I’ve been away for a week. It wasn’t a holiday, although there were some lovely moments and catch-ups with people I haven’t seen – or heard – in ages. There was good news and shite news and here it is:

Saturday April 24: Good Day. Last day in London for a week. We got a brilliant wedding present from a friend who’d ordered us, in the nicest way, to keep that date free on pain of death. He called it “The Occurrence”. The Occurrence turned out to be tapas in the sun, followed by the final matinée of Jerusalem at the Apollo Theatre. Astonishing. Not the tapas (although they were pretty great) but Mark Rylance’s performance. Actors! Give up. Someone’s sussed how to do it properly. Thanks, B & A. Top pressie.

Sunday April 25: Bad Day. Flew to Cork early. Discovered that Sunday Tubes didn’t start til way too late to get me to Heathrow on time for my flight. Why? Because I’m an eejit. With knowledge that I’m an eejit, there followed a wacky races-style dash across a deserted London. I made the flight – just – and landed in Cork in a bog of sweat, still an eejit. I went to pick up the rental car I’d need for my week to-ing and fro-ing from Kinsale to Cork University Hospital and beyond, and the car they had for me…was a Volkswagen. Not pleased. I drove from the airport to the hospital feeling distinctly uncool (although I must say, it drove brilliantly. What a let-down). Missed husband.

Monday April 26: Super Good Day. Got up at 6. Worked on songs for my Edinburgh show for hours. Went for a run. Came home to phonecall from husband: the Home Office had finally given us the COA (if you missed it, more about our saga here) and returned his passport. He would book his flight and be in Ireland tomorrow. Much rejoicing.

Tuesday April 27: Great Day. More 6am writing. Husband arrived. Hospital visit went well (i.e. was uneventful). Drove to West Cork to see family and celebrate the fact that – in 3 weeks’ time – husband and I will be married according to the government and not just to ourselves, our friends and the producers of Mock the Week. Terrific company, amazing food and lots of laughs. The family’s had a tough time lately, so this was really cathartic – not to mention great craic. Unfortunately (fortunately) I’d got an offer of a job in Dublin the next day and had to curtail any imbibing of bubbles I’d like to have done by about half. That was the only thing keeping Tuesday from being super-great. Bed by 10.

Wednesday April 28: Drivey Day. Sat into the uncool (although extremely reliable) car at 7am. No hospital visit today, just checking out the vast expanse of new motorway between Cork and Dublin. Nearly an hour off the last time I did that drive as a result. Result! Stopped in the now by-passed Urlingford for breakfast and was slightly sad to see that it had all but ceased to exist. The horrible truck-stop restaurant was gone. It had always been horrible, but it was still sad to see it empty and grubby and cold. I mean, I’d seen it empty and grubby before (no offence to employees, but the Ladies’ would never have won any prizes for sparkliness) but completely empty was a first. There was a Grab ‘n’ Go, so we grabbed and went back to the car to eat because it was warmer. Besides, it had just passed 9am and Gerry Ryan was on the radio. He was talking about plastic bags. He made my American husband – who’d never heard him before – laugh til he nearly choked. “Who is this guy?” he spluttered, through sprayed sandwich and OJ. I told him. I told him about how, a million years ago, my sister and I would listen to Gerry on RTÉ Radio 2 (as it was then known) every single night. How he was on a TV pop quiz called Number One and did all the Beat on the Street gigs in the 80s. How he moved to the 9am to midday radio slot and everyone thought he would too bold* for daytime, but it worked amazingly well. How, when I started working in the station myself in the early 90s, I got a real kick out of seeing him dashing in and out of the canteen. How, when our professional paths finally crossed around 2004, he had been incredibly kind and supportive, throwing me a gig or a plug where appropriate, or a warm compliment for stuff he’d seen me in. How I didn’t know him well by any means, but that he was always nice to me. And yes, he was bold – very bold – but he was fantastic on the radio. By the time the husband and I reached Dublin, Gerry had moved on to talking to an ex-Vatican cleric about exorcisms. So, just your typical G Ryan show. The drive back down south a few hours later wasn’t nearly so exciting.

Thursday April 29: Blarney Day. Hangover. Got back to Kinsale the night before just in time to meet my best friend from school. We started primary on the same day in 1974 (yes, 74BC. Get over it). We had drinks. So, on the Thursday morning, I must have been under the influence of nostalgia (at the very least) when I suggested that, after the hospital run, Mum, husband and I head to Blarney. It’s only a short drive from Cork, so seeing as we’d already be there… I was surprised when they agreed. The American among us was particularly excited about kissing the Blarney Stone. I warned him about the height of the castle in which it’s lodged, right at the very top, over a grid that looks all the way down to the cold, hard, splatty ground. I warned him that they hold your legs and you have to kiss it upside down and backwards.  I warned him about the layers and layers of his countrywomen’s lipstick that lay between him and his goal. He shushed me. He’d be fine. And he was – until we ascended the stone spiral staircase and came up for air. The castle’s just 4 storeys high, but they’re 4 decent storeys and what they forget to tell you is that those 4 storeys are built on top  of a big old outcrop of giant rock. It seems miles down. Neither of us is great with heights. There was no way he was kissing anything upside down, even if there was great show by the “organisers” (two blokes in hats) of sanitised lipstick removal. There was great lamentation and vowing to come back. I can’t imagine what he’d have been like had he actually kissed the thing received the magical Gift of the Gab.

Friday April 30: Bad Day. Back to England. Left Mum waving in the driveway. Hard, knowing she still has hospital visits to do. Still, at least we’d have a final blast of Gerry Ryan on the radio en route to the airport. We tuned in. He wasn’t there. Oh well, I told the husband, this was not unheard of on a Bank Holiday weekend – for GR to be “unwell” and nab himself a Friday off. Probably in New York. Probably with U2. What a chancer. We changed to a music station. The queues at the security check were unbearable, although the rest of the airport was empty. At the foot of the stairs out to the aircraft, there was a massive delay. Finally, a steward came down and said “Sir! You can advance to the aircraft!” The first passenger in line had not wanted to cross the tarmac without guidance. What an eejit. The steps where right there! Now we were on board but, with only one other visible plane on the ground, we were held on the tarmac for 50 minutes – the length of time the whole flight would have taken. Thank God for lots of work to do. Landing in London, the weather was awful. We were now cold and tired and grumpy, knowing we still had to get to Brighton that night. Still, the first leg was almost over, and we got off the seemingly endless Piccadilly line and onto a bus home. Almost there. My phone buzzed. A text from my sister. Four words: Gerry Ryan is dead. My ears started ringing. I couldn’t speak. My eyes pricking with tears, I had to hand my phone to the husband to explain why I couldn’t. “The radio guy?” he said, in disbelief. I nodded. This was the last thing in the world I expected to hear. He was supposed to be in New York. With u2 or the Clintons or someone – that’s where I imagined he was “unwell”, the chancer. The phone buzzed a lot more as the news got around. In Ireland, people were crying in the streets; Gerry could be childish and puerile and bold as brass, but he was one of a kind. The idea that he was gone now, forever, at 53, was beyond sad. It was inconceivable. One friend messaged me that “it must be hard to be away when a bit of home dies” and that really isn’t putting it too strongly. Love him or hate him, he was part of the fabric of Ireland. Good luck on the road, GR. And thanks. I hope that, wherever you are, there’s a fabulous dessert wine.

Saturday May 1: May Day Day. Arrived in Brighton the night before about 10. Had takeout in the room and crashed. But on the Saturday night I saw/ heard my good mate Damian Coldwell’s score to the silent movie Tol’able David at Bom-Bane’s restaurant as part of the Brighton Fringe. The score was fantastic and the film was really entertaining. They say they’re not doing it again, but they must. And if they do, you should be there. Keep an eye out.

And so, I’m back in freezing London. Exhausted. What the flippin’ flip is gonna happen this week?

* For a blog about definition of “bold” as it’s used in Ireland, click here.

For RTÉ’s tribute to Gerry Ryan, click here.

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