Great Expectations

A little over a year ago, I had a meeting with a 30-something society diarist in an upmarket hotel in one of the leafier parts of Dublin 2. The meeting was arranged on the day of its happening in a text message. “If I were Robert O’Connor I’d be checking the society pages of The Mail today” said the diarist in a sporadic morning text. I was in them, for all the right reasons. I knew instantly that this wasn’t a selfless PR favour, there was an expectation on the diarist’s part. “Meet me for coffee at The Merrion”, the next message read.

I jumped out of bed, threw on yesterdays clothes and power-walked to the local shop to pick up The Mail. There it was, the most complimentary write-up an artist could hope for, but what was the price-tag on this purchase that had been made on my behalf, I wondered. Two hours later, I jumped out of a taxi outside the Merrion, perspiration ruining my Ralph Lauren button-down shirt thanks to the humidity and the lack of AC in the taxi which took an agonising fifteen minutes from the other side of town. I arrived in the outdoor area where afternoon tea was being served. Isn’t this perfect, I thought, good press and great food all in a day, what had I done to deserve such treatment?

The question was what would I have to do, and the answer was, sit back and enjoy the ride, but for someone who is used to driving their own fate, that’s easier said than done. One mini salmon and cream cheese sandwich, two mini cakes and three not so mini glasses of champagne later, I was beginning to entertain the idea of taking the easy way out. “Why make life hard for yourself when someone is willing to set you up so nicely?”, my always straight-to-the-point friend Roisin would later ask me. The fact was, I would have always felt indebted to the diarist, even though there was no financial repayment expected.

A couple of nights later, I waited to be seated in Peploes on the Green, “Robert, you’re in, you’re finally in!”, I told myself. I was in, and two hours later, I was still in, and the diarist was sold on me. Whether it was the idea of finally getting on to the first step in my career or the half-bottle of Domaine du Grand Mayne I had consumed, I was like a real estate agent on steroids, pulling all the right strings until the bill came and the diarist was willing to put their cards on the table, both credit and emotional. Nothing happened that night, and nothing would happen after that night. I’d had a wonderful evening, and everything was perfect, but to me, this was a business deal that was going to cost me an emotional and physical investment I knew I couldn‘t afford.

Several weeks later, following a handful of mostly unintentional and always awkward encounters, I was emptying a watered-down cocktail at a renowned bar on South William Street when I caught sight of the diarist plus their BFF and sidekick, a man who never drank but who always appeared to be wasted, who was in television and who never seemed to know when the cameras had switched off. Conversation with the BFF felt like friendly interrogation and later, the diarist who had recently offered it all on a silver platter, was restrained and yet visibly furious. Had my involvement in two casual meetings suggested I was willing to settle down and become the missing piece in the diarists almost perfect life? A couple of hours later, whilst walking home, I got the answer, “Never contact me again”.

Fast-forward a year and it seems, in matters of love and career, I am not the kind to learn from his mistakes. A late-night Gin-and-Tonic with a London-based business high-flyer seemed to indicate that I was ready to pack my bags and head for Notting Hill. A balanced and charming individual, I just wasn’t in the market for love, but did that mean I couldn’t strike up conversations with people of interest? I figured I could pair the high-flyer with my culture-wealthy friend Gavin, who had been single for some years due to his sensible rejection of half of Dublin as potential life partners. Perhaps I was giving out the wrong message about my status on the relationships market, or perhaps the real mistake was not knowing when to grab hold of an opportunity when one arose. Either way, I was pretty sure I had ended things with my unmentionable termination text message to the well-placed executive.

What's it All Worth?

There was a day last July when it was rumoured in the tabloid press that Ireland was officially entering a recession. On that day I was lying by a horizon pool in Portugal tanning with two friends of the female species. College was out, but the money was still coming in courtesy of our parents back home in Dublin. “It’s just the media”, said 20-year-old Laura, from North County Dublin, flicking her €150 highlighted honey blond hair out of her eyes and taking a sip of her second €15 mojito of the afternoon.

“I agree”, Sarah interrupted, “they love doom and gloom and I won’t play a part in it”. I on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. All the signs were pointing to a recession, even to those of us who read the newspapers only to find out if Jennifer Aniston and John Mayer are splitting up again. Property prices had plummeted - my parents’ home had been on the market for over nine months and hadn’t yet had a single offer, despite a forty thousand reduction in the asking price. Six months earlier, they would have had three couples recreating an auction on the front lawn. Add to this the already deconstructing US economy and more locally, the remaining family businesses along Grafton Street that were folding due to their inability to keep up with soaring rents combined with a declining customer base. All this considered, I announced: “We probably wouldn’t have got jobs anyway, the media is such a tough break!”

Fast-forward nine months and two of us are soon graduating from journalism college. A three-holiday summer is looking about as likely as Brian Cowen releasing a fashion line and recently, an already employed friend brought me down to earth with a bang during the third course at a well-known Stephens Green eatery: “You know it’s not a college summer, couldn’t you start looking for jobs right away instead of going to the states?” he said, matter-of-factly, adding “are you even eligible for a J1?”

I nearly spat a mouthful of Chablis at him, but deep down, I realised, for the past few years I’d always found something more important to do than work: between trips to Holland to record an album one year and jetting to Hollywood to try out for top casting agents the next. The truth is, during the years of the Celtic Tiger, young people thought they could achieve anything, but of course, everything needed financial backing. Really, my feet had left the ground for a time, but I certainly wasn’t the only one.

“This is Roisin Connolly reporting from the Leinster Road, in Pucci” my good friend and party animal announced in her dulcet private-school tones, before bursting into laughter and lowering her voice to almost a whisper to say: “I’m not actually going to become a broadcaster! Maybe I’ll go and study philosophy or interior design”. This girl, who has been called “the Peaches Geldof of Ireland” by Dublin’s socialites due to her partying ways, represents the attitude of time being limitless that affected many college-goers, a sort of “choose a course, if you don’t like it, choose another one” outlook. Perhaps one comfort we can take in the recession is that it’s no longer enough to drift through life aimlessly, we must focus, and establish a direction for ourselves.

For others, it will make them think about their hopes and desires. On a rare night on the town recently, my single friend Miriam turned to me and said “is it bad to want it all, do you think it’s unhealthy?” Did she mean the stockbroker husband, the double-fronted pile of bricks in Foxrock, the Hamptons getaway, his and hers Mercedes and two perfectly turned out if a little demanding designer children, I queried. The fact of the matter is, a year ago, we had aspirations that were beyond those of generations before us by miles, and while ambition is good, should life really be a check-list of must haves and deadlines. You have to wonder, what’s it all worth?

So what have I changed in life to make a difference to my rapidly-growing pre-recession debt? Since learning of my new-found conscience, I have taken some financial strain away from my parents, taking a job at a designer clothes shop in the city. My indulgent lunches with my equally deluded friends have come to a halt, or at least lessened in frequency, and I’ve finally surrendered my MasterCard to my mother. Now, instead of taking my “worn-out” Ralph Lauren suits to the local Oxfam, I take them to the dry cleaners. I have learned the worth of things, something I doubt would have happened without the recession. I even bought a lunchbox last week, acknowledging that I could lose my job any day now, and that it’s entirely possible I’ll be sporting “packed lunch chic” sooner than I ever imagined.