Diary of a stand-up comedian

I WAS surrounded by celebrities at the housewarming and was feeling out of place.

So I just stood there in the kitchen gazing at something I haven’t seen in years and the memories came flooding back.

Outside people admired the spectacular garden.

There was a huge fountain and the lights changed colours.

The landscaping was beautiful and even a non-gardener would have been impressed.

I was stuck mesmerised by the sink. Beside me yer man was flicking buttons and the speakers in each room played different music controlled by his fancy remote.

I heard nothing as I stood with a big grin on my face. “Can I touch it?” says I. He nodded proudly and stepped back. And so for the first time in years I placed a hand on a range.

“No I keep telling you dahlink,” says Marissa, “it is an Aga, dahlink.” Well I don’ care what they called it — I knew what it was.

My granny had a big old range. It was more than just a cooker — she used to make the tea on the top, soda bread in the oven and the hearth was a recycling centre.

It was a great old yellowy thing and was never allowed to go cold. Everything went into that range. We would put turf in, paper and “you will go in as well if you don’t g’way from under my feet!” she would holler.

My kids think it funny when I tell them that but I know she meant it. If you caught her in the wrong mood there was no telling what she would do.

These were the days before super nanny started telling people to sit on the naughty step. If my granny gave you a talking to you would sit nowhere.

In fact even on a good day you could get a rap with a wooden spoon if you got too close to her.

We used to try and sneak things into the range when she wasn’t looking, but it was a rare day when she couldn’t catch sight of you.

She had hearing like Superman and even out in the yard she would know the tell-tale sound of the hob being moved.

The smell of the turf smoke coming from all of the houses still burn within my nostrils, it is a comforting and reassuring smell.

At night time it was hard to see through the mix of dusk and smoke as it wafted through Longford.

There would be no turf near this shiny new Aga and the only smell was the delicious cannelloni that Marissa had made.

She opened the oven to a glorious smell. I think it freaked her out a little when I asked if I could open the door with the enthusiasm of an excited three yearold on Christmas morning.

“Dahlink play with it all night if it keeps you quiet,” said she with a hint of sarcasm.

The Iron handle felt good in my hands as the oven eased open. I thought it strange that so many people ripped out the range as soon as gas came in.

The granny had a gas cooker in the kitchen but it was hidden in the corner like an embarrassing relative.

It was often used as a cupboard and covered in pots and pans. It was never spoken of with affection in the same way that the range was.

None of us ever pleaded “nanny can I switch on the gas” in the same way that we begged to be allowed to put the turf into old faithful in the parlour.

Marissa was by now looking at me in the way a dog would stare at a bee on a hot summer’s day as I waxed lyrical about my childhood memories.

Outside there was a commotion as the sky lit up to the party fireworks. Wine glasses clinked as people enjoyed the party. I remained in the kitchen with my cup of tea and my memories.

“I am going to get me one of these,” said I with confidence, “one day”. Marissa offered me the brochure and I saw the price of the thing. I nearly choked as I read the cost. I worked out the cost to be in the high thousands.

Ah well I guess I will stick with my four gas rings and a microwave for a while longer. But I will keep the memories, you can’t put a price on.