Irish-American narrator. One Voice Award Nominee 2018.
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) Irish (General) North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I am an ordinary person. I am just like you. I don't have special powers, have never seen a ghost. I'll hold my hands up and admit that I have serious trouble controlling my constant desire to go shopping. I don't believe in waiting for a rainy day. Not that I'd wait Long living in Ireland. I think we should all live for the moment. I think we all have a right to happiness. Cancer is not my favourite thing. I wouldn't recommend it to a friend. I believe there are other pleasanter ways to build character, But much as we all fear it, cancer and other horrible diseases are peppered through many of our lives. We can't stop most of them hitting us, but I am living proof that we can deal with them if they do more than that, each and every one of us has the power still to be ourselves. With a single rap. Detective Inspector Gavin Sexton stuck his head around the door. You'll do yourself an injury if you He stopped talking as he registered the groans of pleasure coming from the man in the pool, then dragging the plastic chair into position in front of the TV. He sat down. You could have told me it was starting, he complained, putting his feet up on the corner of Joe's desk, Joe slapped his feet down and went over to the machine to collect the disc. Were you born in a barn? She gave the door like push to close it. Somebody got out of the bed on the wrong side, Sexton said, reaching for the cup of Starbucks. Joe had bought on the way to work but hadn't had a chance to drink yet. What's eating you anyway? What's wrong with me? Joe thought. What's eating you? More like you've been married within the year, said Madam. Luckier. I am seeing San Francisco, I think, Yes, that's it. Gwen rolled her eyes. So much for fortune telling she and Brian, We're going to Sardinia on their honeymoon. No, San Francisco madam Lucia said firmly as if she could read Gwen's mind when linked. I know you've booked somewhere else, but it will be San Francisco in the end. There's a bit of a shock coming and you have to make a decision, but I think you'll take the right road. It's all for the best. Really, You're a strong girl. What about other things? Money? Family? Gwen wanted more than this limited vision of the future. You came to ask me about love, said Madam Lucia simply. That's what I saw for you. As soon as we walked through the doors and into the lobby of the hotel, an elegant woman came up to us and tried to spray us with scent. Chanel number five ladies. I shook my head shy and also fearful we would be expected to pay. I realised suddenly that neither of us had sent between us, what with parasols and hats and purses full of powder and lipstick. We had neglected to bring any money. Not indeed, that a cup of tea in this place would have cost us any less than a month's wages. I felt a sudden shot of anger at she learned her foolishness. This was not exciting. After all this pretending to be rich, it was fake and frightening, and I would much, much rather have stayed in the park and gone to the zoo. Why had she not arranged to meet her boyfriend somewhere sensible like that, or, better again, not arranged to meet him at all. Sheila stuck out her wrist and the woman sprayed it. Then the woman said to me, Are you sure you wouldn't like some? Madam? I saw that Sheila had not been asked to pay. So I put out my hand and attempted a smile. The thought of him having a life without me. The thought of him actually enjoying that life was deeply unpleasant. On the one hand, of course, I knew that he was having a life without me. I mean, all the evidence was there. He was living with another woman. He hadn't contacted me, not even to see how Kate was. But still, I suppose I hadn't stopped hoping that he might be pining for me and missing me terribly and that he would eventually come back. But if he had gone on holiday, then that wasn't the case. He mustn't have a care in the world, I thought, my imagination running riot. Probably off with his fancy woman in some exotic resort drinking pina coladas from Denise's shoe, his life resonating to the sound of champagne corks popping and fireworks exploding and surrounded by music and happy people wearing party hats and decorated with streamers, dancing past and whooping and doing the conga. First Day Without Bill, Bill is gone. What is the sound of an 89 year old heartbreaking? It might not be much more than silence and certainly a small, slight sound. When I was four, I owned a porcelain doll given me by a strange agency. My mother's sister, who lived down in Wicklow, had kept it from her own childhood and that of her sister and gave it to me as a sort of keepsake of my mother at four, such a dull, maybe precious for other reasons, not least her beauty. I can still see the painted face, com and Oriental and the blue silk dress she wore. My father, much to my puzzlement, was worried by such a gift. It troubled him in a way I had no means to understand, he said. It was too much for a little girl, even though the same little girl he himself loved with a complete worship. One Sunday, about a year after I was first given it, I insisted on bringing it to Mass with me. Despite the long and detailed protestations of my father, who was religious in the sense he hoped there was an afterlife. He bet all his heart on that. Somehow a doll was not a fitting mask over, in his estimation, as I carried her in stubbornly to the Pro Cathedral in Marlborough Street by some accident, possibly the great atmosphere there of seriousness, she started to fall from my arms.