Oz, cuid a dho

So there we were. Finally. After months of preparation and excited chit chat we were in Sydney. A wet and dismal Sydney for the most part. E had warned us it would be cold and damp but we laughed –she had forgotten what the weather was like at home, sure weren’t the temperatures in Sydney mid-winter as high as the temperatures at home in late Spring?

The house we had rented was problematic, it was tiny and we were packed one on top of the other without any recourse to a suitable outdoor space to escape. What is it about holiday en famille that is enough to drive one insane? Particularly for that first week as each individual struggles to come to terms with the proximity of other individuals. And everybody straining against the leash to do their own thing. I am invariably cantankerous for the first week of holidays until I find a routine. The boys squabbled continuously like discontented starlings so that did not help.

We did all the touristy things. I admit to a thrill when I touched the cool tile of the Sydney Opera House. The magnificence of the harbour area and Sydney Bridge only being outdone by the sheer vastness and barreness of the plains of land we had seen as we flew into the city . Nature’s stoic greatness exceeds man’s attempts to dominate the landscape, it always will. We went to hear E. sing in a jazz session that first week. I had almost forgotten what a wonderful voice she has. We could see how fond of her all the other musicians were and it gladdened our hearts.

We found Sydney expensive. Books in particular are an insane price. I spotted a friend’s novel- ‘The Other Boy’ by Yvonne Cassidy - in one large bookstore, I was horrified to see it priced at over Aud$30, that’s almost €20!

We spent our first full weekend in a beautiful house in the Blue Mountains, about an hour’s drive from Sydney. I had heard of the place from a lovely young woman I met in the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annamakerrig last year and it lived up to her descriptions. We had a delicious late lunch in a tiny restaurant called the ‘Blue Mist Café’. Best of all the place was full of second-hand books for sale. I could quite happily have browsed there all day long. The following day we ‘did’ the National Park in Katoomba, this is a magnificent place and very sensitively managed. Seeing the dense rain forests and the strangeness of the terrain I could not help but wonder what it must have been like for the first European settlers who made their way there. It can only have been a very harsh life.

On our last morning in the area we partook of the most expensive breakfast in Austrlalia! A restaurant preserved in the art deco style of the hotel it was when it was originally built. The memorabilia and nostalgia industry is alive and kicking ass in Katoomba.

My mood started to improve, as it invariably does on the second week of holidays. We had all found our stride and ways of accommodating each other. Jemser and I went to see ‘Long Day’s Journey into Night’ with William Hurt in the lead role, wonderful. Jemser, son#1 and E climbed Sydney Bridge in the pissin’ rain and came home elated. Later in the week E, son#2 and I went to see the musical ‘Wicked’ in a beautiful old theatre, great show – but I doubt the songs will live as long as those from ‘The Wizard of Oz’.

That week we also visited an old friend of Jemser’s who settled in Sydney over twenty yers ago and we sat on his deck admiring his pool and garden. The orange tree at the end of the garden had unfortunately been blasted by wind and frost and looked totally lopsided as only three branches remained clothed in leaves and budding fruit. I’m sure I’ll use the image as a symbol for something at some stage when I’m feeling profound and appearing pretentious!

Next up was our trip to the Great Barrier Reef…….worthy of a blog on it’s own. More anon.

Our Odyssey to Oz, Cuid a hAon

Yes, I know my Irish spelling is dodgy. Don't snitch on me to Jemser if it's wrong because he'll deck me!


Ok. I’m back! Did yiz not notice how quiet the country was for the past three weeks? That’s ‘cause I was away and wasn’t prepared to sell one of my kids in order to fund a long enough session in an Internet Cafe to blog. But I took notes and will be boring you all to death with ‘me holliers’ for the next few posts. Blogging and Facebook are the new way of showing your workmates your holiday snaps – the memory of your holiday being incredibly precious to you and mattering not a whit to anyone else.

The clan’s Odyssey to Oz began with a gloriously sunny Dublin morning, a 7.30 am taxi ride to the airport with a stereotypical taxi driver who slammed everything Irish, British, American and Australian. In ten minutes! Everything went smoothly at airport, much hilarity at the fact that two of son#1’s pals came to see him off! They mourned his leaving them for THREE WHOLE WEEKS over free coffee and paid-for egg mcmuffins in the airport’s Mc Donalds. Son #1 claimed he would be homesick for these gangly lads. I laughed. I shouldn’t have laughed-it became horribly obvious he was homesick later in the trip, more on which anon.

We flew with Ethiad airlines and it was an experience. Even in Economy it is the luxurious end of air travel. All male members of fambly thrilled with individual screens in seat backs showing a huge variety of movies, tv shows, music videos and computer games. Staff incredibly courteous and even though there were several tiny infants on board the flight was quiet and civilised. I finally got to see Neil Jordan’s ‘Ondine’ , what a magical film! The part of the fisherman Syracuse must have been written for Colin Farrell because he was superb in it. All performances were brilliant in fact and the scenery, sets etc were beautiful. Definitely a winner.

For the rest of the flight into Abu Dhabi I read, wrote, ate – relatively decent airline grub and studied the forward view on screen from a camera mounted somewhere on the plane. A joy of a journey and then a smooth trafer to a second flight. And none of our bags got lost, although I could have done with losing one or all of the male members by the time we arrived! And big step-kid #1 was waiting for us at the airport. Looking as beautiful as ever. Or maybe even beautifuller. It was so, so good to see her. I think I might have hugged her too hard and she me, because the two of us shed a few tears-much to the bemusement of the males in our lives. What is it about men and tears? They just don’t get them at all do they?
More later…

Doing a Barack on it.....

What to blog aimlessly about today, or it it aimless blogging or aimlessly blogging?
'Tis all pure sh**e anyway. My imagination has deserted me for the last few weeks and Ii couldn't engage with a fictional character or an idea if it put a ring on my finger and married me. What to do?

Continue blogging aimlessly I suppose. Another possible ghost-writing project coming my way soon, so that might kickstart something for me.

Son #1 has started to write lyrics but isn't ready to show them to the world, well myspace at least, he is doing his first official 'gig' - two numbers as opening act at some charity gig in a small country pub a few miles from where we live. All thoughts of exams have flown from his music oriented brain and I'm quite sure I will be asked,
'Will you tell me what you think Mam' a thousand times between now and the gig. I'm bloody tone-deaf and if I say 'it's wonderful' he'll think - 'sure, she hasn't a clue'. If I say 'I'm not mad about it' he'll think - 'she still hasn't a clue and she doesn't even love me enough to lie'.

Jemser says I should not project my own anxieties onto my children. Actually they weren't the words he use. He said 'Not everyone is as irrationally unsure of themselves as you.' He's right. Maybe that's why I can't write at the moment (except for aimless etc...)

I have to do a Barack on it. Then I'll conquer the world - but I still won't think it had anything to do with any talent I had (or hadn't)

Promise next blog will be positive, forward looking ,dynamic.......

Fireflies........

Someone whom I love very deeply suffered a bit of a wobbly over the last week. This prompted me to contemplate yet again how powerful and delicate an organ the brain is, how easily the balance of it can be disturbed and how distressing such disturbances are for both the person who is suffering and that person’s friends and family.

I suppose I understand it a little myself because I have sunk into some terrifying pits over a twenty year period. I get the very odd high-very, very, odd and not enough to warrant either medication or psychotherapy. I quite like the highs, I always write my best work when I’m in that head, the big ideas come and I try to hold them, write them down, record them for use in some piece at a future date. The worst I do is stay awake too long and talk too much. After the last episode I mentioned these warning signs to the beloved other, he is in general able to spot the dark clouds glowering before I do, but he’s not so tuned to the slight highs and his reaction was

‘But you talk so much anyway, how am I to know you’re going high?’

It’s hard on him and on my family but they’re great. They never ever condemn me, tell me to pull up my socks or to get on with it and stop feeling sorry for myself. I wouldn’t blame them if they did, living with mental illness is haard on everyone in the family. Sometimes I feel self-indulgent, letting the high or low get the better of me – particularly a bad low day, a day I cannot, physically cannot get out of bed, a day I want to die, count the paracetamol or contemplate the branches of trees pondering would they take my weight in a noose. I hope I never get to that space again where I actually do something with the thoughts that lurk in the recesses of my mind. But sometimes these very thoughts are the only things that calm me. Planning my death, my funeral – incredibly morbid, dark dark thoughts.

But then the doorbell might go and a freckle-faced boy comes home, and how could I leave him yet? How could I abandon him when he still needs me. He and his brother, my step daughters, my husband, family and friends. They are my ‘will-to-meaning’ (Viktor Frankyl). I draw breath for them. I be. For them. And as long as they are I too will be.

Why am I blogging about it? Why pour my soul, the fireflies in my brain onto the page? Because I have to. We have to. As a society we have to drag mental health centre stage, it is an area of medicine where prevention pays off. With the slow decline of religion in the Western World something must replace that spirituality, the comfort the contemplation of the divine gave to generations. Whatever the Divine might be. For we all need a ‘will-to-meaning’, something to make sense of it all, make living worthwhile. For some it is Art – painting, music, reading, writing – all the disciplines. For others sport or yoga or something non-chemical for which one has a passion. That, and one good teacher, is all any human being needs after all basic physical needs are met to live a contented life. Live, love and be safe in the moment.

Amn’t I horrid deep?

Volcano Ash and Pink Windolene

I liked this aul' volcano ash initially. We live three miles from Dublin Airport and although we are not on any flight path we cannot get over the lovely stillness in the air without the planes. I even stopped shouting at the kids.

And the air feels different, like going out into the open from a stuffy house ( does that make sense)? I have never seen such magnificent sun rises and sunsets, there will be a quare clatter of poems churned out on the subject I'm sure!

But as my poetry is poo I decided to be a domestic goddess instead and washed my windows. Pink Windolene and the Irish Times.

Well, they keep telling us we need to get back to basics and for my money you can't get more basic then that. Although if I was being true to my upbringing it should have been the Evening Press I was using- sadly defunct. I loved reading Con Houlihan's column even though I hadn't a bulls notion about sport, but my God - that man could write. I remember him saying once that 'any man who misplaced an apostrophe was capable of anything.' I thought it the most intelligent thing I had ever heard although it sounds a bit Oscar Wildeish to me and Con may have nicked it.

Back to my windows. So there I was streaking this chalky pink shit on a J -cloth across the admittedly filthy windows. I felt utterly content, the sun was shining on the back of my neck and I love that first heat of the sun every year. I could hear Mick next door cutting his grass. Mick next poor is always cutting his grass - he obsesses over it. Jemser reckons Mick must get an orgasm when he cuts the grass because there does not appear to be any real need to cut it half the time. Mick-next door's grass cutting habit appears in almost every thing I write. Why's that? Any Freudian out there please tell me.

So, utterly content window-washing lawnmower listening me dutifully rubbed the Pink Windolene in and pulled it off again with another J cloth - My Ma used old kids' vests. Do kids still wear vests? Or is that a paedo question?

I then attempted to polish the windows with the news paper but only succeed in leaving big gloops of it,pink papier machier-like, on the windows. But I kept going and valiantly rubbed and scrubbed and polished until my windows were almost invisible.

I felt very satisfied with myself that evening and sat down with a cup of tea and two Jaffa cakes and happily contemplated my domestic goddessnish.

Then I got up this morning and the bloody things were covered in the finest of volcano ash.

I'll take the hose to them the next time.

You can't fatten a thoroughbred......

A friend of my oldest son took a remarkable picture of him. Not that he is a remarkable looking human being but she seems, to me, to have caught his essence. His strength, his humour, his compassionate nature. (I’m his Ma I’m allowed to wax lyrical).

I showed the photo to all and sundry – beaming mother, look at the fruit on my womb, type of thing and one friend who is involved in the world of fashion and beauty suggested he get a portfolio together and she would take him on her books as one of her models. But he would have to get rid of the fringe.

Silence in the house. The son, like all his peers, is into hair. Hair makes a statement – or so I’m told - I thought you just had to keep it clean and neat. Hair is like shoes, both tell the world how you want to be perceived. Now the son has gone through all sorts of hairstyles in the last five years, from crew cut to a No. 1, from a bleached blonde streak standing up like a Mohican at the centre parting to the latest asymmetrical fringe. This fringe irritates me. But it’s his hair and I always swore I would not fall out with my kids over either hair or clothes, life is too short and their bodies are their bodies not mine etcetera.

But this fringe. He constantly plays with it or throws it off to one side with a flick of his head like a horse trying to keep flies away from its arse. He poses endlessly in front of the mirror to get that smouldering seductive look he thinks will get him women. He’s wrong of course. His smile , his laughter and teasing gentle ways are what the ladies will go for. The fringe kills me because it also hides his lovely eyes.

I have made all these comments (without bursting his ego bubble – impossible), and was told,
“Be quiet woman! Sure you haven’t a clue about what looks good.”

Which is a fair point. But it killed me that when some other good looking sexily dressed lady – of my vintage - told him to cut his fringe that he was quite prepared to do it. Have I failed him in someway that he responded to the opinion of another popinjay like himself rather than his sensible parent?

No. I haven’t failed him, I hope. His appearance is important too him, but at aged fifteen earning a few euro from said appearance is even more important. And like he says:

‘Not worth falling out with her over it. I can always grow it again once she’s signed me’
I think I have reared a politician

Maximum One Bitch Per House.

I'm meat in this house. My kids are refusing to talk to me and Jemser won't look me in the eye. Why? I took the dog back to Dog's Trust.

I know, I know. I waxed lyrical. What can I say? I was a fool in the first place.

But the amount of doo-doos in a small suburban garden - the jarvey nappies started to look appealing! The amount of excavating she did to my small but previously pleasing garden. The chewed clothes,shoes, she chewed right through a garden hose!

Her irrepressible affection and good nature manifested itself by her hurling herself- with a leap straight to the chest - that flattened anyone under five feet in height or who weighed less than 6 stone. Then there was the hair and the barking and the neighbours looking at me the way Spencer Tracey looked at Sidney Poitier in 'Guess Who's Coming To Dinner.'

She refused to stop jumping so we gave her limited access to the house and kids and I think we might have overcome it eventually, but in the last forty-eight hours she developed a nasty little habit. She started trying to take one's wrist in her mouth when playing, and nip a little. Now I don't know about you but I happen to think that biting is a big 'no-no!' even in play. She was scolded and put in the other room or in her crate. Then this morning when I went to put her back in the crate before I went to work she did it again.

But this time she ripped the sleeve of my jacket by worrrying it with her teeth. I was not impressed. And the growl - even though it was interpreted by the males in the house as a 'friendly growl'. I grew up terrified of dogs byut in recent years have more or less overcome my phobia. I had noticed son#2 had a similar fear so was actually pleased when it was he who suggested we get a dog. He picked her, I approved, Jemser fell in love and even son#1 grunted 'She's awright' from beneath his asymmetrical fringe. That was a week ago, when I had a nice easy-going fear free life

So I made the decision, because otherwise the males would dither for a year, I'd have no clothes, shoes, garden left. The bond would be stronger and sh'd still be at it - none of them wanted to do obedience training 'She'll grow out of it'

It's a good job I didn't leave potty training my babies to Jemser. They'd both be in incontinence pants by now

I rang the Dogs Trust who agreed to take her back and informed family of my decision. Jemser was devestated. I could see the little boy disappointment in his eyes. I hated myself. Son#2 was upset, despite the fact that he wanted her out in the garden or in her crate all the time she was indoors and had a panic attack every time she came near him ' Mam ,I did love her. I just didn't like being near her when she was moving!'

But Son#1 defended me. 'Yeah Mam's mean. But she was the only one doing all the shit and shit."
I was amazed. He actually noticed that no-one in the house does anything about the house except me. I'm living with Jemser for twenty years and he doesn't seem to have noticed.

Actually if I had said 'the dog or me' I think they would have picked the dog.

Damn! Best running away excuse ever gotten rid of, fool, fool, fool.

Work and Dogs and Work and Kids and Work and.....

Back to the paid job in the a.m., I enjoyed the break but really it is too long, especially when it is so cold and icy outside you cannot get out for a brisk head-clearing walk. I always feel intensively sluggish after Christmas and find it hard to motivate myself to do anything bar lie on the couch and read, in between washing floors filthy from new dog and kids in mucky shoes chasing after her, and cooking dinners on a tiny primus stove since my hob blew up and taking younger child to various Christmas events.

Jemser asked a 'fella down the pub' to fix our hob ( note the 'our'). Nice man but Jesus, he must have come straight from the pub to my kitchen because he put two enormous cracks in same hob as he was replacing it in counter-top having 'fixed' it. I've told said Jemser I'm not cooking any more meals on the @@@**&&^^$%£@ primus and he will have to be hunter-gatherer to the chipper until said hob is fixed. Properly.

In the winter of 2001 there was a six week period when we went without heat. I had refused point blank to be to one to 'organise' a plumber on the basis that everytime Jemser said 'we must do or we need a, b or c' it was me who had to arrange a,b or c. He had a different sceal every evening about 'the fella' who was always unavailable or away or not returning calls or falling into enormous black holes in the Universe. I caved in one night after I had to bathe the baby in front of the fire and the older child tipped baby, baby bath and water upside down, soaking carpet, almost putting out fire and causing a huge hiss of steam and ashes to blow into room, and making both baby and I cry. I 'organised' a different 'fella' the following a.m. and we had heat within three days.

It nearly killed our marriage that wasn't, (I still cannot use the 'r' word when talking about Jemser). But this time....well, I'm older... not particularly wiser and a hob isn't as vital as heat....so I'll give him three months. Maybe he'll be sick of take-outs by then. Or maybe he will see the economic sense of getting a proper 'fella' in to do anything in this house that Jack built.

You may have noticed a slightly vitriolic tone to this post. I wonder why?

The Year that was in it..........

New Year’s Eve

I can’t say I’m glad to see 2009 go.

It was a good year for me and mine. I finished one novel, started another, got commissioned to ghost-write a fantastic memoir, had one short story published and was shortlisted in various comps for three others. My poetry improved....I think, and I read some fantastic books, favourite novel was the latest read ‘Let The Great World Spin’by Colum McCann, favourite non-fiction ‘Ma’s Search For Meaning’ by Viktor Frankyl.

Plus I returned to the paid job in a nice office with a great bunch of fellow employees. I have indeed been blessed. The better half retired early – watch out golf courses North County Dublin, and is settling into contented middle-age (he finally admits he’s middle-aged).The only drawback to his being home more is that he is now starting to question various aspects of household management - things that have held absolutely no interest for him over the last twenty years. However a gentle reminder - a roar of ‘Jemser- for Chrissake, you are no longer in work!’ - soon eliminated his tendency to behave like someone who has control of staff.

I made some lovely new friends through my writing, both online and in the flesh. My children continue to be happy and healthy – despite teenage neuroses and pre-pubescent anxieties. I saw some fantastic plays and lots of new little arty venues taking off in the city, joined yet another writing group and I think this one might go somewhere! Oh, and I started a blog.

Then I had a peaceful and happy Christmas with lots of loved ones about.

Only real downer this year was the Irish summer – why am I still surprised at its consistent failure to please? Someone once said Ireland doesn’t have a climate, it has weather. That‘s true.

Finally it has taken me forty-eight years to find me erogenous zones… so I’m not going back to sucking wine gums…………




(Joke! Joke! Joke! And not even an original one)

Favourite Christmas Presents - Given and Received

I remember a cut-out paper doll with tabbed outfits that you cut out and stuck to cardboard (ala the back of the 'Bunty')

I remember a 'Crolly Doll' - I loved her 'cause she had the same hairstyle as my Mam

I remember a second-hand blue bike my first non-Santa year

I remember buying a packet of sewing needles in a little packet shaped like a basket of flowers for my Mother, I paid for it out of Grandma's pocket money so I was only about 6 or 7. Once a month she gave us 6d to spend and we had to save 3d of it. I was so proud of myself, I told everyone about the great present I had bought Mam - OUT OF MY OWN MONEY'.

I remember a beautiful reading lamp that I used for twenty five years, it was hauled around from flat to flat, to home, to rented houses and finally to first owned place.

I remember 'Collected Novels Of Thomas Hardy' from a dear, dear friend - I had got her exactly the same thing! I have it still , thirty years later.

I remember the first and only time my current husband ever surprised me - with a leather jacket - I didn't think he had it in him!

I remember my first son's reaction at 3 and a half on seeing the tractor and trailer he'd asked Santa for, there were a few little bits and bobs wrapped and laid in the trailer. On being asked was he going to open them he said,
'They're not for me Mammy, I only wanted a tractor!' When he was persuaded to open the gifts, one of them was a plastic fiddle.
'Granny, If I play will you dance?'
'I will, a stor' Teresa danced and lilted while Seamai airfiddled all around the kitchen in Drimreagh - I bawled!

Most of all it's faces I remember.
Faces of siblings, faces of loved ones, faces of my children.
Smiling, eyes lighting up with surprise and delight, hearts over flowing.
So happy it hurts.

Christmas carols and all that schmaltz

Aaaaah!I went to the younger son's Christmas Carol concert today - they were brilliant, well, nearly all of them - one class did absolutely murder Oiche Chuin - but they thought they were deadly so that was what mattered. I invariably well up at these events, despite telling myself year after year that it's all a load of marketing sh***, a symbol of cynical marketing and the global giants (like the Catholic Church) making lolly etc.
But I can't help it, I'm female, middle-aged, human. I love the sound of children's voices. One of the greatest pleasures in my life since I went part-time in the paid job is that as I turn the key into my house at 1pm every day I can hear the clamour of 900 kids from the various yards in the local primary school. As an adult and parent there is nothing as satisfying, as joyous. And then I remembered how frightening that noise was when I was one of the 900, actually in Mother of Divine Grace in Ballygall there were almost 1,500 NS girls in classes of 40-50 in the 60's-70's - I was more scared of the other little rips than the teachers!
My baby played Santa in his class's performance of 'Jolly Holly' - they were fantastic and then they followed up with a lovely rendition of 'The Holly and The Ivy'. He went a bit astray as he tried to put on his red Santa jacket and couldn't find the left sleeve easily and I was in the audience dying for him - but it didn't phase him - he kept his cool, said his lines and sorted out Santa's jacket when he could. In the vernacular of the day - OMG! - I'm so proud of him, and - if truth be told of - myself and the significant other. This was a kid who was terrified of his own shadow, everything bothered him - dogs, cats, insects, birds, other people. He's this really great bright kid ,a reader, a sportsman, a musician and sensitive and all that , but me and Jemser helped him be this sociable likeable little character. One of the neighbours - a man in his seventies said,
'You could go for a pint with that fella, he has something to say about everything and he's great company.'
So what's the best part of Christmas folks? The same thing that's the best part of every day - and the hardest - family. Shi***. It still sounds Peggy Mithchell or Pauline Fowler - them women have done more to bring the concept of family into disrepute than the slogan 'the family that prays together stays together'. Hug your babies folks - Carpe Diem.

We're Off To See The Wizard

We decided last night to go to Sydney in 2010 for our holiday. It will be the holiday of a lifetime because I can't see us ever having enough cash saved or time together to do it again. The fifteen year old is chomping at the bit but a chance to see his beloved half sister, who is out in Sydney working in a lab as a molecular parasitologist and trying to find a cure for malaria ( I'm arranging a sainthood for her), is just too much for him and he has condescended to join us. Wouldn't it be great if the other step-daughter could go at the same time...hmmm... all of us in Sydney at the same time, we'd have to do a Christmas dinner in July to celebrate that fact.

It's funny, at times when your kids are young and absolutely doing your head in, on a miserably wet summer's Sunday, and you think you are going to end up doing time because you have thought-murdered them; you never ever, see this day coming - where some have successfully flown the nest and others are intent on jumping out of it before they can fly and stumble back in a slightly bruised daze,(yes, I know it's called a hangover) and the last one is trying desperately hard to climb back inside you, but wants what he sees all his siblings have at the same time. So I'm starting a campaign. Let all of Jemser's kids and their significant others, himself and meself be together in Sydney for Christmas in whatever month we land there, 'cause that's what Christmas is folks - family ( that's a bit too Peggy Mitchell isn't it?)

Usual Stuff

What did I do today? I swear my life has been so busy the last six weeks I sometimes feel I'm going to fall off the edge of the earth (there is an edge - even on a ball there's an edge).

So. Today I went into the paying me a salary job and saved my emplouyer 28k by trusting a new company to provide us with a service an old company has been ripping us off for for over two years. I hope my trust will not be misplaced - I don't think it will. Basically I have saved my employer - you if you're a taxpayer- my annual salary- so I'm on a roll this week.

Then I came home to non-paying job - the real one - life, kids, home, husband, did the shopping, the swimmimg and music runs dropped the beloved other to the airport for his weekend away in London ( then I came home to Jemser) joke, joke -'twas Jemser I dropped to the airport. Cooked dins, cleaned up , put together the Billy bookcase - Jeez it's feckin' big and blue - imagine lads, I have a beautiful big blue billy bookcase, that's worthy of a poem. Framed all the sibling's Christmas poems, collapsed on the sofa for the six o'clock snooze at seven and am now scribbling - might open a bottle of red in a while and watch the remastered Strumpet City - just to remind me of where we all came from.
Ah life - isn't it great to be able to live it.

Ikea!! aka Heaven or Hell

Mad busy day today, day off from the paying job so did all my lovely non paying jobs (and not a jot of housework!).

Fighting Words in the a.m. - 5th class boys St Kevin's in Fingals West. Lads , be afraid , be very afraid...there are a generation of intelligent enthusiastic hardworking cheeky loveable lads coming up...they will rule the world...if we keep them focused ad get them a passion for something , anything non - chemical we will all be looked after nicely in our ninties. They rock! Check out their story on www.fightingwords.ie ( I think all writers should just throw in the pens now - we will be out-written by all these kids in a few years)

Into Temple Bar to meet my lovely new pal Rebecca then - we jawed for an hour or two, gave out shite about men and solved the problems of the world.

I was meant to go to the IWC to hear the divine Hugo Hamilton read, but I was wrecked and I needed another book case so I hit Ikea on the way home. I think I'm in love, I admit it was a mistake to go when I was tired - and I'm glad I drive a Corsa, I spent €122 more than I meant to - and I'm a bleedin' public servant - (beans for dinner 'til Christmas boys) but lads, it's such lovely stuff and so bloody reasonably priced and yes, yes I know all the globalisation rants but...but....I was fed up of being ripped off for crap furniture in overpriced kips of shops so give me globalisation any day of the week ...and yes...I do know I'm a POORLY PAID Permanent Pensionable public servant but we did stay in our gray jobs on the days all you private sector punters were being paid loads of lolly and mental bonuses and freebies for not particularly doing any better a job than us ...Be honest...is the private service any better than the public? Are there not just as many wasters in all areas of work and others (like us) who work really hard, give of their best and are poorly recognised? Yes,...knew you'd agree..!

The Hills of Donegal

A couple of people have asked me to explain the nice scenery on my blog - it's not nice scenery guys it is gobsmackingly beautiful panoramic views and it is of course shots taken on Sliabh Liag near Carrick and Teelin South West Donegal. This is my spiritual home, I have told my children that when I die they are to have me cremated as cheaply as possible ( a can of paraffin and a couple of burning newspapers should do the trick.) Then they are to put my ashes in a cardboard box, climb Sliabh Liag and toss my ashes off the One Man's Pass.

I'm a wimp when it comes to heights and a slob when it comes to mountain climbing and have never made it up past the first plateau of Bun Ghlas. Jemser and the lads have been up and so have the stepdaughters and their attendant males. So I'm really at a disadvantage when it comes to describing the beauty of this place. We did go out in a boat with Paddy Cunningham from Teelin a few years ago to ahve a look at it from the ocean and the seacliffs which are the highest in Europe are even more spectacular from the sea.

A wonderful local woman Kitty Sheain (who describes her face as being -'of corduruoy') and is still known in her ninety second year to go down to the Rusty Mackerel for a whiskey and a song. agrees with me about the spirituality of the place. In fact when she was first wed and climbed the mountain with her man, some seventy years ago, she was so besotted with it that she wanted to plant a rose bush at Bun Glas. Her husband, gone to his rest for the last number of years, Francie Cunningham, laughed uproariously - for there was no sense to a rose bush in a place that is battered by all the elements and where the principal resindents are goats and sheep who are partial to an auld rose.

I still think we could do it Kitty, we must hatch a plan!

Family Life

I love my children dearly. They are my reason for living and are absolutely the best thing that ever happened to me. But some days. Oh Jesus, some days!

The fifteen-year old glowers at me with beady eyes from behind an asymmetrical fringe that is daily ironed into submission. He throws a surly grunt in lieu of response to every question I ask him or a snarled ‘why?’ is the first answer to any request to do something, then a snort and a sneer as he slouches away if I raise my voice or firm the tone to re-enforce the order. His whole being resents me, resents the fact that he is fifteen and I for some peculiar reason think I have any influence over him whatsoever (I don’t by the way, I am merely keeping up the pretence for as long as possible).

Then there is my beloved ‘baby’. Nine going on ninety-nine, definitely on his fourth or fifth pass through of life and at that superior stage. You know, where nobody knows anything but him, nobody understands anything and everyone is against him. My ‘baby’ is long gone and now he will move from irritating pre-pubescence into testosterone fuelled adolescence and hopefully come out reasonably whole on the other side.

I miss my babies. I miss their kisses and cuddles, their sitting on my knee and having me read stories; that helpless childish giggling when we played ‘peep’. The sheer joy in their faces when I woke them from a sleep as they thrashed their legs about in excitement that they were alive, and best of all they were with me. The nine year old still throws the odd hug my way but the fifteen year old rarely touches me. I know he loves me. I hope he loves me. I drive him mad as he does me but the channels of communication are still open and long may that continue. When this teenager meets his father outside of the house, perhaps on the road or down the town they will shoulder each other and grunt - old ram, young ram. It is their expression of affection.

Occasionally, very, very occasionally in excitement or joy the older son will throw his arms about me and hug and I wonder at his strong arms and broad shoulders. Or the younger son will say something still childishly funny and innocent and I will smile. How did I produce these brave and beautiful young men? I only wanted baby boys! I started out to give out about them, my blog today was to be an amusing rant about life as a middle-aged female stranded in a household of males and I’ve gone all soft on them. I can’t help it- my babies!! Always – my babies.