at, which he loves and gets paid mind-boggling sums to do…”

“Please turn the head-torch off,” my husband interrupts, “the battery will…”

“Someone should introduce an honours list,” I blazon, “specifically for people who toil away in service of others, in obscurity, for free. [Blink, blink]. Based on my efforts today, I’d win.”

I can feel the podium beneath my feet. “I have, for example,” I orate, “spent the day going through our son’s scholarship application; helping him ‘tidy-up’ his answer to the question — ‘if you were a science, engineering and innovation consultant to a governor of a large Midwestern state in the US, how would you advise him/her on ways to revitalise the economy based on science and engineering innovations?’”

“Bloody hell…” he says, “that’s what you were doing online… I thought you were writing a column.”

“BUT,” I trumpet, “this effort was interrupted by having to perform many, many other menial tasks — the last of which was emptying the contents of our recycling and rubbish bins into the wheelbarrow, and sifting through this slum-gullion minutely, in hope of finding our daughter’s passport.

“Part of this process involved climbing out of a bin dressed like I am now, just as a car drove past.”

“Did you find it?”

“No.”

“I was wondering where you’d got to,” he says, “I didn’t have a clue you were…”

“Naturally you didn’t,” I declaim, with all the pomp of Julius Caesar, “which is exactly why it’s called toiling away in obscurity.” [Blink, blink.]