We were all great sleepers -The Caines.
My mother used to say she could sleep on a clothesline.
How could she do that my 6 year year-old self wondered.
She can do anything , I told myself.
She was a wonder in my eyes anyway.
But sleeping on a clothesline.
I only saw that kind of thing in the circus and it was an acrobat who was wide awake.
Maybe she could sleep hanging like a nightgown, fluttering and drying filled with fresh air.
Asleep, unconscious and waiting for the clothes pins to be loosened and she could be taken down like dry laundry.
Rested and fresh. She said she could do it - so it must be possible.
The closest I came to a clothesline was sleeping in a single bed after a dance with best girlfriend. We could both sleep till the cows came home.
Sometimes I suspected that possibly I suffered from narcolepsy. I could sleep standing up at the bus stop or sitting down on a rock hard chair or a rock. I never tried a clothes line.
I was released to a Winter leave from The Shannon Castles where I worked in the 60s 6 months off at half salary. A great perc , three months salary. I could sleep through 3 months and work the other 3.
I once missed my train stop on the way to my job in Croydon , In the working 3 , I decided to try my luck in London. I got a job in a big department store. I was lucky enough to join an exciting living situation in Notting Hill - before Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. My roommates a New York heiress with a Morgan parked outside the door and an actress Eve Belton from Dundalk - 12 miles from Ardee
Her stint at Bunratty came to an end when she was cast in a movie from a short story by Edna O Brian I was happy here starring Sarah Miles. A dramatic beautiful actress who giving London s try and was rehearsing an episode of Dr Finley’s Casebook
She introduced me to Desmond Davis the Director with whom I had a short exciting fling.
After all If I landed in swinging London , painterly Mary Quant bottom eye lashes and Twiggy on the tops. I might as well have a swing.
Shopping at Bibs’s , spending days at the Victoria and Albert museum
A dramatic beauty who took me in. She was my mentor and council when I was accepted at Bunratty. We overlapped for a mere six weeks
I had secured the job through an employment agency. The man who interviewed me said I have a job here that has just come available. It is demonstrating a washing machine. He was wearing an ascot and had the air of a fellow for whom work was a place to keep him out of mischief. After work I imagined him going to Buckingham Palace to sip sherry with the Queen.
I said I don’t really know anything about washing machines. Don’t you have one at home he asked. You’re from Ireland aren’t you.
Maybe you don’t have washing machines in Ireland he said in a tone that suggested he was looking at a peasant from the bog and straight off the boat.
As a matter of fact we have a housekeeper I said and she operates the washing machine.
Momentarily and a little taken aback he straightened his ascot and said this is operated by hand like a butter churn. Anyone can do that.
That sounds fascinating , I said , how does it work - do you churn up the dirty clothes until they turn into butter.
Ha ha I said.
He said nothing.
Finally - take it or leave it , that’s all I have at the moment.
OK I said I’ll take it.
Where do you live ? He asked
Notting Hill. I said.
You’ll have to take the train , he said.
The train is so relaxing I said.
On the first day of the washing machine job I missed my train stop because I had fallen asleep. It was to be my first shot at demonstrating the hand turned churning washing machine.
On account of the narcolepsy , I got there a little late.
Hurry up said Miss Iremonger ,the scary department head , a Hattie Jacques look alike. She was wearing a suit that she got in the upstairs ladies department where an impertinent young sales lady said -come this way Madame , I have something for your stout figure.
The shoes to match like a vengeful reverend mother’s checking on badly behaved school girls. Steel grey Brillo pad perm and Miss Iremonger was ready to take on any incompetent.
Any idiot can demonstrate this machine - she said referring to a steel sputnik shaped cylinder with a handle crank and a removable top.
You fill it with soapy water, put in a prestained garment , screw the top back on and start cranking.
Will the stain come out Miss Iremonger ? I asked.
What a stupid girl - she’s thinking.
That’s the whole idea.
It had better, she said - you have to keep cranking until you know it will.
How will I know that - experience she said.
If you have enough people interested they will gather around you and you will point out the merits of a washing machine that requires no electricity.
Perfect for a flat in Croydon.
Or for making butter - I thought but didn’t say to Miss Iremonger.
You’re on your own - get to it.
Yes Miss Iremonger.
I was both terrified and impressed to see that an audience was gathering.
What is it - one woman asked - as I was dunking the stained tea towel into soapy water.
It’s a hand operated washing machine.
Isn’t that called handwashing ? Asked one skeptic.
I started turning the handle, , it reminded me of a butter churn in Blakestown , my mother’s dairy farm in Ardee Co Louth Ireland. Think of all the electricity you save I declared - with all the confidence of a snake oil salesman - to the growing audience. The generator, the power is pure elbow grease. Miss ironmonger standing by ,looked over approvingly.
Just as I was getting the hang it - the lid flew off in a soapy water pistol attack at an attentive unsuspecting unfortunate, in my direct line of fire.
I thought she was coming over to thump me but she slipped on the soapy water and saved herself by hanging on to a customer.
Clean up this mess immediately.
Yes Miss Iremonger ,can I have another chance ?
You don’t really deserve one.
Ah !
Let her have another chance came a chorus from the observers.
Very well then but if you don’t get this one right you’re fired.
I’ll have all this wiped up in a giff. I said grabbing cloths and swabbing the floor like an experienced scullery maid.
A demonstration gone wrong - a gathering crowd - like witnessing a comedian bomb - a source of total embarrassment. I swabbed on.
Harnessing my evaporating dignity and snake oil confidence.
Get up at once , said Iremonger.
I arose from my knees.
But no - the audience were with me.
I fell asleep on the train, I babbled and missed Croydon.
It’s easy to miss ,Miss.
Have another go at it.
I think this is a very interesting washing machine said a woman who looked like she actually took in washing for a living.
You said, it’s entirely mechanical said another.
Can you start it up again?
Right said I.
Hang on a few tics and I’ll be right back.
Oh My God said Miss Iremonger from a safe distance dusting Waterford Glass.
Wait until you see - I said.
I hope it’s worth the wait said another.
I threw a virgin white tea towel prestained with ketchup into the Sputnik washing machine.
I revved up my arm and gave a few spins.
They were with me so far.
The spinning action went to my head.
Anyone else like to have a go ?
A second world war veteran Colonel type with a handlebar mustache stepped forward and grabbed the handle.
A round of applause.
This is fun -he said after a few spins.
Now this time , I can blame the Colonel , If he doesn’t get the stain out I said to the crowd.
A grand bit of a giggle - they were into it.
How long more he asked?
Are you getting tired - I asked.
A few nods for the Colonel.
Hang on - I am up for a few more churns!
You did mention that It took elbow grease instead of electricity , said the gallant Colonel.
OK I said we’re both in this together.
Let’s take a look.
Out came the towel.
Spotless.
No wonder England won the war.
Thank you God.
Thank you Colonel.
Look here - Miss Iremonger.
Ok you’re not fired.
Be on time tomorrow.
Yes Miss Iremonger.
I slept on the train the whole way back to Nottinghill.