When I was three feet shorter and three times wiser, I always hid under tables at family gatherings, weddings and my parents’ dinner parties. I was a ninja and that’s what ninjas do. It’s also what my old cat did and if it was good enough for Spiral, it was good enough for me. Slipping down beneath the table, the world became a forest of legs – both human and wooden – where Spiral and I would listen to adult conversations we couldn’t comprehend. We were useless spies really.

But that forest of legs felt like my own little world; entirely removed from that of the grown-ups and one they rarely took the time to enter. In flagrant defiance of my bedtime – ninjas are not bound by such foolish notions as “bed time” -  I sat with Spiral in our dark forest under the table, watching the legs of the adults move in an intricate, cryptic dance. I knew my mother’s legs: always in heels at these events and constantly in motion, ever the hostess. I knew my father’s legs: solid and still, brown brogues and navy pants, rooted to a spot in the floor like a fulcrum as the gathering revolved around him. I studied the other legs too, learning which pair belonged to which voice. Uncle James, my mothers brother, wore plain black shoes that were constantly shuffling in a weird little nervous dance. Our neighbour, Mrs. Moran, had a dark wooden walking stick, like a third leg, which would shake with every booming cough.

I made up stories about them, the owners of these legs, that I would whisper to Spiral with all the authority of a five year old. I told Spiral why my father’s friend, John Daly, had a limp: one of his legs was wooden, having lost his real one in a booby trap set by Russian spies in South America. My old cat seemed unfazed by this story so I explained to him why my cousin Darren’s feet were so big: they got caught in an escalator and were stretched out. Spiral would shrug in that world-weary feline way. It was his disinterest that fueled even more extravagant stories about the owners of the legs. Like Mrs. O’Leary, whose strange blue-veined legs were a sure sign of her true alien identity. Or my mother’s cousin, Marie, whose thick, Oak-tree legs could kill a man – in fact, they had, on several occasions, which is why all the men seemed to stay away from her.

I was safe in that world of mine, under the table. Things were less complicated, even by my 5 year-old standards. There was nothing to the world but Spiral and me and the legs – all of which had stories that were exciting and strange and unbelievable. I relished the security of my hiding place, always convinced that my presence, ninja-like as it was, went completely unnoticed. But every time, just as I was beginning to tire, my mother’s legs would dance across to my father’s and say something indiscernible even to Spiral’s pricked ears. Then my father’s legs would uproot themselves and stride towards the table where he would crouch down and enter my world to heave me into his arms and carry me to bed as Spiral made a quick-dash escape to the kitchen.

Sometimes, I find myself thinking about friendship, about what it is and how it even happens and it begins to seem so strange. It’s like when you say a word over and over until it loses meaning and you’re left with this sound in your mouth that you can’t really understand. I mean, here are these people, that I’ve met at different points in my life and in different ways and even though I didn’t really know them, there was something about them I found attractive. I don’t mean attractive in a physical sense – although I have remarkably beautiful friends – but in the sense that there was something in their personalities that drew me in and made me want to spend more time with them. Some of my closest friends come from my school days and I can’t even remember how I became friends with them. It just feels like they were always there. With certain people, I can remember in a narrative sense how we know each other – the connections that led to our friendship forming. But I can’t remember how those friendships formed; that moment when the person went from being someone of whose existence I was aware to someone who’s existence matters to me on such an emotional level it’s almost scary.

Most of my closest friends have been my friends for the best part of a decade. And then there’s Keira, who came out of nowhere.

The first time I met Keira, in the autumn of 2008, she started mocking my check shirt and decided somehow that I was actually a Canadian man named Kyle. I decided to play along because really, I didn’t know what else to do. We met more often, at various social events and I found her really easy to talk to. Neither of us drank and so we’d sit in the corner and chat while everyone else got drunk. Now, I had a different blog back then and some time in October, I posted a video of myself and my friend Cian singing in squeaky helium voices. A few nights later, I got a facebook message from Keira. It went like this:

Hey Kyle! I mean Eoghan,
I am sitting here in stitches and I mean unconsolable stitches. I can hardly see the screen. I have an addiction to blogs and I have been a reader of a blog since June, which I found while googling the Spencer Tunick installation at Blarney. Since I took part in the Spencer Tunick thing, I wanted to read other people’s thoughts on it. I saved my favourite one, JUST one, into my bookmarks. Tonight I was doing my weekly read of blogs, only to find a video of you and Cian on YOUR blog, the blog I had saved to my bookmarks over 5 months ago. So, in some strange way it was like I did already kinda know you! It freaked me out but it made me laugh, so just wanted you to know that without even knowing it was you, I was a fan!  Strange old world isn’t it?
~Keira

At the time, I was a little weirded out. I was in post-break up mode after my girlfriend of almost three years had left to study in Edinburgh so there were some angsty, lovelorn posts on that blog and it felt strange knowing this person I barely knew had read them. As it happens, the fact that she’d read those blogs – and the blogs I kept writing afterwards – made us close friends, very quickly. She’d drop me home after nights out and we’d sit in her car for maybe hours talking and she’d slowly pull things out of me that I hadn’t told anyone else. Keira is very good at that. And after a while I was able to do the same, although nowhere near as well as she does it. And then we’d talk online most nights; a bond growing through chat windows and (in Keira’s case) bad spelling. Most of my other friends were somewhat bewildered at where this (very, very) talkative girl had come from and how she’d managed to worm her way into my inner circle. The thing is, I can’t even explain it. Somewhere amongst the chatting about boys and girls and heartbreaks, she went from being this strange, chatty girl to one of my very closest friends but I couldn’t tell you when that was. Friends – one minute they’re not and the next minute, they are. That’s just how it seems to work. It’s probably best not to question it.

But blogging remains an important part of the friendship between Keira and me. She’s the only one I know who always, always reads it. She nags me unceasingly to update it. I asked her to make this A-Z list for me, thinking I’d write one each day and destroy the writing block in my head. It didn’t quite work that way, but she picks at me nonetheless to keep going. So I don’t mind writing this one about her, if only to get her off my back for another few days.

“No thanks, I have no interest in any of that,” you say, bashfully, and close the door. You return to your lunch and immediately ask yourself why you didn’t engage them in conversation. One of those intellectually engaging conversations – or maybe the proper word is debate, perhaps even argument – that go round and round and persuade no one to change their minds. Taking a bite of soup-dipped toast, you tell yourself you’re secure enough in your atheism that they’d never have managed to sway you. You would have failed to even dent their fervent belief too, no doubt. Then what would have been the point? Is life not too short to run around in circles like that?

Blowing on a spoonful of soup, you think about their strange sales pitch. The woman – Polish maybe, in her thirties but dressed like she’s in her sixties – held up a copy of their magazine, Watchtower, and asked you to consider an article she was pointing to. Something about God. You weren’t really paying attention; you were distracted by the strangeness of the action. What if you went from door to door with a copy of the Irish TImes, asking people to consider some random article you pointed at? They’d have been as quick closing the door on you as you had been closing the door on those two. The other Witness – a man, in his forties, with a luxuriously bushy mustache - stood to one side, just nodding his head. What he was nodding at, you can’t guess. For a moment, you hope you didn’t offend them by cutting them off so quickly and closing the door. They’d only have been wasting their own time as much as yours, you reason. Anyway, they’re used to that, it’s part of the deal, it’s the challenge of going to these strangers houses and trying to ‘save’ them.

As you run the empty bowl under the tap and stick it in the dishwasher you think to yourself that you don’t like Jehovah’s Witnesses anyway. No, that’s not true. You don’t like their religion. The Witnesses themselves, for the most part are like anyone else really. The universe is a big, scary, unknowable place and it’s only natural that people would search for something to make all that seem more manageable. You don’t like the rules they have, you don’t like their attitudes to women, gays and blood tranfusions and the whole idea of “sin” and “Satan” and silly stories like that. Of course, you don’t dislike those rules anymore than you dislike the rules of any other silly religions out there. You believe in equality and all religions deserve equal amount of ridicule and disdain. You chuckle quietly to yourself – you find your own jokes too funny.

But, you think as you put on your coat and step out into the dull autumnal air, it might be nice to be that assured of your beliefs. How comforting it must be to know you’re absolutely right about God and the universe, heaven and hell, and good and evil. To carry this book with you, this 2000 year old book full of inaccuracies and inconsistencies, and to know that every word in it is true simply by virtue of what it is and what it represents. There’s an almost childlike innocence to it and you think to yourself that you almost miss that. Almost. 

I remembered sitting on my grandfathers lap – I must have been about four – and he was talking about God. That’s all I ever remember him doing, really, is talking about God.  It’s just about the only thing about him I can really grasp with certainty. But I was four and I was on his lap in the living room of the house he shared with my Gran for I don’t even know how long. He was telling me how God was everywhere. He waved his skinny hand in the air, telling me God was around us right there and then. God was in him, he said, taking my hand and putting it to his chest. I remember I could feel his heartbeat under the starched white shirt he was wearing but that’s probably something I put in later myself. And God was in me too, he told me, poking me in the belly. He laughed, wheezy and full of joy but I was scared as hell. God was inside me? That’s a lot for a four year old brain to wrap itself around.

I remembered when my grandfather died. I had just turned six. My father was getting me ready and I kept asking questions. Would we see my grandfather going to heaven? Did it mean that my father didn’t have a father anymore? Were we never ever ever going to see him again ever? My father had tears in his eyes. I’ve only seen that three times in my life and that was the first time. He told me that my grandfather was still alive inside him and inside me. He touched my chest. I asked was there enough room in me, because God was there too.

I remembered sitting in Mr. Foley’s classroom, preparing for our First Communion. He was telling us how making our communion meant accepting Jesus  inside ourselves. I put my hand up and asked how do we fit Jesus inside when we’ve already got God (and my grandfather) inside and we’re only small. I asked if we might burst. Mr. Foley fixed those thick glasses of his and looked at me without saying anything for a second. I was scared; scared of him and scared of Jesus making me burst. Jesus and God are the same he told me and the rest of the class. He had told us this before. But why then did we need to take Jesus inside us when he was already inside us? Mr. Foley didn’t have an answer for that one. He moved on and I sat there, still scared that my little body was getting full of people.

I remembered drinking with Andrew on the roof of his house in the middle of summer, staring at the stars. We were sixteen and we had everything figured out. Well, Andrew did anyway. He told me how God didn’t exist, how it was all just lies to make us feel better and that there’s no one out there but us and the things we decide. So did that mean God and Jesus and my grandfather weren’t inside me? He looked at me like I was slow and told me that’s exactly what it meant. Nothing inside but guts. For a moment, as I looked at the sky, I felt empty. But then I felt free. I took a deep deep breath, filled my lungs and knew that I couldn’t burst anymore.

I was sitting in the kitchen of our flat as I thought of all those times. You had only been gone five minutes. You’d packed your bag without saying anything, without even looking at me and walked out the door. You had left your keys on the stairs. I was sitting in the kitchen, holding my stomach. I felt like I was going to burst. Not from God or Jesus or my grandfather, but from a cold weight, swelling inside. My breathing was shallow and my head was light. I don’t know how long I sat there, it doesn’t really matter. I got up and walked towards the cutlery drawer. My stomach was going to explode. I took the sharpest knife in the drawer and lifted up my tshirt. I didn’t even flinch when the cold metal touched my skin.

Two men arrive at a bus stop.

Pat: Ah, Larry, is it yourself there it is?

Larry: Ah, it is indeed Pat, me very self. And sure ’tis clear as day that ’tis yerself before me.

Pat: That it is now alright Larry, thank God. Speakin” of clear days though, Larry, sure and isn’t it a fierce peculiar summer we’ve been having for ourselves? Meteorologically speakin’.

Larry: Errah, stop, it’s mad altogether.

Pat: Mad. That’s just the word alright.

Larry: I thought so anyway, Pat. But c’mere to me lad, how are ya?

Pat: Ah sure, y’know yerself Larry, same ol’ same ol’. The usual ups and downs.

Larry: And ins and outs.

Pat: Oh, them too alright Larry. C’mere and I’ll tell ya, I was in bed there the other night with Herself.

Larry: No better place, says you.

Pat: Ah, none at all now, no. But sure I was there with Herself ar aon nós and us after doin’ a bit of… y’know…

Larry: Ins and outs.

Pat: That’s the one. And sure I’m bate after. I’m havin’ an ol’ shmoke for meself and her readin’ one of her books. And she turns to me and d’ya know what she says to me Lar’?

Larry: Sure amn’t I waitin’ to hear!

Pat: She says “Pat?” she says,  pure sly now, “Pat, have y’ever thought of havin’ one o’ them threesomes?”

Larry: Go way!

Pat: I will not. There’s more. She says, “Only, I was chattin’ to Mrs. Kinsella down the village there today, so I was. And sure she’s fierce lonely since her Mícheál passed on.

Larry: Dropped off.

Pat: Kicked it.

Larry: But c’mere Pat, what did you say to that?

Pat: Nothin’.

Larry: Sure, jaysus, y’must’ve been gobshmacked.

Pat: In the gob, Lar’!! Shmacked! That’s what it was like. But finally I says, “D’ya mean one of them menaj atwoz yokes?”

Larry: Them French and their menaj atwoz’s.

Pat: Ah shtop Larry, I know! And she says “Yeah, one of those. Sure everyone’d be doin’ them these days.”

Larry: Is that so?

Pat: Well so says Herself anyway. But sure, d’ya know like, I was a bit reluctant. Sure, this could’ve been some sorta trap for all I knew.

Larry: O’course, sure.

Pat: And sure Herself keeps going. “Ah sure it’ll be a bit of craic, Pat. Would you not like two women on you? I thought all men loved that, no? Mrs. Kinsella blowin’ you down there and me sittin’ your face the way you like me to!”

Larry: Mother o’ God, I didn’t know Herself had that sorta mouth at all on her. It’d put the heart crossways on ya.

Pat: That’s what it did, Lar’, I won’t lie. And Herself could see it too. She stopped her talkin’ then and turned over to go to sleep. But I’ll tell you know Larry, she was laughin’ away to herself.

Larry: Ah women are awful creatures alright Pat.

Pat: No argument here, Larry boy, not from me.

Larry: So… do you think you’ll do it, Pat?

Pat: Sure amn’t I catchin’ the bus down to the village to collect Mrs. Kinsella now?

Larry: Go way!

Pat: I am! Sure you know what they say about checking the dental work of gift horses. Don’t do it, they say. So I’m off down to village before Herself changes her mind. Ah, here’s me bus, so I’ll chat to ya later Larry. Wish me luck.

Larry: Eh…good luck, Pat. Ya prick.

Half Moon Theatre, Cork – 29th May, 2011

If you only ever listened to his records, you’d expect Sam Amidon to be an earnest and maybe even solmen performer. Many of the songs he sings are almost two hundred years old and filled with tales of murder and death, lost love and emigration; they’re painful stories that seem heavy with the weight of history.

But, refreshingly, Amidon is far from solemn; in fact he’s disarmingly charming and really quite funny. Throughout the gig in the intimate Half Moon Theatre, he seems to improvise bizarre back-stories to old murder ballads. There’s the story about the tiny desk people, talking on an elastic band bridge stretched between his fingers and the one about being a novelist, working on a book called King’s Speechy for which you only have one sentence written, which occurs half-way through the second chapter (“From this point on, you and I are adversaries!”). He talks about how he often seems to end up in Ireland on or around his birthday (it’s on June 3), something which has happened ever since he was 15. Amidon appears relaxed on stage and happy to be there, which always makes the difference. His off-beat, playful sense of humour even wanders into the music every so often, wailing along to an extended folk/blues guitar solo or making other strange noises whenever the whim takes him. 

Tonight, he’s invited along the Cork Sacred Harp shape note singers who kick off the gig with Amidon, singing a few old American songs of praise. He invites them up twice more during the night, once as a quick interval and again during the encore. They sing at the tops of their voices, four part harmonies resounding around the small venue. It’s stirring stuff. Amidon explains that he grew up with that kind of music, talking about how they would have singing sessions on random days in his house when he was small.

But for all the entertaining banter, it’s when Amidon closes his eyes and really sings those old folk songs that the audience are treated to something very special. He has an astounding ability to entrance a crowd; his calm, simple, sometimes creaky voice conveying an earnestness and conviction that keeps people hanging on every word. He seems to let the songs speak for themselves, giving you a sense of the history and life of the characters and stories. It feels almost as if the spirit of each song hangs in the air above the audience until scattered by hearty applause. A special mention really has to go to Amidon’s bassist/drummer/laptop-ist, Chris Vatalaro, who never over-shadows the songs but instead helps to flesh them out through simple but evocative and atmospheric playing.

As is, by now, almost customary, Sam Amidon chooses to end the night with his gorgeous version of R Kelly’s Relief. This, to those who aren’t familiar with him, seems like a bizarre choice given all the other songs to which the audience has been treated tonight. But Amidon approaches the song what that same sense of earnestness and honesty and creates something beautiful. Acknowledging the songs “subtle relation to reality”, Amidon nevertheless manages to have the crowd sing “What a relief to know that/ there are angels in the sky” and make it feel truly uplifting, sending them out into the night with warm smiles and high hearts.

Olympia Theatre, Dublin – 18th May, 2011

For the second of Sufjan Steven’s two night run in the Olympia, security around Dublin – and near the 114 year old theatre in particular – is tight and tense. The state dinner in honour of Queen Elizabeth II is due to take place in Dublin Castle at the same time, directly across from the Olympia, so Dame Street has been shut down. The city almost feels like it’s under siege as Gardai fill the streets around the castle and theatre and the gunshot-like sounds of the protestors’ fireworks echo off the buildings. Those going to the show have to go through Temple Bar and come up the back of the Olympia as Gardai check tickets. It feels as if the gig itself is something dangerous.

Right from the start, Sufjan Stevens and his 11 piece band pull no punches, musically or visually. Opening with a version of Seven Swans that swings from hauntingly fragile to arrestingly monumental, Sufjan and his band glow, Tron-like in the blacklight that bathes the stage.  Starry visuals are projected on the backdrop as well as on a mesh screen in front of the stage and as the song reaches its climax, Sufjan raises two huge, white, feathered wings and proceeds to rock out on the synths like some intergalactic angel.

In fact, it’s astounding how much effort has been put into the visual side of this tour. The band look other-worldly and Sufjan himself engages in a couple of costume changes over the course of the show. He and his two backing singers dance throughout the night, doing co-ordinated routines without even the slightest hint of irony; the dancing is an important aspect of the show, as he later tells the audience, reflecting as it does the way he feels music makes us all move. The impressive projected visuals draw extensively from the work of the outsider artist Royal Robertson, about whom Sufjan talks for almost ten minutes to a patient and mostly attentive crowd. Robertson’s work and life was one of the main influences on Sufjan’s’ last album, The Age of Adz, and the schizophrenic  artist’s cosmic and apocalyptic themes are strongly reflected in both the music and the show itself.

But while the whole spectacle of the show is impressive, it’s really the music that makes the night memorable. Early in the evening, Sufjan tells the audience that the setlist will be made up of mostly new material – from The Age of Adz and the All Delighted People EP – and that those looking for the “old hits” should probably leave and come back for the encore. There’s no denying that The Age of Adz is a dense and sometimes challenging piece of work. At one stage, Sufjan talks about the change in his song-writing approach, foregoing the traditional structures of his previous works and instead experimenting with sounds and textures before working in a more recognisable song-form around them. But live, the songs really come into their own. Sufjan’s voice is pitch-perfect, sounding exactly as it does in the recordings and the huge band and cosmic visuals seem to give the music a proper setting where everything settles into place and it all makes sense. It’s clear there could have been no other way this music could have been performed.

The main body of the set is finished with Impossible Soul, a 25 minute odyssey of a song that ends The Age of Adz. It seems to broadly sum up everything the audience has seen and heard tonight, filled as it is with costume changes, dance routines, auto-tuned synthery and a huge, life-affirming orchestral climax complete with call-and-response shouting and confetti before ending with a gorgeous acoustic outro that holds the audience in rapt silence.

The Olympia is left waiting over ten minutes for that promised encore but the wait pays off. Sufjan emerges, having changed out of his costume, and plays a chill-inducing rendition of John Wayne Gacy Jr. to which some of the crowd sing along so quietly it seems reverential. The night closes with a jubilant, triumphant performance of Chicago;  the band throwing huge balloons into the crowd who sing so loudly that it must surely be heard by the Queen as she eats her dinner across the road. One is left wondering if there are any artists around who can come close to matching the talent and imagination of Sufjan Stevens. Certainly there are none capable of creating as thrilling and satisfying an audio-visual experience as the man from Michigan. It would take a hell of a lot to top that.

Our friend, Stokey, had fallen down that hole for the sixth time in as many weeks. I can’t lie, we were getting pretty tired of it. Ridiculous behaviour, Jerry called it. Stevie used more colourful language but then again, he always does. So we had a quick meeting at the side of the hole to decide what to do about it, or – more importantly – what to do about Stokey.

Stevie suggested we leave him there and maybe even fill in the hole. Stevie had been saying this ever since Stokey fell down there for the third time; he’s pretty impatient that way. Up until now, we had mainly ignored that suggestion. The group had felt it harsh and mean of spirit but now there were murmurings of agreement. George said we should haul Stokey out first and then fill in the hole. Most of us agreed that was a more logical – and less illegal – solution but Stevie argued that Stokey was likely to find himself another hole somewhere and we would be back where we started. This, we could not deny, not even George. We thought quietly for a while; the only sounds came from the brisk summer breeze in the trees and Stokey complaining about his ankle.

Maurice said we could get him out of the hole and then keep him locked up, or maybe break his legs so he can’t go looking for holes anymore. Stevie told Maurice he’d have to break Stokey’s legs because Stevie sure wouldn’t and Maurice didn’t quite like that suggestion. Maurice never likes to be the one to do the dirty work. After another few moments of quiet thinking, I offered that Stevie’s solution was probably the best. Stevie said of course it was, only he said it more colourfully, as usual. Everyone agreed.

We told Stokey about the plan. He didn’t like it. We told him that it wasn’t his place to like it or not and that he had brought this upon himself. He didn’t like that either. He cried and cried and it was hard for some of us to bear it. We had made a decision though and there’s no going back on a decision. Jerry knew where we could get enough dirt to fill the hole but he needed to borrow his neighbour’s truck and so I said we should do it in the morning. We went home for the night, leaving Stokey to his crying.

The next morning, we gathered at the hole. Jerry was the last to come. He backed the truck with the dirt right up to the edge of the hole and gave us each a shovel. Stokey was asleep so Stevie shouted at him to wake up. I think Stevie enjoyed it all a little too much. He can be an odd fish, that Stevie. Stokey didn’t cry anymore. He asked us each in turn for another chance, calling out each of our names and speaking calmly. We were his friends, he said. We were still his friends, I told him. We got onto the back of the truck and started filling our shovels with dirt and throwing it down the hole. Maurice said that he no longer liked the plan but he didn’t stop and neither did the rest of us. After about 15 minutes Stokey had gone quiet and we couldn’t see him anymore. We kept going for another 20 minutes until the hole was filled in properly. George suggested somebody should say a few words. Jerry stepped forward and said Stokey was an okay guy, really, when he wasn’t falling down holes. We all agreed, even Stevie. Then we gathered up the shovels, hopped in the back of truck and Jerry drove us all to the bar for a drink.

I’ve been having a terrible block lately when it comes to writing, so to get myself out of it I asked my friend Keira to make an alphabetical list of topics or words for me to work on to get me writing again. This is the fifth, e is for “even though”.

Even though James was fifteen minutes late, he took a seat facing the door of the café, ordered a tea and waited for her. There were only two other people in the plain-walled café – a couple in their thirties, sharing the Times. He didn’t know what this woman looked like, but it wasn’t the woman reading the sports section, he knew that for certain. Another twenty minutes past and James wondered if, in fact, he’d been too late. The couple finished their coffees, gathered their (matching) coats and left.

The girl who’d served James came from behind the counter and cleaned the table, picking up the Times they’d left behind. She offered it to James, who took it and asked her had anyone else been in the café before him, a woman, maybe on her own. The girl, who was pretty but wearing too much make-up, shook her head, telling James she’d only seen that couple and two other men since she’d opened an hour ago.

It was another fifteen minutes before someone else came through the door. James lowered the newspaper and saw a woman looking straight at him. She was maybe in her late thirties with shoulder-length brown hair and a long navy dress. She took a tentative step forward and asked if he was James Coleman. He nodded, stood up to shake her hand and motioned for her to take a seat. She apologised profusely for being so late, she felt like she was being followed and so took a longer route getting to the café. She glanced back towards the door, as if someone might be standing there. James looked too. There was no one. He hadn’t quite caught her name on the phone, James told her, when she turned back to face him. It was Assumpta, Assumpta Kelly.

James raised his hand to get the café girl’s attention and ordered another tea and a… he looked to Assumpta. She asked for a coffee. Assumpta was visibly nervous, she was fidgeting with her nails and kept looking around her. She wasn’t comfortable sitting with her back to the door, she told James, who offered to swap seats but she shook her head. She wanted to sit at the table in the far corner where their backs would be to the wall. James agreed and they moved, the girl bringing them their drinks as they sat.

James took his small notebook from his coat pocket, along with a pen and opened it on a new page. Assumpta had mentioned something on the phone about a missing person. He asked Assumpta who it was that was missing. Assumpta quickly licked her lips, looked at him and said just one word.

“Me.”

I’ve been having a terrible block lately when it comes to writing, so to get myself out of it, I asked my friend Keira to make an alphabetical list of topics or words for me to work on to get me writing again. This is the fourth, d is for “dæmons”.

(For those unfamiliar with dæmons, they come from Philip Pullmans ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy and are physical manifestations of people’s souls in animal form. Their animal form tends to be indicative of the personality of the person to whom they’re connected. For more, go here.)

We’d managed to annex ourselves a quiet corner of the kitchen, away from drunken commotion of the party. Our conversation, spurred on by alcohol and attraction, tumbled at speed from topic to topic. We’d been talking for almost an hour and a half. Somewhere between the West Wing and 90′s pop music, three lads barged in, making straight for the fridge and gathering up bottles of beer before leaving quickly when they saw us alone.

We lost track of the conversation and there was a pause. “Oh,” she said after a moment, “if you had a dæmon, what would it be?”

“Well,” I said, “let me just say, I love that you know what a dæmon is.” She winked. “But I don’t think I can pick my own dæmon. I mean, I could, but it’s not really going to accurately reflect my personality, is it? It’s just going to be how I’d like to think of myself.”

“It’s like people who give themselves nicknames,” she said, throwing her arms up. “I can’t understand that. A nickname is something other people give you. You’re just giving yourself some cool name you want people to call you because you don’t really like the person you really are.”

Christ, I said to myself, I think I’m in love and downed the rest of my beer. “So I could say my dæmon would be a wolf because-” I said, but she interrupted.

“Because wolves are cool and fierce and beautiful,” she said.

“Exactly, but everyone else might think a badger, say, would be more fitting.” She laughed at this and kept looking at me. I was so in. “I mean, other people are better placed than you to recognise your habits and behavioural patterns, which paints a more honest picture. Maybe.” I said as I moved to the fridge and grabbed two more bottles.

“There’s a lot to be said for choosing the animal you’d most like your dæmon to be though,” she said, taking the beer I offered her and clinking it off mine. “Like an aspirational thing.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point of dæmons. The characters in the books didn’t get to pick their dæmons, did they?”

“Nope,” she conceded, “once puberty hit, they were stuck with what they got.”

“Exactly. So, just like nicknames, I think dæmons are something other people have to choose for you.”

“Hmm…” she said, taking another drinking and then looking at me, tilting her head to one side, “so what kind of dæmon would you have?” I shrugged. She tilted her head to the other side and squinted, as if trying to picture my dæmon next to me. “I think… you would have… ” she said slowly, “some sort of bird. But something that doesn’t fly around in a flock. A crow maybe?”

“A crow?” I said, thinking about it as I took another drink. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad really.”

She put her hand on my hand, which was resting on the kitchen counter. “No, it’s good,” she said, “crows are cool.” She smiled.

I thought about going for the kiss. I shifted my stance, getting ready to gently lean in. But she seemed to notice the change, moving back ever so slightly.

“So?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. “What about me? What would mine be?”

“Oh,” I said, with as much bashfulness as I could muster, “I’m terrible at picking peoples dæmons. We’ve only just met.” I moved closer.

She stepped back. “No, come on,” she said, “I really want to know. What’s your gut feeling?” There was just the slightest hint of something in her voice but I couldn’t say what it was. Something sharp, an edge.

I started to panic a little. What would her dæmon be? It couldn’t be too flattering, that would be obvious. A horse, maybe? A fine noble creature, beautiful and strong. God no, that would be stupid. She was still looking at me. I didn’t know how long I’d been thinking. A cat? No. A dog! No, that would make her seem subservient. I tried the squinting thing she had done, but it didn’t work. This was important. I could sense the future of the night depended on this question.

“Ah, it’s not that hard,” she said.

“I think… you’re dæmon… ” I was going slowly to buy for time; I didn’t know where this was going. “Your dæmon… would be… a…”

She made a hurry-up gesture with her hand. I tried to make it seem like I was just playfully building suspense; teasing her. And then it came out.

“A rabbit!”

“A rabbit?” she asked. Her smile wavered.

Ah christ, said my brain, what was that?

“Y’know,” I said, “because they’re really cute and adorably animals. Beautiful and… stuff.”

Her hand was no longer on mine. She folded her arms. The smile was fading was fast.

“Right,” she said, nodding. “Cute. Okay.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 3 in the morning. “Listen, it’s getting pretty late, I better head up to bed.”

I wasn’t being invited. “Oh, sure,” I said, trying to act as if nothing had really happened. “Yeah, I better be heading home myself. Early start and all that.

She nodded, gave a weak smile and left me alone in the kitchen.