Excerpt from Lost in Translation

On the day that the blizzard being reassuringly referred to as ‘the Beast from the East’ is due to strike, I realise I’m out of heating oil.  News of the ferociousness of the impending storm is being exchanged with the same relish as my grandparents once spoke of banshees. The government has warned people to stay indoors from one o’clock in the afternoon until further notice. 

When I ring the oil company, the woman I speak with says it’s unlikely they’ll be able to deliver until the storm has passed.  Everyone’s in the same boat, she tells me – last-minute panic buying – but she’ll do her best.

‘It’s your own fault,’ my father snaps when I visit in search of human warmth…and hoping for some cash to fund the kerosene-fuelled variety.  ‘You should be on top of things like that.  You’re old enough now.’  

I check my mobile’s volume is on full in case the delivery guy tries to make contact. 

‘God, Dad, do you think I don’t know that? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I’ve had a lot on recently.’

Despite my best intentions, conversations with my father are laced with an undercurrent of resentment now.  I know he wishes it was Oisín standing here, not me.  It’s something he barely bothers to disguise anymore.

‘A lot on?! I was married with three kids at your age.’ 

He stops suddenly, as if realising the number is now obsolete.  My mother interrupts her pot-stirring at the cooker to meet his eyes.  He returns to his newspaper as I stand at the doorway and watch them both.

‘I’m so sorry I have a life,’ I say.  I only realise the double meaning after I have spoken and inwardly kick myself. 

My father glares at me.  He misunderstands – but that seems to be happening more frequently these days. My words have become traps waiting to spring open with meanings I’ve not intended. As he’s already thinking the worst of me, I continue.