Back In The Saddle...

 

I came out to my she-shed for the first time in eleven months this morning - to write. There were Miss Havisham like cobwebs all around my desk and chair. I did battle with them and evicted the spiders before I cleared the desk of ten months of detritus and unread books. Yesterday a visit to my brother and his beautiful family brought me a character –Erica Gilhooley. She is fully formed with a great back story and she has a marvellous tale about An Extraordinary Thing that happened to her family during 2020’s Covidy Christmas. It’s a middle grade book and it is flying out of me.

This is why I write.

This feeling - the buzz you get when a character comes and takes you by the hand on a merry walk. There is NO feeling like it.  It’s better than driving. Better than sex. It’s even better than chocolate! I call this feeling freedom and I think most of us experience it when we do something we love. Something we know we’re good at.  

I laughed out loud twice at my narrator’s cheeky sense of fun in Chapter 1 and the love she shows for her family is second to none. I know no-one else might laugh but I'm having fun with her. This part of the writing process has nothing to do with me and I think many writers will agree. I just sit here and give my characters permission to arrive, to dance from my fingers to the screen. During my eleven-month drought of words I dabbled in picture books and crap poems. My adult prose had dried up completely. I was 35k into a novel and I hated ( understood but hated) one of my characters for his weakness. I’m writing  in various voices and writing his chapters really depresses me. I get so angry with him. I started this novel three years ago and I know it’s not as bad as I think it is. But neither is it as good as I want it to be! I loved writing picture books, they are very hard to write as they are for THE most discerning audience in the world – under 6s and their parents. I have three picture books out circling the globe looking for the right publisher and illustrators. If they ever get to print yiz are all invited to the book launchs!

I started to write around the time my husband took up golf. That is two decades ago. We both needed something to replace pints in our lives! Writing just ‘clicked’ with me – it was liking walking into a room and finding people who finally understood me. Jemser loves the camaraderie of the golf course and being out in the air but he gets totally disillusioned with his game.

 ‘It’s a whoor of a game’ he’ll claim after a bad back nine, tossing his golf clubs aside. This happens regularly. 

I pointed out that even Rory McElroy allowed himself to cry when interviewed about The Ryder Cup 2021. He had a bad day. I bet Ann Enright, John Boyne and other brilliant writers have torn her hair out at times with their characters, having bad days. I read Liz Nugent giving out to her character recently on Twitter when she had written several thousand words and the bitch was still alive!

Writing is a whoor of a hobby. I genuinely feel for published professional authors -each book they launch has to be as good as their previous book. Nothing else (barring kids) has given me so much pleasure and so much frustrated pain. Like The Jemser with his golfclubs I throw writing that isn’t working (I have four half written novels) along with my laptop, pencils, and blank creamy paper aside and wander off to pastures new. 

Mind you it would help if I finished things!

 Losing heart in a project and procrastination are as much a part of writing as rewriting is. It’s certainly true for me. I’m a bit like the Mayo GAA team. At my core I don’t believe in myself – and I HAVE to. If I don’t like what I write then neither could anyone else. The boredom will show on the page. The moments of inspiration and euphoria are brief (and exhausting) and do not replace hard work and application to the craft. I’m easily distracted too and the WorldWideWeb is a curse. I go to research something and end up down a rabbit hole with shag all on the page to show for my day.

 

So.  I’m setting myself targets on this middle grade novel – a minimum of 6000 words a week. If I can do that I will have a first draft in six weeks. Then it’ll go into a drawer. Then rewritten by me and sent to an editor. I use purplecrayonediting for my children’s work and Storyline Literary Agency for adult prose. Both editors are excellent and I highly recommend them.

To aspiring writers -it is worth paying to have your MS edited by a professional before you start submitting. There are millions of books already in the world and every story must earn its place. When I write Erica Gilhooley's world I will read mainly middle grade or YA fiction. It taps into the work. Close reading of the genre you are writing is essential as is reading widely. I have two middle-grade novels on the go at the moment – reading one and listening to another. Reading poetry helps me with the rhythm of sentences and paragraphs. Reading crime is great for plot. Reading other well-written fiction takes my mind off my own characters once I have my word count for the day done. Writers learn from other writers and most importantly from readers. Forget about the market. Write passionately in the voice of your characters. See 'Shuggy Bain', 'Iron Annie' and 'The Catcher in The Rye' for brilliant narrators.

Above all never ever give up. BELIEVE!!

The Jameses, Seamuses, Seamais (fada yerself), Seamaishins, Hamish, Shems, Shemos etcetera, etcetera

 

I used etceteras in the title above instead of my usual ellipses because someone recently commented that the overuse of ellipses and dashes in my writing is irritating and shows a rambling mind. I pointed to The Master’s - Henry James - extreme use of the comma to the modern reader, which showed someone who never seemed to get to the bloody point.

A lively debate ensued.

I digress.

It’s my blog I can digress if I want to. Nobody is obliged to read.

Son#1 aka #TheChosenOne starts a new job next week. This effectively means he has to fill in a veritable shitload of forms verifying he is who he says he is. He’s a bit like one of his parents – a very lively mind that generally cuts through the bull to the nub of a question. But the most fundamental and basic question of one's life is causing him awful bother. That is - WHAT IS YOIUR NAME. Unfortunately his parents failed him rather badly at the start of his life by registering his name at birth as James then immediately called him Seamus. Failed at first breath. The poor bugger.

This James was naturally Gaelicised then shortened and lengthened as he grew to Seamus, Seamai, Seamashin (Donegal diminutive- fada yerself) Shem and Shemo. When he was six weeks old I took him to Bun Ghlas on Sliabh Liag in Donegal, lifted him skywards saying ‘Kunta Kinte’. Universe knows what effect had on his already confused psyche. When he developed his own life outside the home he evolved into Shay. All his friends including his girlfriend and her family call him Shay. I have been known to occasionally refer to him as Shay myself. Shay is an entirely different beast to my little Seamai – although he’s rather nice. I blame the parents.

This confusion over nomenclature is not entirely of my making. My father is a James referred to as  Seamus until he came to Dublin as a Garda where he became James or Jim. For thirty years in work he was Jim Welsh. At home, Seamus Walsh. His youngest son was called Seamus, on the birth certificate, baptismal cert, and all official documents – the same mistake was not to be made. This child was going to know who he was. He was widely known at home, with family, and on the road as Seamai. Then he started school and like his two older brothers became Wally.

 

In my late twenties I met a James called Jim and fell for him. Not realising he was called Seamus at home in Donegal – you can see where this is going.

That was fine. By the time I met him he’d been out of Donegal for twenty years and answered to Jim so it wasn’t a problem. Then we had a son. I repeated the naming error mainly because I was a people pleaser and wanted nobody hurt. I also thought (foolishly) that he could decide himself when he grew up what he wanted to be called. I had him christened for the same reason – he can choose himself, immediately burdening him with the fact I rejected Satan without asking him if he wanted Satan rejected. I also guessed he’d have to go to school at some stage and as there wasn’t much educational choice in Ireland in the Nineties it made sense. Church and State are still not fully separated when it comes to education.

 So I called him Seamus, registered him as James, christened him as James then went on with all the nicknames a Seamus has barring Shay – I didn’t really like that diminutive (sorry Shay!) He’s in my phone as SeamaiMySeamai. That’ll do for me.

One Christmas there were four Jim/Seamus/Seamais around my table. That was it. No-one else bar me. I was pregnant with a Liam at the time but he didn’t answer when I said ‘Seamus, pass the salt’. Neither did the rest of them. There was quite probably was some obscure play being relived from some GAA match played somewhere rural at some time since 1955. The priorities around the table in my home when the Seamuses are gathered are ancient and tribal. Despite me having NO clue. I’m generally happy to chew the cud and talk to the childer. Unless there is a reader at the table. Then the childer can talk to themselves.

 

Back to the James/Seamus/Seamai/Shay who is trying desperately to explain Hiberno English to an outsourced HR department. The whole thing has brought on the young man’s eczema – isn’t it awful the way anxiety can bring out a reaction on your skin? That’s my fault too - but material for another waffle entirely.

So. The child turned man has now vowed to call himself James on every official document from here on in and to become James in work etcetera. When I ring and look for SeamaiMySeamai the whole place is going to go into a tailspin. It was only when I worked in payroll in the early Eighties that I realised how many people were entirely different people when it came to official names. I wonder is this a peculiarly Irish thing? Although no – it’s not. Russian diminutives and the way Asian and Indian family names can differ from official ones is also endlessly confusing. I bet the whole thing goes back to colonialism. It causes fierce upset in these global times when your parent company could be Australian yet their human resources can be outsourced to an Indonesian company whose first language is not necessarily business English and definitely not Hiberno English. So the name Seamus has been banned as being passed on any further in our family.

I have a great grandfather, a father, a brother, a husband and a son Seamus. I also have a grandfather, uncle, brother and son Liam. Then there is my brother Ken – the only reason he’s not a Thomas, Tommy or Tom is that when he was born my mother had a father, brother and brother in law Thomas, Tommy and Tom; she was told there were too many Toms in the family. She called him Kenneth as being the nearest to her maiden name Kennedy – not knowing that her father would have loved a grandchild named Tom for him.

Poor Ken – growing up knowing you’ve been called the wrong name can cause confusion in you. I then had the temerity to call my two lads Seamus and Liam – leaving Ken out. Our Kenneth is an original anyway – no imitation or imitators.

And nobody ever mixed him up with a father, brother or son.

Except when he was a Wally.

Never have books been more important.........

So. A week down – many more to go. We’re getting used to the new ‘normal’, we actually all quite like each other in my house, respectful of privacy whilst mindful of others need for human contact – just not through touch!

I drove to Maynooth to bring some books and toys to my gorgeous stepgrandaughter*1 yesterday. I dropped them in the porch and stood back at the gate. When she came to the door she  automatically started to run towards me. I put up my hand. ‘Stop.’ She did. ‘ I love you, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hug your little body right now. But I can’t.’ So I stood their and mimed a deep deep hug. ‘Did you feel it?’ I asked. ‘Yes!’ she jumped up and down and sent me a hug back. I can’t fly to Seattle to do the same for stepgrandson*1, but I so wish I could.  They were home at Christmas and that will have to do for now.

Never has the world been better prepared to practice personal distancing. The Internet and various social media apps mean we can chat and see each other. I know this was at the expense of handing over all our data to the moguls. But right now it feels worth it.  They may think they know everything about me from what I watch or listen to or read or how and where I shop, but they don’t. As all humans know one can never really know another, we like to think we know our loved ones but even they can surprise, sometimes shock, us from time to time. Sometimes one wonders if we even really know ‘self’.

I smiled when I heard in a vox pop on radio yesterday - 'books aren't an essential service'. OH YES THEY ARE! Socrates said that the unconsidered life is not worth living. As the phrase suggest the ‘considered life’ is a life enriched by thinking about things that matter – values, aims, society, the characteristics of the human condition, desires – both personal and public, the enemies of human flourishing and the meanings of life.

Writers spend most of their time doing all of the above. Fiction writers in the creation of their characters – find a character your reader can empathise with and you have found a loyal reader. Writers of non-fiction show us those who have been moulded by the accidents of birth, DNA, and by circumstance both familial and societal. Never have writers been more important. Never have books been more important. Find writers you like – read widely. I promise it will enrich your life.

 Buy books for those you love that you feel they will like. Books are like any other Art form – what’s one person’s ‘best read ever’ is another’s ‘so-so’. I didn’t go to college and didn’t come from a reading household. There was no money for books. But my parents guided me towards the public library system aged seven – and so I began. I never had anything to guide my reading but still managed to find some wonderful, wonderful books that have stayed with me. These are books I return to again and again – mainly to recapture that frisson of ‘oh! the writer knows – they understand me.’ There are so many books out there - you'll definitely find one that suits and if the one you picked up is only so so to you then don't worry. I’m a reader – I know the next best book ever is just around the corner, for each and every one of us.

If you are book buying at the moment try to order from your local bookshop. Many of them are online and willing to get your beloved book to you. My personal favourites are Bob in  https://gutterbookshop.com/ in Temple Bar Dublin and Des Kenny of https://www.kennys.ie/.

Tara - Seat of The High Kings

In the deep gentle silence of Co. Meath lies Tara; a royal place, a sacred place, a special place for us Celts since roughly 4,000 years BC.

To my eternal shame I did not visit Tara until today, despite my stepdaughters and their children having such a huge reverence and regard for the place that some of their mother’s ashes were scattered from The King’s Seat (don’t tell the OPW!). One of those grandchildren is named Cormac, in honour of Cormac Mac Airt – High King of the legends. Cormac's Nana Muireann battled valiantly - as valiantly as Queen Mebd would have battled, to prevent a motorway destroying the landscape around this sacred ground. My maternal family lore has it that we are descendants of Gormflaith who was married briefly to Brian Boru (941 -1014), known as Emperor of The Gaels and one of the more recent High Kings. Gormflaith has gone down in history as being 'utterly wicked.' Maybe that's why we never talked about her!

So, armed with these connections to Tara, it being a beautiful morning, and daylight saving gifting us a fictitious extra hour I felt it a good day to visit; particularly as we approach Samhain – the Gaelic festival that celebrates the end of harvest and the move into the darker half of the year. Samhain is a time for ghouls and ghosts, witches and wonders, it is a time when it was believed Aos Si (spirits or fairies) could move with greater ease from their world into ours (if you are a gaeilgeoir please excuse my lack of fadas). I met none of these beings on my gentle amble around the site, given Gormflaith's reputation I'd rather not meet her spirit!

 I did meet some imps from England, Dublin and Northern Ireland though - who gloried in running up and down the slopes of Tara.One little chap, Henry - aged about three, ambled about the top of The King's Seat and enjoyed himself in the muddiest puddle I’ve ever seen. His older siblings and cousins looked on in envy; Henry being the only one sensible enough to be shod in wellies. I’m sure the dead buried here were delighted; children’s laughter should ring out everywhere to remind us we are yet quick and that we should live, live, live while we can.

I stayed for about an hour, walking, contemplating the beauty and thinking of my own dead. The men and women buried in Tara are in my DNA – maybe in only the tiniest molecule, but still part of me. It is said we die twice – first when the physical body stops working and secondly the last time someone says our name. To that I’d pose a third possibility – perhaps we are actually immortal, as some tiny bit of us goes forward – in our brothers and sisters, cousins, sons and daughters, in family.

Enough philosophizing and talking pure shite!

Seriously, if you have a chance over the coming week take your children and loved ones to Tara, let them run and play, kick a ball or have a few pucks with hurl and sliotair. The interpretive centre is closed but there is a lovely coffee shop beside the site.

You’ll come away feeling thoughtful and rejuvenated.

 Promise.

 https://hilloftara.com/

Diary of Cara Cunnyham aged 3.916667 years (roughly)...............

Nanny collected me today. It was exciting.  We had an ENORMOUS hug. Nanny says I am the best hugger in the world. Mamai says that too, so it must be true.

On the way to Swords we sang songs. I sang ‘Do you want to build a snowman’ and Nanny sang ‘I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.’ Nanny says her singing has improved since I came into the world. Mamai, Liam and Seamai are brilliant singers, so is Grandad. So is everyone in the Cunnyham family. We are a really lucky family. When I’m a bit bigger I am going to sing songs at Cunnyham parties. One on my own and one with Mamai. Nanny says everyone will clap and say ‘wonderful’ and I will smile because I made people happy with my singing.

Aunty Dearbhaile is bringing out a CD soon, and she's not a Cunnyham! Lots of musicians and singers are helping her. Mamai and Eithne are on the CD too. I love Aunty Dearbhaile. She has a voice like an angel, or maybe a being who lives in the clouds or the mist or in the wind.. We picked Liam up in Swords and went to Skerries to feed the ducks and swans. Liam and me sang ‘Acuna Matata’ and Nanny joined in the applebrite. Nanny told me it’s not called an applebrite it’s called a chorus. She can’t figure out why I thought it was called an applebrite. It’s the wrong word but I think it’s a nice word. I like the feeling of it in my mouth.

We went to the pond at Skerries Mills. 

When all the bread for the birds was gone we went to the playground. Nanny LOVES Skerries playground. When we arrived in the carpark there was half a rainbow diving into the sea.

 Liam pushed me on the swing then Nanny and me swung in the space ship swing. We had great fun. Liam thought we were mad. We sang 'Let it Go' as we swang.

We played shop but stopped when Liam found out I only had PRETEND custard creams in my shop. He said he was going to sue me for false advertising. Nanny says most advertising is false anyway. Nanny and Liam’s minds work kind of different to a lot of people’s minds. They keep getting distracted and ramble off on tangents and don’t CONCENTRATE on one thing at a time. She is worse than he is.

We brought Liam back to Swords and I fell asleep in the middle of a song. When I woke up Liam was gone in and the boys from down the road were chatting to Nanny. One of them asked Nanny was she very old and Nanny said yes she was and walked up and down the road like a crumpled up old person and talked in a funny squeaky voice saying she knew she looked old but she was really six inside and she was never EVER EVER going to grow up because a lot of grown-ups are BORING. We laughed and laughed.

Nanny and I went to the pool. We stayed until I was wrinkly. Nanny was wrinkly too but some of her wrinkles are oldy wrinkles and some are water wrinkles. Nanny pretended to be a dolphin and I was a mermaid holding onto her as we went around in the Lazy River. When my new cousin comes home from America we will all go swimming. And Mamai says I will be able to go on a plane with her to visit them very very soon.    

When we arrived back in Swords we had pizza and sat and cuddled with Grandad on the couch. Nanny brought me to bed and Liam came in and sang us two songs.  I fell asleep halfway through  the applebrite of ‘Starry Starry Night’………….. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

---

 [EW1]

A Bad Dose of Trumpitis...........

I like Facebook. It’s the garden wall, the pub counter, the church gates, a place for a bit of a flirt and a bit of aul’ gossip. I can keep an eye on the goings on of some of my siblings, my nieces and nephews, have a laugh with friends – share their good news with a ‘like’ and commiserate with them if they're down or have bad news. It’s obviously no substitute for sitting in someone’s company for a couple of hours nattering, for listening to stories and reading body language, but in today’s manic high speed world Facebook mimics community and suffices until we can actually do the down time with loved ones bit.

But I’m suspending my account once this blog is posted for a few months - because Facebook was making me afraid or paranoid or something. President Donald Trump of the USA is all over it and it became (for me) increasingly difficult to read or watch anything about him. The man seems to put his foot in it every time he opens his mouth. The months and months of listening, watching and reading the vitriolic bile that spewed from his mouth during the election campaign, of watching him strut around - his face a mask of false humility and concern (he is the hammiest actor I’ve ever seen) made me increasingly concerned for the safety of the ‘free’ world.

I had reassured myself they wouldn’t elect him, I know lots of Americans – they’re all lovely people, bright, hardworking people, they want the same things in life most of us do. A secure roof over their heads, shelter from the cold or oppressive heat. They want to eat well and educate their children. They want access to good healthcare for their families. Surely these people – so like me, wouldn’t elect an orange baboon to such high office? Apart from anything else it would be disrespectful of such office. But they did. Or rather their system did. 

So. Into the White House goes President Trump and off Facebook comes little ole me. I've become obsessed with the man. Fretful, constantly clicking on links to have more screaming headlines surrounded by advertisements flash before my eyes. I was so worried about what he might do that I was making myself ill; so I’ve called a halt to my own unbridled gallop. Talk about worrying over things over which one has no control! I’m ridiculous, and I admit it. The best cure for my severe dose of Trumpitis is six months rest from Facebook; I’m allowing myself a daily hour’s glance at The Guardian, The New York Times and The Irish Times plus whatever radio news I catch during the day to keep me informed on major developments and I’m quite sure the world will continue to spin, the seasons to change and the tide to come in and go out while I take me eye off the ball! It’s gas. I’m constantly telling other to BREATHE and stop worrying, to look after themselves, avoid toxicity in all forms – yet a lot of the time I cannot take my own sound advice.

But I’m really really going to try………..

PS If HeWhoShallNotBeNamed is annoying you maybe start a petition to have him sit on the naughty step until he tempers his language?? Just a suggestion…………

Remembered, not Forgotten.............

In this, the centenary year of The Battle of the Somme in Northern France, I travelled with extended family to lay a plaque at the Thiepval Memorial in honour of our great-uncle Peter Whelan, who died in September 1916 halfway through that bloodiest of battles.

Billions of words have been written about The Somme and its name has become synonymous with pain and suffering. I’ve read a few thousand of those words, I’ve seen the pictures, watched the documentaries – but nothing prepared me for the emotion I felt as I walked the ground where my twenty two year old ancestor died an awful, unnecessary death.

The area where The Battle took place over 141 days is incredibly flat, of course it was pummeled into submission. Trees have been re-introduced since the Second World War and the land looks good, there are large fields of corn, kale and cabbage; other fields are fallow and lie neatly tilled. The earth is reddish brown and crumbly – good soil; perhaps fertilised by the blood and bones of the over one million men who gave their lives for us – or so they believed. Were they misled? Who can say they were wrong? The reasons for the first World War are complex, I have difficulty remembering them all, and I wonder how many of those under-educated boys could comprehend how they ended up in churned up fields in France, up to their oxters in mud, driven mad by lice and rats; all five senses being constantly battered by the horrific carnage all round them.

The ceremony at Thiepval was extraordinarily moving. I tried to do my best in reading aloud a Tom Kettle poem but my emotions nearly got the better of me. My cousins had a similar problem when they read out a short piece about Peter Whelan in both English and Irish and to wrap up another cousin read a Francis Ledwidge poem.  After a two minutes silence we all trooped up the steps of the monument to lay a ceramic plaque (made by an incredibly talented cousin) inscribed  as follows

                                                              

After trying and failing to find someplace in very rural France to purchase a cup of coffee we decided instead to visit as many of the sites as we could in our limited time. We visited the South African Memorial in Delville Wood where over ten thousand men died. Only one tree remained intact at the end of the battle. The area has been re wooded and oak, sycamore, ash and birch provide a lofty peaceful canopy over the shallow trenches where men once crawled to get back to bigger trenches named after streets at home. I thought Delville Wood a very peaceful place - until an Englishman (old soldier by his garb) found a WWI hand grenade at the side of the road. He explained that there are still grenades, shrapnel and bits of human bone working their way up through the soil. As the farmer tills his field he places anything he finds on the side of the road and the police pick them up.

Last stop before gin o'clock was to see the Lochnagar Crater, the largest man-made mine crater in WWI on the Western Front. It looks like a small meteorite fell. Bits of bones that still surface from time to time are sent for DNA testing in an effort to identify what nationality the owner of said bone might have been. Then it is buried with its countrymen.



We drove to our hotel in Amiens a tad subdued. We were emotionally drained and, given that the mean age of the party was about 55, various body parts were complaining (statistician cousin can correct me on this!). However - fortified by alcohol and showers we ventured out into the mildness of a French September evening to eat good food, drink GREAT wine, laugh, talk and reminisce. It was lovely. I felt like a child on Carne Beach in Wexford again, where the families would try to get together every August. Salad Days.

Sunday was given over to sight seeing around Amiens. The Gothic Cathedral is well worth a visit. Amiens suffered badly during both World Wars, being occupied several times by both sides but it has been rebuilt into a pleasant wide boulevarded city; it has a very relaxed atmosphere and we had a very pleasant day there, we all particularly enjoyed a boat ride on a man made canal in the city's central park. We ate outdoors in a little restaurant and it was delicious, particularly the cafe gourmand - although I was reliably informed the the creme brulee was to die for.

Then we flew home. I haven't seen much of my cousins in the last thirty years, but I think we felt comfortable around each other. I suppose the things that made you happy as a child can do so again as an adult; we always had great fun when we were together as kids and the time apart seemed to count for little, we just picked up where we left off.

I hope it won't be another thirty years before I see the Walshie cousins again.

Pretending to Fly......

I had a gorgeous day today; actually I had a great week, month, summer - but that's another blog.

Stepgranddaughter#1andonly is here for her weekly vist. I only arrived home yesterday from Inishboffin - where I spent a few days writing, so I didn't feel guilty about taking time off to spend with her. I know from experience how short is the timeframe of childhood - and the world isn't waiting with bated breath for my writing. I am determined to drag every bit of enjoyment from this little one's early years.

We went to the lovely skerriesmills.ie where we fed the swans and ducks and laughed as the sea gulls tried to rob the bread. We chatted with a man and his son - the man was very knowledgeable about the wildlife in the area and I learned a few new things - every day is a schoolday. We had a cup of coffee, a juice and chokkie bikkies, made friends with a lovely woman and her three small children. It was fun.

Then we drove up to the playground in Skerries - it has to be one of the most beautifully located playgrounds in Ireland. It is right by the seashore and is really well equipped and totally safe. We fell to chatting with another grandmother, mother and little girl. The little one was a few months older than Carlicious and they were shy at first but soon made friends. The grandmother told me how her husband died a year ago, about how quiet and lonely the house can seem now, and how lucky she is to be near her daughters and their children. She sees everyone at least once a week and the grandkids often have sleepovers in Granny's; she said the company of the children has comforted her most. The woman was a total stranger, I only learned the child's name - but we hugged when we left and she thanked me.

I dropped Caralicious home to The Jemser and drove over to see my poor battered beautiful sister Lousy LuLu LongLegs. Louise had an accident last week, went over the handlebars of her bike, smashed up her jaw and face and broke a bone in her hand. She's on the mend - it'll be a long slow recovery - but she's alive. When you think of how quickly a life can be snuffed out! A simple wobble over a cat's eye and pulling the wrong brake. Where would we the Wobbly Walshies without our supportive compassionate empathetic Lou? Her husband thought he was going to lose her at the side of the road, he held her hand as she told him she loved him, she loved the girls and to mind each other. When the ambulance arrived she was giving the paramedics advice (she's a nurse - a damn fine nurse) despite the horrendous pain she was in. She had nothing but praise for the HSE - from the Killybegs ambulance that took her to Letterkenny General where the staff put her into an induced coma (although she was horrified as she slipped into merciful unconsciousness to see a scissors approaching to cut off the brand new outfit she was wearing!), to the ambulance men who drove her to Dublin the following day  and then the wonderful staff in the Mater Hospital who looked after her with such care and compassion. Praise where it's due - when the system works it works well.

 Louise bought the family home years ago and her bedroom now is the one I shared with my three sisters for years. As I lay on the bed beside her, chatting and trying not to make her laugh I couldn't help visualizing the room as it had been back then. The double bed shared by Aisling and Lousie lay under the Sacred Heart lamp. Judy and I slept in pale pink narrow iron bunk beds.The laughs we had in that room! Plenty of squabbling and meanness too of course! So, between remembering stuff from over forty years ago and feeling so for Lou and the pain she is in, I was in a state of heightened emotion on leaving the house.

When I got home I took Caralicious out onto the green where we played with a neighbour and her little girl - who is five months younger than Cara. This little girl -Maisie Belle - is like a little fairy, dark haired and sallow skinned with fabulous eyes. We played hittingtheballwithspades and pretendingtobebirds - flying around and around the tree before settling to make a nest with twigs and leaves and feathers. When everyone got tired we came home and Cara and I watched Elmo in GrouchLand. Christ I LOVE Elmo! Son#1 took Elmo as his confirmation name - much to the amusement of his classmates and the chagrin of his teacher; who knew he was doing it for subversive reasons, not because he had any devotion to St. Elmo.

It was watering the plants time then - and Cara, in only her knickies and crocs, jumped about with son#1'sgirlfriend (fully clothed!) in a puddle created by the hose. After all that we were exhausted, so we came up to bed and I read her the first three chapters of Winnie-The-Pooh; she loved Pooh, loved that I substituted Cara Teresa for Christopher Robin and Nanny for the adult narrator. I can't wait to continue the story tomorrow because then she'll get to hear about Tigger, I just know she's gonna love Tigger! There'll be a battle in this house when she gets to about six as to who is going to read the Haprry Potter series to her.

She is lying beside me now, fast asleep. And I think of the love that surrounds her, the love that surrounded me as a child from my parents, my siblings, the love of my own family and extended family today. Louise is fond of saying #lafamiliaestodo , and she's right. When families function coherently they are everything - Freud apparently said all we need in life is work and love, and although a lot of his stuff has been discredited I think this tenet holds true.

And  we need the breathing of course - don't forget d'aul breathing!

Diary #2 of Cara Cunnyham aged 2 and 3/4..................

Hello everybody! Nanny told Cara that EVERYBODY loved my last chat. So here's another one. Nanny says it'll be more of the same and maybe people won't read it. But Cara likes chatting - people don't have to listen. Nanny says Cara is very wise and people should listen - but they don't have to.


When we left Granny Teresa's house we went to the mountain. Nanny is always  talking and talking about this mountain called Sliabh Liag. When Seamai was only a little baby Nanny brought him up to the place called Bun Glas and lifted him up in the air to show him where he belonged. Nanny was funny and said 'Kunta Kinte' when she lifted him up and Grandad laughed and called her a 'daft thing' - but she meant it. Nanny says we all belong to the air and the sea and the mountains - lots of people think its the land that's important, the land and the land and the land. Nanny says all the wars in the world were caused by silly people fighting over a bit of muck.

Cara and Nanny stood on the viewing platform and looked down at the Giant's table and chair. Cara wanted to go down to it but Nanny said it was too far. One day Cara and Nanny and Grandad and Mamai are going to go out in a boat to see the table and chair properly. Then Grandad and Cara walked a little way up the mountain. Cara saw the Giant's cloak of purple heather lying over the mountain. Nanny and Cara tried to hear the Giant snoring but there were too many people and cars at Bunglas. And the midges were out and Nanny was scratching and cursing. So we all got back in the car and drove and drove and drove to Swords.

Cara and Liamy and Seamai and Katie all got excited to be back together and jumped and clapped and hugged. Then Cara and Nanny went to the Pavilions to get Cara new shoes - Cara got nice silver sparkly shoes with lights on. Cara's feet twinkle and sparkle and light up like coloured stars when she  runs and skips and jumps. Nanny says Cara is like a fairy. Cara not a fairy. Cara just Cara. Then Nanny say Cara a grumpy boots. Cara not a grumpy boots or tired or a fairy. Cara just Cara. So Nanny got ice creams and we sat on a seat and had a rest and ate our lovely cones. Then we went to the playgound but Cara too tired so we came home and cuddled up nice and cosy and read stories until we went to sleep.

On Monday Cara put on her Peppa togs and Nanny took Cara to Skerries beach. It was a beautiful day and we made sand castles then broke them. We drew pictures in the sand and a big heart with our names and kisses in the middle. We paddle in the little pool and mashed the sand worm casings with our feet. They are squidgey! Then we sat at the edge of the sea and let the waves chase us. Cara is going to be a real wave chaser when she is big. But then Nanny said there were lots of jelliers about so we had to go away from the water. We went to the car and got dressed and then we bought cones and Cara sat in Nanny's seat and ate hers. Then we had to clean the car. Grandad gets mad at sticky messes in his car. Silly Grandad! Then we came home and had lunch and Nanny went off to her shed to 'work'. Cara thinks Nanny just drinks tea and reads books in her blue shed. Maybe she does. But that's ok. Cara went to the playground with Grandad. It was fun. And then it was time for stories and bed.

And then it was ANOTHER big day! And Cara went for her first ever time to the swimming pool. Cara had to wear a swimming hat and armbands. Nanny says swimming hats are great levellers. Everyone looks silly and can't be grumpy when they wear swimming hats. Cara held Nanny's hand and we walked to the edge of the water. 'It's beautiful. Nanny it's beautiful' Cara said. And Nanny cried. Silly Nanny! And Cara went in the little pool first and then the big pool where Nanny held Cara and didn't let go and bounced Cara up and down and we sang 'Nellie the Elephant'. Then we went in the Jacuzzi and Cara laughed and laughed at the bubbles tickling. Then we went in the Lazy River and Cara loved the way the water pulled Cara and Nanny around. Then the Wave Machine came on and Cara sat at the edge and let the waves catch her. It was SO fun. Then a bad thing happened. Nanny and Cara went to the showers and Nanny tried washing Cara's hair. And Cara cried and roared and cried and roared and all the people looked at Nanny as if she was trying to murder Cara. Nanny is no good with Cara's hair. Cara called out 'Mamai Mamai Mamai' and Nanny said 'I know I know I know' but she still kept washing. It was TERRIBLE. But then we got dressed and got a chocolate bar, so Cara felt happy again.

Nanny scratched a card and shouted 'Hooray!'. She won €25. So we went to a shop called Vinnies and Nanny bought a lump of books and Cara bought a pirate ship and a train and a tee shirt. Cara played for ages and ages with the toys in Vinnies and had nice chats with some people. Then we came home and Grandad took Cara to the Pavilions where Cara saw Katie in her work. 'Katie!' said Cara and ran and hugged her. Katie was delighted. Katie is Cara's friend. When Cara and Grandad came home Nanny was in bed. She said she was knackered. So Cara go to bed too. And we had stories. And Cara read 'The Gruffalo' to Nanny because Nanny was tired and Nanny said it was perfick. And Cara and Nanny talked about Mamai coming home and got excited. And now we have to go to sleep so we will have energy for Mamai.

See you tomorrow! Love youXXXXX
  

I'm in love..............

It’s a miserable day in Swords today. The rain is unrelenting, sky a brooding grey and it’s cold enough to warrant putting the heat on. The type of weather that normally sends me to the edge of the abyss.

Not today though.

Why?

I am ensconced in my beautiful blue she shed, my me shed, tigin Eibhlin, and am head over heels in love with it. The only sounds I can hear are the rain pattering on the roof, sporadic louder splashes of rainwater spilling out of my house’s clogged gutters, and the soft hiss of gas from the Superser. My shed is what has been missing all my life. My own space. Solitude. 

When I started dabbling in writing twelve years ago I thought I had found the thing that had been missing in my life, my thing, my passion; the medium through which I could communicate coherently with others, express my world view. It seemed to fulfil that ‘what’s it all about?’’ hole for me at that stage in my life.

However, I recently realised that writing is, for me, is also an excuse to be on my own. To return to those times in childhood and adolescence where I could lose myself in a book for hours on end, only emerging from the dreamlike trance books put me in when someone physically touched me, bringing me back from the world the author had created for me. With the shed I have regained that solitude, and can use it how I like; to read, to write, to think. I’m privileged to have been able to indulge myself and buy this space, and for the first time ever I don’t feel guilty about spending money on myself. It’s an investment in my mental health as much as anything.

I’m raved here in the past about the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig, Co. Monaghan. I love that place; the first time I arrived there I felt like I had landed home. If I arrive there for a visit in an  energized mood I can usually achieve really good work, if I go there blocked it can help unblock me (unless I hit the Red Biddy too hard! Alcohol blocks creativity for me). It is the deep stillness of the place. A space to think. To be.

I’m getting exactly that same sense of energy and home in the silence of my shed. The quietness is nourishing my little fire of creativity, stopping me rushing things and submitting too early; I feel the work I’m producing now is a lot better than my pre she-shed work, my output is certainly up. There are no banging doors in it, no ringing doorbells, flushing loos, thunderous poundings up and down stairs;  no blaring radios, no babbling tvs, no strummin’ guitars pluckin’ banjos plinkin’ mandolins or ripplin’ pianos. There are no hummin’ whistlin’, singin’ mutterin’ bargin’ males.  There is only my breath, the rain on the roof, my fingers on the keyboard or pencil scratching across the page as I write letters to make words that form sentences, slowly building something, all this underscored by the sibilant hiss of the SuperSer and the occasional rustle of paper when I need to consult a book.

In one word. Bliss.

I may well become a hermit. I suppose l’ll still come out the odd day to play with yiz! If yiz will have me, that is. M’wah.

Brussels 22/03

The horrendous events that occurred in Brussels on Monday 22/3/2016 horrified me; they didn’t surprise me - just made me sad. Sad for those who lost their lives  - including the suicide bombers who were deluded into giving their lives for a cause that, to many, is incomprehensible.

Why am I not surprised? I’m female, Irish and European; I know my gender’s, my country’s, my continent’s history, I  know the extremes misogyny/religion/nationalism, and/or the perceived lack of a heard voice, humanity can commit. In both Ireland and Europe we are familiar with the appalling cruelty humans are capable of - particularly when we dehumanize others. There is no justification for depriving A.N. Other of the one thing that we have in common. In the words of the great Alan Bleasedale ' we all - 'live and breathe and fart after four lagers and lime'. 

 All those who died have family – mothers, fathers, children or siblings perhaps, extended family certainly, friends who love them; people who are hurting now because the other human they cared for is gone, leaving that  person sized hole in their lives. 

An intolerance of the ‘other’, a lack of  any attempt to ‘walk in my shoes’ can very quickly get out of hand – as History has shown us. It is time we grew up as a species – we should aim to follow the lead of Antoine Leiris and stop hating; together ‘we are more powerful than all the World’s armies’ http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/nov/17/bataclan-paris-victim-helene-muyal-husband-antoine-leiris-killers-open-letter

With those who lost loved ones yesterday, indeed on any day, I empathise; as for the rest of us, let us not hate – it will lead us again into the abyss.

Get on with it..............

I met an old friend yesterday and we rambled for a while together. He is in his seventies and hadn’t been well so we chatted about his health for a while. He’s feeling ok but has to take meds now all the time. I could see his vulnerability.

’I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this again’, he said. I knew what he meant. He had some mental ill-health about ten years ago and I had helped him through it.

‘You’re frightened?’ I asked. He nodded.

             ’It’s alright to be frightened. Acknowledge it, then get on with the normal things you do.’

 ‘But I could be dying!’ he exclaimed.

 ’We’re all dying. It’s how we handle the fact makes the difference.’ He nodded and I saw some of the trouble leave his face.

Not for long though. We started to discuss the election result, or rather non result.

’I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Are people that stupid and short-sighted?’ Do they not remember what Fianna Fail did? Do they not realise that our children and grandchildren now have to live abroad, away from us, because of their short sightedness? Their greed!’ He continued venting and I teased him to calm down or he’d have a ‘banger’. He laughed – a big shouty hearty laugh.

‘D’you know’ he said. ‘I meet two fellas I used to work with regularly for a drink. Both of them ended up at the top of the pile in their respective industries. One has a pension of about 60k , the other about 80k. And they voted for Fianna Fail. Because they felt too much had been taken from them by the FG/Labour coalition.’

 ‘Greed,’ I said, ‘pure greed. Still trying to keep up with the Jones’ I suspect’

‘That’s exactly it.’ He replied, ‘Bloody fools. Selfish bloody fools. I thought the government were doing a fairly decent job of cleaning up the mess. Well, I wash my hands of the whole damn lot of them.’

We parted then and I walked on thinking about how he felt. This man worked hard, paid all taxes and bills as they fell due. With his partner he reared a family, educated them, helped them out when they had to go abroad for work. One child is gay and chose to leave because Ireland of that time was so stifling for anyone different. The second child settled in Australia, has a good life, a partner and children. They don’t come home much.

I saw a great tee shirt logo some years back. It was the face of the iconic Peig Sayers (much hated by my generation of Dubliners) and underneath it was the legend ‘Recession, Mo Thoin’. It was the first time I ever got a laugh out of Peig! We have a great little country, lots of resources and resourceful people. Whatever the outcome of discussions over the next number of weeks for pity’s sake let there be no more Civil War and grandstanding politics, no more egos and squabbling. We’re all tired lads. Just get on with your bloody jobs and stop trying to keep up with the Jones’.

On snoring.....................

I love the Jemser dearly. He loves me even knowing all my bad bits. What's not to love in somebody like that? But SLoDG I may yet do time over that man's snoring.

Lots of people snore. I've even been told I snore myself on occasions. But the Jemeser is the King of the Snorers. If Snoring was an Olympic Sport then the Jemser would have brought home gold for Ireland for the last forty years - that's rougly ten gold medals - guaranteed. When we moved in together first I found a quick puck on his shoulder was sufficient to turn him over and give my poor battered ears some respite. He was a slender man then and, despite a broken nose and a deviated septum, his not carrying excess weight meant the snoring was more or less bearable unless he'd had a fierce feed of drink,

But as middle age approached he started to put on weight and ended up with a comfortable pot belly. The snoring got worse and it was musical beds in the house most nights, one or the other of us always ending up on the couch. If he'd been out for a few drinks he didn't even bother climbing the stairs, knowing he would be booted out of the bed within minutes of landing in it. I used to get frightened some nights listening to him. He might be lying on his back and snoring really loudly. Then he would stop breathing. Like - completely. His mouth would hang open for a few seconds and then his jaw would start to move like a fish's does when it's out of water. He'd then start to draw his knees up towards his chest (disturbing my nice little nest in the process). Just when I'd be about to belt him to make him wake up and breathe he would emit this awful gagging ack-ack-ack sound followed by an auk-auk-auk and his knees would slide back down the bed again. Then the whole process would start over again.

So, almost a decade ago, he went to a specialist who arranged for him to have a sleep test. The nurses were horrifed by what they heard and I instantly had their sympathy. He was supposed to go back and arrange to get this machine that helped you breathe properly at night and he was told to lose weight. He did lose a good bit of weight and as the snoring lessened again he didn't bother about the machine. If the snoring got bad on occasions I'd buy him a steroidal nasal spray which seemed to lessen the noise

In the last two years though he regained all the weight he'd lost and the snoring is the worst I've ever heard it. I cannot stay in a room when he is snoring. The noise penetrates my skull and I find it the most irrritataing noise ever. I swear, I really do feel like stabbing him some nights. Anything to make that infernal racket stop. It's so bad I can hear it all over the house at night - no matter what room he is sleeping in. Then I'm cranky because I can't sleep with the noise and he's not getting a decent nights rest becuase he isn't getting enough oxygen into his system to make him feel rested. So you have two cranky middle aged people sniping at each other all day.

 So he took himself off to the specialist again last month. He's been told to lose weight again; they now realise that the vast bulk of snoring and sleep apnoea problmens are caused by weight issues alone. In conjunction with that he is to be ftted with an orthodontic gumshield that will hold his mouth in such a position that it is impossible to snore. I cannot wait for this device to arrive, it's going to cost in the region of a thousand euro but, you know what - it's cheaper than a divorce! And we can hopefully share a bed again.....................

A Story involving Children, A Lost Dog, Starlings and Santa’s Sleigh…..a best seller!

I work as a part time childminder for two different families. On Mondays and Tuesdays I have my gorgeous girlies - aged 6, 5 and 3; Wednesday and Friday afternoons I have my best buddies-aged 12, 10 and 6. They are all great kids and all attend Gaelscoil Bhriain Boroimhe in Applewood, Swords. My best buddies are members of a relocated South African family - all of my buds were born in Ireland, and they speak both English and Irish (and fair play to their mother for mastering Irish to be able to help them with homework – she has better Irish than 99% of our population) with a delightful Afrikaans’s accent. They family blonde, sallow-skinned and beautiful.

 On Thursday night last I was sitting at home idly scrolling through Facebook when I spotted a picture of a dog that looked remarkably like Charlie, new pet (with the smelliest farts in Ireland), of my best buddies. This dog had been found near Airside in Swords, Dublin, and looked very plaintive in the photo.. He had been taken in by a family and they'd posted his image on a local ‘Things For Sale, Swap or Free’ page in the hope someone in the area would recognise him. I mentioned it to the Jemser and he said

‘Sure ring your best buddies’ mother and let them know.’

 But it was late and I didn’t want to disturb them so I left it. The whole thing went completely out of my head on Friday morning – until I got a text from me buddies’ Mam asking me something, and mentioning that she’d left the side gate open as Charlie had done a runner. The family only got Charlie five weeks ago - from another nice home; but he is unused to the area and apt to bolt to explore if one leaves the  front door open for even  a second. The kids aren’t used to this yet and so forget to be careful. Plus they’re kids. He had gotten out on the odd occasion before Thursday but they’d always managed to catch him. But he went AWOL Thursday evening - the children were heart broken and very worried. Losing a pet is hard enough on adults, but there is a very special bond between children and their pets, I suppose because children’s lives are - for the most part, carefree; so any little anxiety hits them harder. The children absolutely adore Charlie and have showered him with affection since he came into their lives, they play with him constantly when at home, and he is mad about them all. The parents are incredibly loving busy people but hadn’t taken Charlie to the vet yet for chipping, nor had they gotten around to buying a dog tag. That’s first thing on their list this morning!

                ‘OMG!’ texted me to her,‘saw him on FB!At least I think it was him. I’ll get kids to confirm and if it’s him we’ll collect him.’

 She couldn’t access FB in work to check if it was Charlie so I popped onto the FB page and posted that I thought I knew the owners and would be in touch later. I was right excited going up to me best buddies’ house. I had a little Christmas present for each of them and planned to take them out to eat as a special Christmas treat. I love treating kids, love their faces when something different happens to them. Oh! to be a child again –  to still have that sense of wonderment and joie de vivre. Mind you, I do try me best to be tuned into it. I had the laptop open onto that lovely picture of Charlie on FB, ready and waiting hard for the scholars coming in.

The ten year old was first through the door.

‘Hi Ev-eh-lin, Charlie ran away yesterday – is he back?’ Love that child’s accent.

‘No….But’, I  raised my right hand, palm out towards him, palm outwards,‘look at this. Is that Charlie?’

‘Yes. That’s my dog.’

‘Well then, he’s found. He’s safe in a nice family’s house.’

His face went through every emotion in ten seconds flat and ended in sheer unadulterated joy as he fist pumped, jumped up and down , shouting

’ My dog. She found my dog. The other two landed in through door.

’What? What?What?’ That lovely blossoming twelve year old, her face a little anxious.

‘Charlie, Ev-eh-lin found Charlie. Look.’

Her face lit up like the twinkliest Christmas tree ever.

‘What? What?’’ She was confused momentarily.

‘Look. Look at his picture.' I put my arm around her, drew her to the laptop. 'It’s him, he was found – I didn’t find him, I just spotted it on Facebook. I have contacted the lady who found him and I’m waiting on a text or phone call to tell us where Charlie is.’

More jumping and fist-pumping and -

 ‘Ev-eh-Lin you are the best childminder ever’.

This despite my protestations that I hadn’t actually done anything – just luckily spotted their dog and joined the dots. The six year old decided I was magic. In my Story Queen persona I am magic – and he likes that idea.

‘And I’m taken yiz to Burger King as a special Christmas treat. And you’re even allowed dessert after dinner.’

 The joyous whoops continued. Then I gave them their pressies – books of course, John Green and Chris O’Dowd for the twelve year old, David Walliams for the ten year old ,and Emer Martin and co-writers for the six year old - along with a magic set - the younger they are the less they regard books or clothes as ‘proper’ presents. One of my gorgeous girlies went into meltdown earlier in the week because I had gifted her a fabulous dressing up dress which looked stunning on her. Deep blue crushed nylon velveteen with a white fur trim and a long fur trimmed cloak, tiara and wand included!

‘Y’didn’t even get us a toy’ she huffed initially, throwing guna on floor.  Her mother was mortified. The child’s a child. It happens.

 Back to me best buddies. As they opened their pressies and thanked me I kept an eye on FB – lots of comments and messages flying to and fro about our Charlie. The kids were highly entertained as I read them out. After the excitement had calmed down somewhat and they each had a little play on the X Box we set out for BurgerKing. I have a Christmas CD in the car and we sang-along as we drove. I felt all fuzzy and warm inside – like a little girl on Christmas morning when she knows, just knows, everything is going to be perfect. No one will fight, no one will shout in anger, everybody in her family will be happy all day long. No-one will get drunk and ruin everything. There will be love.

We got to the fast food joint and the kids picked what they wanted. They messed with paper crowns and a little Christmas decoration as we waited for the food. They talked. I listened. We laughed at silly things. It was fun. As we ate our grub I noticed through the window a huge murmuration of starlings roiling through the sky as the hard bright winter’s evening drew to a close. I pointed them out to the children and we chatted about it. Then ‘what to my wondering eye should appear’ - behind the starlings and very, very high up, but something that looked so like Santa’s sleigh it was incredible. Of course, it was a plane - and its angle and whatever way the setting sun caught it  gave it that mysterious pinkish silhouette. We were all gob-smacked. A magical ten seconds.

‘It can’t be him. It’s too soon. I only sent my letter today.’ Six year old buddy looked a bit worried.

‘You’re right. It’s a plane – but doesn’t it look lovely with all the starlings flying about.

‘Yes. But Ev-eh-lin. It’s not Santa.’

‘No. You’re right.’

We went home then and he showed me some of his magic tricks. Watch yer back Derren Brown. The lady who  was caring for Charlie phoned just before I left me buddies' house and they’ll all be reunited this morning. I’ll batter their Da if he doesn’t send me a picture of them with their beloved animal. I won’t batter their Ma, because it’s always the Das’s forgettorys that causes these things,

I had a brilliant day. Happy Christmas yiz all.

The Story Queen's Aul' Owls..............

My favourite children's picture book has long been Martin Waddell's 'Owl Babies'. In fact it is probably my all time, any genre, book. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. It has a little message without being didactic. It is a story about mothers and children and the love between them. It is a beautiful book.

   I dressed up as my alter-ego, Her Majesty The Story Queen, last week and paid a visit to the children in Appleseeds playschool in Swords. Her Majesty met thirty wonderful children, all in or around three years of age. They all have a guileless charm, great innocence and a love of life. They are not afraid to say exactly what's on their mind. We had a great chat and Her Majesty told them all about StoryLand and her Magic Bicycle and her best friend Santa Claus (Storyland is 2nd left after The North Pole) and about The King who is really terribly lazy and doesn't DO books and about her eight children Molly, Polly, Ruth and Rose, Billy, Bobby, John and Joe. Then we read Owl Babies and the children shouted out the recurring line in it, that is - owl baby Bill saying 'I want my Mammy'. One of the wee girls I help look after attends the playschool and although she knows I am The Story Queen she still buys into the fantasy. We pretend that Evelyn the Minder is the Story Queen's cousin and they look alike. The Story Queen left the playschool to a resounding cheer and lots of happy waving.

   This morning I went to the local shopping centre with my little charge and we were wandering around Penneys when I spotted a little owl hat. I put it on her and it was so cute I had to have it. Then I had a brain wave and bought two more hats.
    'Why you do that Ellen' (she can't pronounce my name).
    'Well, I was thinking. Why don't we wrap up these hats  and put in a little note for your two friends'    (they play in the yard together while we wait for their older siblings to come out of school.)
   'We can say the parcel came down the chimney from The Story Queen.'
    Her face lit up, then fell.
    'But they be all dirty.'
    'No no, sure the Story Queen is magic - she just sprinkles some magic dust on them so they won't    get dirty.'

    We bought the hats and some nice red paper and when we got home wrapped them up. She was     beside herself with excitenment as we walked up to the school. As soon as she spotted the pals she was off.
. 'Leila! Leila! Alannah! Look! Look what The Story Queen send you - down my chimbly!' Much excited tearing of the paper. Then they put their owl hats on and beamed at each other, just like the real Owl Babies.
  'Now', said Evelyn the Minder. 'The Story Queen told me to ask you - what does Bill say?' And at the top of their lungs they shouted,
  'I WANT MY MAMMY,' before skipping happily away.

Such joy. Such delight - for  a cheap little hat from Penneys. It's the child's imagination that's priceless.


PS Her Majesty is appearing in The Gutter Bookshop in Temple Bar on Saturday Dec 6 at 10.30am for a forty five minute session - free admission.

I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles…………

I am a very privileged person. This week  I spent time with two ladies, one in her eighties the other in her ninety-first year and today I spent a few hours with my delicious nineteen month old niece Busy Lizzie Long-Legs.

Why do we forget how to live between the ages of 16 and 40? We are human BEINGS not human DOINGS. In a perpetual rush to acquire stuff, accumulate wealth and be better than Joe Bloggs next door we forget the simplest things in life, the ones that give us the greatest pleasure. Time. Time spent with family and friends, people who love us. The three people I mentioned above all have time in abundance and I am privileged that they share that time with me. Chatting. Laughing.  

My older friends like to reminisce about things that happened in their youth, like showing me photographs of their loved ones and telling me about their little foibles and fancies. They like going for gentle strolls, breathing fresh air and enjoying the sights and sounds of the natural world. We talk of  everything and nothing. I always hug them when I greet them and again when I’m leaving. Chats are lovely but hugs are better.

My niece loves the fresh air too. Today we spent some time in the playground, marvelled at all the planes overhead (all going to Africa of course!). Then we walked up to the shopping centre and purchased some Very Important Bubbles – Busy Lizzie LongLegs took the money from me and paid for them herself. We walked back to a nearby park and took our shoes and socks off. We decided that the slightly long grass underfoot was really lovely. We lay down for a while and looked at the clouds. Then we had a tickle fight. Then it was Bubble Blowing Time. Oh! What fun! When you are not yet aged two there is nothing as exciting and joyous as chasing bubbles with someone who loves you in a park on a sunny day. Actually it still applies when you are fifty-two!  

When the bubbles were gone we strolled back to the house, playing Monsters Chasing Evelyn on the way. We decided it had been a really nice day and we are going to repeat it very soon. Busy Lizzie Long Legs is my best buddy for now and we parted with hugs and kisses. I am feeling very loved this week. And I am so looking forward to becoming a step granny in October when stepdaughter#2 gives birth. I’ll be the best step-granny in the twenty six counties.  

So life is good – filled with people I love and people who need me and long may it continue.  

Thalidomide and the death of a dream..

German based pharmaceutical company Gruenenthal issued an apology - the first in fifty years- to those whose lives were affected by taking the drug designed to counteract morning sickness to the late fifties. This drug was prescribed up to 1961 when it was withdrawn. More than 10,000 babies worldwide were born with limbs missing or foreshortened because their mothers had taken the thalidomide drug. Goodness knows how many miscarried. Of course the babies themselves are the chief sufferers as they grew to adulthood; many never reached adulthood, but mothers fathers siblings and extended families - all their lives were touched too because of a defect in the drug. Scandalously it continued to be prescribed long after doctors had notified the company of their concerns

Listening to the debate on radio/tv/social media about this apology this weekend brought it home to me the tragedy that befell my parents in April 1960. Mam and Dad married in 1959 and were delighted to find they were expecting a baby very shortly after their honeymoon. They were both in their early twenties, he a Garda she a shop assistant with only primary education. It was a brave new world for them. An adventure they were on together - Dad a country lad while Mam hailed from the sophistication of Marino in Dublin. On the 15th of April 1960 they were walking up Griffith Avenue towards their new home in Willow Park Crescent in Ballygall (then Finglas, then Ballymun now Glasnevin!!) chatting about the visit they had just had with Mam's parents and laughing at the antics of the new pup they had 'adopted'. Something startled the pup and she scarpered out onto the road and unfortunately was hit by a car, she died immediately. Mam was awfully upset and she felt the baby leap within her. They wrapped the dog in a bag and carried it home to bury it.

It was three or four days before Mam realised that she hadn't felt the baby move. She'd leave it another day. She couldn't be bothering the doctors with imaginings. Sure she was only seven months - it might be normal for the baby to settle down and be quieter in the last few months. She had no information barring what she could glean from hushed conversations between her mother and neighbours, she was the first of her girlfriends to marry, her older sister was married but living in the States. She was a complete innocent. On the fifth day of stillness in her womb she took herself to the GP who immediately referred her to the Rotunda Hospital. There it was confirmed that there was no heartbeat.

It was the practise at the time to wait to see would Mother Nature take her course and when she didn't labour was induced on April 25th . To have knowingly carried a dead baby inside her must have been so frightening and horrific - no counsellors then! The baby was whisked away and my Mother never saw her first son. She was never allowed hold him, never really allowed grieve My Father was allowed see his dead son and all he ever said was 'She was better off not knowing.' The baby was buried in the Angels plot in Glasnevin Cemetery - stuck in Limbo forever according the Catholic doctrine of the time. Poor little soul! Poor sad parents. They believed for years that the shock Mam had received when the dog died had in some way startled the baby in here womb. In later years Dad did say that the baby had been thalidomide and had decomposed somewhat in the ten days.

God love them - those two youthful souls - their little piece of Paradise ruined. It must've made them grow up very quickly  It is no wonder my arrival eleven months later meant total unparalleled joy for them. Mam said she never ever took her eyes off me. I'd well believe it for in my mind's eye I can still see that face, all smiles and laughter leaning in over my cot to greet me. Her smiling face. The first face I loved. Poor old Dad didn't get a look in in the love fest between the two of us! He must have been so happy to see her restored to some semblance of the carefree girl he had married two years previously.

With the passing of time  we can look at our parents' past and see the events that shape them and us. When we are living an experience we only have the now - and it is only later with the wisdom of hindsight and the mellowing of years that we can see, analyse and forgive all the shortcomings perceived or real of our forbears.

Sleep soundly big brother, wherever your little soul wanders. I grew up hearing all about you. You were loved even though you may not have had life outside the womb. I would love to have met you. It is ironic that thirty years later to the day she gave birth to you my mother found herself again in a hospital - this time at my bedside following my first traumatic mental health hospitalization. Dates had huge significance for Mam - it shows that she never ever forgot her son. Her real first child.  

Grubby ceilings and lost boys............

I'm flat on my back with a lower back muscle spasm since Monday morning and finally worked out I can type by using son#2's little netbook open wide against two pillows balanced on my considerable stomach. Not a pretty sight. And I have far too much time to think despite the semi drugged fug brought about by difene and paracetamol.

It reminds me vividly of the time I was expecting son#2. He's twelve next week and I feel him slipping away from me daily. I'm glad for him - he's developing into a funny, caring human being and Jemser and I had something to do with that. But my baby boy!I was gi-bloody-normous and had back problems and chronic insomnia in the last trimester of that pregnancy. Many many nights were spent lying on the floor staring at the ceiling talking to our unborn child - telling him (or her at the time) how great it was all going to be when we finally met.

And it has been great,every single minute. That child never ever gave us a moment's worry. He is healthy, incredibly bright and funny. Like me he can be a bit awkward and is going through an incredibly sensitive phase but he is maturing faster than I ever did and his social skills will be better than mine ever were as a teen or young adult. He's not afraid to talk about how he feels or what plans he has for his future. So much potential.

But for another little while he will be my baby boy, still needing hugs and physical contact. Soon that will be forbidden by teenage withdrawal but it comes back, son#1 doles out bear hugs every so often - just 'cause I'm his Mam, and I cherish each one.

Neck and arms getting sore now, so back to contemplating the mysteries of parenthood and looking at my grubby ceilings. Jemser! Where's the paint brush?

The Kennedys of Glandore Road

About a month ago I blogged about having to make a decision between two pieces of work, two sets of characters, two novels I have been tinkering with. I wanted to concentrate on one of them, stop shilly-shallying and move it along briskly - I know I can do it once I actually apply myself. Eventually I plumped for 'The Daisy Killer' a novel that is based very very loosely on my grandfather's life. I had mentioned the novel to the last surviving member of my grandfather's family - my lovely uncle Tom Kennedy. Tom was delighted , I told him I was inventing an affair for Grandad in Detroit - a city where he worked for some years in the 50s. 'Well, he deserved it,' said Tom, 'I'm sure he would have a good chuckle over it.'

I was delighted and told Tom I'd be dedicating the book to the Kennedys of Glandore Road and more particularly to him. My lovely Uncle Tom died last night - a young man, he was only in his mid sixties and he joins the rest of the Kennedys of Glandore Road somewhere outside of this dimension we know. They all died young these Kennedy siblings, Norah in her forties, Mam - Elizabeth in her fifties and Tom - the baby of the family - in his sixties.

But by God did Tom enjoy life! He was the a firm believer in living in the moment, rarely worried and always got by. He reared four lovely children in Swords, where I now also live, and his family were always close. He adored his wife Margaret and they were well known about the village - enjoying socialising with others - they have a wide circle of friends and loved a good meal, a few drinks and lively conversation. Tom was a great raconteur - he always had a yarn for you and if he met you out at night nothing suited him better than a chat and a pint - he'd dodge out for a fag and possibly a bet over the course of the evening-he delighted in taking money from the bookies! He was very like Grandad in his gentleness of manner, in his courtesy and respect. A lovely man.

Tom and Margaret were like Darby and Joan - they went everywhere together and were great pals as well as lovers and parents. My heart is sore at the thought of how Margaret must now be feeling. The other half of her gone. But he is truly only gone in the flesh. For Margaret is surrounded by their loving children and many grandchildren. And in every one of those children and grandchildren Tom lives on. In a word, a look, a smile, a laugh.

I could ramble on for hours about Tom, tell loads of stories about him but there is one that I feel is particularly apt for it shows his sense of humour - that which kept him buoyed up even in the darkest days and nights of his illness. Tom's Dad, my Grandad- died when I was about fourteen. Grandad had been in the printing game as had his father before him and Tom was also involved in printing. In the funeral car Tom sat in with the driver and I sat behind with my mother, grandmother and other elderly relatives. Tom lit up his ubiquitous cigarette and started to regale us all with stories about his Dad - a man he loved very much. Grandad had been very friendly with the Kirwan family - a long established undertaking firm in Dublin . At one stage they were wondering how they could go about advertising their business and brought up the subject with Grandad. Grandad promptly came up with the legend 'Kirwan's Kosy Koffins Make Korpses Komfortable'. My mother, the driver and I all burst into laughter - smothered quickly by the look on the Great Aunt Norah's face. That was Tom - a man who celebrated life and enjoyed every minute he drew breath. A life lived in the only way it should be - fully.

Coladh Samh Tom - I'll miss you. x

I need your opinion.......

Ok. I need help. I've been faffing about for the last year with two novels and several unfinished stories and I really need input from others to channel me in one direction only. Both novels will be written because the characters are very much alive to me now but realistically I need to follow one set for a few months and see what happens to them. I have an ending and a beginning for one so that'll probably be the first one I'll write. Here is the core, the pitch of the story - what I need to know is-would your read it? Do you like books that are set in the past? In environment outside of your own, Do you like love stories? Stories of unrequited love in particular and tales of lost opportunities?

My working title is The Daisy-Killer and it is a fictionalised version of some parts of the life of my grandfather Tom Kennedy. Family are all ok with this. Both Tom and my grandmother Evelyn are dead as are their siblings and unfortunately so too are two of their children. Tom was born in Dublin and in the mid 1930's he married a woman from Edinburgh in Scotland, no-one has any record of where they met but I have him taking a trip to Scotland on holiday and meeting Evelyn, my grandmother. After a distant courtship by letter she comes to Dublin and they marry. They had three children - very well spaced. Evelyn found sex horrific - her frigidity stemming from her unbelievable tough up bringing in the tenement houses of Edinburgh and Leith and a mind that was dogged by depression for all of her life. I'm speculating as to the underlying causes of Evelyn's dislike of sex of course, my mother told me my grandmother was frigid but I have no way of knowing if that is true.

Tom settled for he had - he was too decent a human being and devout a Catholic to do otherwise. He worked as a stone man (a typesetter today)and was never out of work. But it was a trade - not a profession which really didn't make it easy for them to buy the beautiful three bedroomed house on Glandore Road off Griffith avenue, this was about 7 years after they married. It necessitated a big mortgage even though they had saved a large deposit thanks to Evelyn's thrifty nature and determination to have this big beautiful house. Tom liked to gamble and he loved a pint - nothing to excess but he really didn't have the money for either addiction. So when, in the early 1950s, an opportunity arose for him to earn really great money on the Detroit Free Press he grabbed the chance. His oldest daughter was already in the States and was courting a Dublin boy over there, his second daughter was in her late teens and working and his son had just started secondary school. He lived in Detroit for five years - sending home money often. He only came home twice for a holiday in that time. My mother married in 1959 and I know
he was home by then, he worked with Smurfit's Print and Packaging until he retired. Betting on a few horses and drinking a few pints. Sitting in with Evelyn watching TV when she wasn't too depressed to be in bed. He died of a heart attack in a single bed in the boxroom of my grandmother's little suburban palace in 1976.

The title comes from something my mother told me. Evelyn hated daisies, they ruined the look in her lawn and every summer she followed Tom around the garden pointing them out as he sprinkled weedkiller on them. One summer day, a year before he died, my mother was visiting them, sitting out the back enjoying the sunshine as the went about their daisy killing. A plane passed over head and Mam said Tom lifted his face to the sky and she never ever saw such a look of yearning on anybody's face. She knew he wished he was elsewhere. Mam was an inveterate romantic and that look combined with my imagination is populating the story (see, I've already made up my mind!)So in the novel I'm giving Tom a love affair in Detroit - a passionate affair with a feisty American journalist. But will I let Tom stay with his imagined lover in the States instead of coming home to this god-forsaken bog after his five years? Or should I impregnate that lover and give him an even bigger moral dilemma? Is it right to change history for the sake of a story? I suppose it is - once I'm not claiming it as fact.

I have to go now folks . I've a book to write. BTW the other book is about a man from a Pakistani family in Limerick who falls in love with a sexy young Kildare woman and is ostracized by his family. It doesn't help that his love is a witch! But I can't find the ending on that one that isn't totally corny ( based on fact but I need a denouement - maybe that one is a screenplay!) Then I have this other idea about a young Irish girl who is of Eastern European extraction and wins an X Factor type competition which eventually destroys both her and her family. Then I have this idea about....see, this is why nothing actually gets done!