Domestic Despair

I HAD a dream about Neil Armstrong the other night. I don’t know why that happened but I suppose it must have been something to do with watching too much Discovery Channel. Whatever the reason, I pictured him in his astronaut’s outfit sitting on an edge of moonrock in the Sea Of Tranquillity eating a ham sandwich (hey, it’s my dream, ok?)

As I approach he begins to speak and I have to try very hard to hear. I am not wearing any spacesuit because, as this is my dream I can wear what I like. His words are somewhat less than profound. “Nobody can hear you fart in space”. By the looks of him, he has been spending hours trying to prove his theory when he should, of course, been doing astronauty things.

Like all memorable dreams, most of it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Before you know it, we are cracking open a couple of beers and chatting about men and women and the great mysteries of the universe. He then goes on to list all the great things about being a man.

You get to go to the moon
So what? OK, he can talk, he was the first, after all, and he even inherited a tidy fortune from a French countess who had over 100 years ago bequeathed her estate to the first man (or woman) to walk on a heavenly body other than earth. “It still brings in a few dollars and helps to bankroll my golfing in Ballybunion”, says Armstrong. I can believe it. The green fees there are astronomical.

Same work… more pay
Not always. Not if you happen to be Madam editor of the Irish Times, in which case you can laugh all the way to the powder room after showing the boys a thing or two about where you stand on the payroll. If they object, you can show them the door and they can always write a letter to the paper so long as it starts “Dear Madam”.

A five-day holiday requires only suitcase
My astronaut buddy has a point. “I didn’t even have a suitcase when I went to the moon,” says Neil. (We’re on first name terms at this stage). “All I had was a little toilet bag with a toothbrush and a few sticks of gum. I wasn’t even allowed bring my favourite sweater or a picture of my dog Bruno.”

You can leave the hotel bed undone“Me and Buzz (Aldrin, his fellow moonwalker) never bothered to do the washing up on the Apollo rocket or the command module. We just let things pile up and when it all got too much, we opened the hatch and dumped it in the direction of the Adromeda Cluster”. Leaving a mess is definitely a guy thing. I know a woman who cleans up before her housekeeper arrives and I will never understand it. She, on the other hand, thinks men are disgusting creatures who would happily pick each other’s noses if they got the chance.

You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness
This is something that no woman on earth can help feeling resentful about. Bring a small box of Milk Tray to Aunty Nora and she will think you are Daniel O’Donnell to the power of ten. If your beloved does the same thing the chances are she will be met with an icy stare. “ Well, will you look at this. A little box of chocolates. I didn’t know they made them so small. Anyway, we were never much chocolate people ourselves. Bad for the complexion. Still, I suppose the children will pick at them.”

You are not expected to know the names of more than five colours
In fact, you only need three. Black and white are both shades, not colours. Who in their right mind would want to paint their bathroom duck-egg azure anyway?

Two pairs of shoes are enough
Three if you include hiking boots or a pair of runners. Either black or brown for everyday use; never a mixture of both unless you happen to be Italian and like to strut about in shiny suits that your mother keeps pressed.

Your ass is never a factor in a job interview
Unless you happen to be a rent boy, in which case it’s probably the only factor. For most of us past a certain age, though, interest in the body corporeal is often limited to first year Med students cramming for their exams and anxious to wield a scalpel without cutting themselves.

Wrinkles add character
This is a real bitch as far as women are concerned. If in doubt, check out the likes of Michael Douglas, Sean Connery and Robert Redford. Even Paul Newman wouldn’t be past attracting a hot babe or two. Their female equivalents are either dead, gone into permanent hibernation or have had more facelifts than the Brooklyn Bridge.

The world is your urinal
Who hasn’t wondered at some stage how the astronauts managed? Now you know. I always thought that ring of satellites around Saturn looked a bit strange, anyway, and I can only hope that if I ever make it into space I won’t have to skid to avoid Neil Armstrong’s wee wee.