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/.

Get Calm - then carry on

Where on Earth do I start?

What can I write that is not being written by others more informed, better read? The finest minds on the planet are now engaged in a battle against an invisible enemy that threatens everyone. The flaws in nationalist, populist and insular policies shown. The flaws in globalism are also revealed. The rise in loss of bio-diversity and increases in climate change which, experts have been patiently explaining for years, is giving rise to super viruses crossing species and pandemics like Covid19 is a clamouring alarm call to us all.

Those of us in the ‘first world’ have been consuming ourselves to death for over fifty years. The fruits of that consumption have fallen from the tree and lie rotting. It will be the poorest and most vulnerable (as always) who will foot the bill with their lives and their health. A couple of months of social distancing, hand washing and self-isolation for the rest of us seems little enough to contribute whilst the experts engage in saving lives, developing vaccines, and discussing policies to change the way we live.

Ireland is a small country. We’re a close people. Most families will be touched, in some way, by worry and  grief over the coming months. Countries with poor public health systems – like the richest country in the world – are going to suffer most. I turned off all radio and social media earlier this week as people bleated about economies tanking. It’s only money lads. Most of it isn’t even real – just marks on a page, ridiculous numbers that mean nothing to most of us. Economies can be rebuilt. We cannot bring people back from the dead.

People, and our relationship with the ecosystem we live in is the only thing that matters now. We MUST change the way we live or - like dinosaurs, face extinction.

I’ll blog something cheerier later. I feel much better with that off my chest!

Get calm – then carry on    

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]

#RiotDublin

Where to begin?

I've just arrived home from the finest night of entertainment on an Irish stage since I saw the glorious heyday of Passion Machine plays in the mid Eighties. I attended Riot in Vicar Steet this evening - the perfect venue for this raucous riveting display of Irish talent. Part spoken word, part dance, part aerial acrobatics, part searing commentary on the politics and social status of this little island, part song - a thousand belly laughs, a few tears. Just FN BRILLIANT! Reminiscent of the cabaret scene in Berlin in the 1930s I think.

This show should be mandatory for the senior cycle of every school in this country. It shows what we are capable of, it highlights Irish creativity, it shows the love we have for each other, it teaches respect for every individual drawing a breath at this very moment. I was probably one of the older members of the audience but by god I stamped and clapped and danced and sang with all dem young wans. I gave it welly!

The show was co-written by Emmet Kirwan and Panti Bliss - two flippin' geniuses, with additional text and voiceover by our own darling curmudgeon Michael Harding. So you know the writing was top class. Composer and Musical Director was Alma Kelliher and Up and Over It with the Lords of Strut and Ronan Brady took care of most of the dance, acrobatics and clowning. The singing was superb particularly Adam Matthews and Nicola Kavanagh and I have a feeling that Megan Riordan - a force of nature - was the glue that held the whole thing together.

The set, costumes, light and sound design were top notch. I genuinely could not find one fault with the event. I hope to Christ it comes back again or tours the country or hits the West End - it is certainly good enough to do so.


High Fives and Big Hugs to everyone involved. I love yiz!!  

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.

Ash Wednesday and Heavy Breathers.......

My she shed is still a WIP so I removed myself to the library in a nearby village today. It was a gorgeous morning here in North Co. Dublin; very cold, but the quickly thawing ground frost left behind that nice crisp air and a blindingly low winter sun hung in a hard blue sky.

I had a good bit of reading to do, so found myself a quiet corner and began. There were a couple of students in the study area, and some very young children on the lower ground floor chatting and laughing. I have, of necessity, always been able to shut out the noise of the very young. A skill learned as the oldest of seven kids growing up in your average suburban semi-d.

After an hour or so I was deeply engrossed in my book but became aware of somebody settling into the desk behind me. That was fine, concentration briefly disrupted I checked emails and had a quick look on social media. Then, when I deemed my fellow reader should be organised I tried to get back to my book.

SLoDG!

The noises emanating from the person were ridiculously irritating. Snuffling, throat clearing, sighing, tutting and (worst of all) very heavy breathing. I had to resist the urge to turn sharply and say ‘STOP BREATHING!’

 I gave up my hope of concentrating after ten minutes, when it became apparent that my fellow library user was simply a noisy person, completely unaware of same. Some people need to hear themselves breathing to make sure they’re still, well, breathing.

As I gathered together (quietly) my belongings I cast a glance at my intruder. Elderly, male, bald and a little overweight; he had the angriest looking cross marked in black ash on his forehead. It‘s Ash Wednesday and, despite making pancakes yesterday, it hadn’t registered with me. As I passed I stole a glance at the documents this man was working on. They appeared to be applications for attendance at a local Catholic primary school. I wondered about them. There has been a lot of chat in Ireland recently about parents trying to get their children into the local school and failing to find a place because preference is going to those baptised in the Catholic faith. A lot of parents are choosing not to baptise their children now, and finding it difficult later, as the Church is still the main patron of most schools in Ireland.

I know this particular Catholic school. It has a great reputation, and there are alternative schools in the area. But I’m a great believer in kids going to the local school, the one their pals from crèche or their estate go to. I have no idea if my heavy breather was judging parents as he read their forms – but the memory of his blackened brow staring sternly at these forms is a little unsettling – and of course the product of an over active imagination. But still…..

Anyway, I came out onto the Main St as the local church was emptying itself of its devotees. If an alien had landed this morning I think it might have been bewildered as to why most of the humans it encountered appeared elderly and marked with an angry thumb. Despite the warming sun I shivered. I know ashes on ones forehead are supposed to be symbolise humility – but it just doesn’t feel like that.

It feels like – ‘we are different’. 

And that’s my main problem with all organised religions, that - ‘we are different’ Not we are better (although many espouse that) but look at us, we are different – and we want to be the same in our difference. Am I making sense? Probably not. But I’ll never, ever understand slavishly following any particular group of teachings – when some of them are blatantly unfair and even at times downright cruel.

'Nuff said. Roll on me she shed! 

'That's my girl!'

Finally got around to deciphering a letter my maternal grandfather sent my mother for her 21st birthday in 1958. The cheque for 21 dollars he sent would have been worth roughly £7 ten shillings. A pint of plain cost 1 shilling 6d back then, she could have bought almost a hundred pints, (the sums working that out nearly killed me, and yes, I know it's easy...). Except she didn't drink back then, women rarely frequentd pubs, many of them were men only, and women earned on average 48% less than their male couterparts.

Grandad was a typesetter with the Irish Independent, he went to Detroit in the 50s to gain experience on a new litho machine operating in The Freeman's Journal. He lived there for a number of years and, times being what they were, didn't get home often. UncleTommy was 15 at  the time of the letter and he and my mother clashed constantly. I'm quite sure it was her fault - she had a ferociously quick temper, like her own mother. Tommy was more like Grandad; a funny, gentle, peace keeping man.

Mam and Dad (Seamus) married in October the following year. Thankfully Grandad came home for the wedding. The letter kickstarted a novel I've been working on - on and off, for a number of years, it's based on the time Grandad was in Detroit, 'cept I'm giving him an affair with a younger American female journalist! G'wan the Grandad!.

All of the Kennedys of Glandore Road are dead now, and all barring Grandma died young. Mammy only got another 33 years, not the 79 Grandad wished for her. Tommy was the last to go, he died a few years ago. I discussed the novel with him before he died and, while none of us have the faintest idea what Grandad's life was like in Detroit, Tommy approved of my granting Grandad a tempestuous love affair. If I ever finish it it will e dedicated to The Kennedys of Glandore Road.

 See text of letter and original below. Any errors mine.

Sunday

My darling Elizabeth,

     I am sending this a wee bit early just so that if there is something special you wish to buy for your ‘21^st’ you will have it in good time.

     The  cheque for twenty one dollars is to represent a dollar for each year. You have made me so proud to be able to say ‘that’s my girl!’. And proud of you, I really am - and always shall be, because I know you will never do anything to make me feel otherwise about you.

     It seems such a short time since you were just a wee baby. The years are flying and my earnest wish is that yourself and Seamus will have as happy a life as your Mam and I have had, and that you may be blessed with as lovely a family as God has given to us. My one regret is that I am not with you in person to wish you a Happy Birthday.

     Now, I know I should not, particularly in this letter, strike what may seem a discordant note, I am going to ask you to do one little thing for me.

      I know that Tommy and yourself do have little differences of opinion, and upset each other from time to time. Don’t forget, that in doing so you can upset your Mammy even more so than yourselves. Now I am laying blame nowhere, it’s just one of those things, and I know that Tommy and you will get together for my sake and be real good pals. I know the difference in your ages makes that difficult but you will both do it. 

     You know honey, when you are separated from your family – it is then, and only then, that you really appreciate each and every member of the family.  I know you both love each other deeply, all you have to do is to show it.

So now ‘left arm’ – for that’s as useful to me as my ‘right arm’, loads of love and I hope you have a wonderful birthday- at least another 79 to follow. 

Dad xxxxx

 PS I should also say thanks to Mam for giving you to me.

Psychoanalysing meself - it's all our Judy's fault........

I've been feeling well lately, contented. I'm working on something I'm enjoying and feeling hopeful for it.

I know these November days are short, can be grey and depressing. Cold days and nights, or worse - that constant drizzly rain, can confine one indoors. But as I sit by my fire, house quiet for once, knowing where all my loved ones are - I cannot help but feel content. I'm trying not to brood on a past I cannot change nor worry about a future I have no control over. Then I started to think.............

I have long wondered why Spring is my worst time of the year. From late March I often feel a huge sadness building in me. Why, when the natural world is gearing up to its brief magnificent season do I feel at my lowest? All of the worst bouts of long lasting depression I suffered occurred between late April and July.

But I love gardening, love sitting in the sun like a big fat lazy cat. So why, when I should be anticipating great pleasure, do I often feel incredibly tense, anxious and low?

I was born in May 1961, first surviving child to my parents. Their first child, my stillborn brother, was delivered at eight months gestation in April 1960, a huge shock for the young couple who had eagerly awaited his birth. Mam had been taking the anti-morning sickness medication that was later shown to have caused Thalidomide. The baby was ten days dead before he was delivered, sadly he was also malformed. My mother never saw her baby's body. Dad did, but he never talked about it.

So when I came along thirteen months later their anxiety levels must have been very high. They poured every bit of love they had into me, and I blossomed. Mam quickly became pregnant again and my first beloved sister, Judy, was born in April 1962. 

At that time women were ‘confined’ in hospital for up to five days after the birth of a child. I was eleven months old, my father had to work so I was sent over to my beautiful Aunt Norah, Mam’s sister, to be cared for. There is a picture of me standing in a playpen at the gate of Norah’s house. Apparently it was the only thing that quietened me. I would stay there for hours looking up the road, waiting for my world to come back to me. 

AND SHE CAME!!!!!!! 

When I read Owl Babies by Martin Waddell to children I tell them ‘Mammys ALWAYS come back’. Of course, in reality, sometimes they can’t. Serious illness or death can pull a mother from a child. Mam didn’t die until I was twenty nine, but the wrench was as bad as if I were five. And she died on March 20^th. Which would explain my feelings of grief around that time since then. But what about before 1991? I reckon that when I sense the days warming and lengthening, and see things growing, it reminds me of my anxious vigil at the gate in April 1962. And I must have been miffed that someone smaller and cuter than me usurped my position as ‘baby’ in the house.

Judy once said she didn’t always feel loved at home. Perhaps Mam and Dad overcompensated with me – afraid I’d be jealous of the new arrival. Apparently I did once balance a large 1d coin on her lips and stood, waiting to see what would happen when she opened her mouth! I don’t remember being jealous of her. Envious yet – she was (is) incredibly beautiful, with a stillness and serenity about her I longed to emulate. I wrote this for her some Christmases ago. It’s not great poetry. But it’s heartfelt.

Childhood Memories#2

Winter 1965

Judy

                          You were the most beautiful creature -

Perfect.

Flawless skin,

huge trusting eyes

watching from

the bolster on the double bed

Its creaky iron frame

bathed in the light of

the glowing Sacred Heart

that pinked

candy striped brushed cotton sheets,

blankets,

a maroon eiderdown

topped by a Gardá great coat;

its buttons left an imprint on your face

insignia of peace on chubby cheek.

You whispered -

‘Let’s play the drawing-on-the back game,

Me first.’

I loosened your pyjama top

and sketched a scene,

plump childish fingers intent on detail

hoping you wouldn’t guess it right

and I could crow

‘No!’

‘Now me’, I whispered.

But you were sleeping.

I spooned in behind you

And lying still inhaled

Pears soap and Cusson’s talc.

Now, if I close my eyes and deeply breathe

I can almost feel that moment

That safety in our kingdom -

our hot water bottle warmed

double bed

^{Evelyn Walsh, Christmas 09}

So our Juders, it’s all your fault I am a moanin’ Minnie. But I am very glad you are my sister – let’s blame the parents!!

One Good Teacher

The infamous ‘they’ say all you need in life is one good teacher. Someone to ignite a passion in you for something that will succour you through dark days and make good days even better. I’ve been lucky, I had several excellent teachers. My mother, of course, was a marvellous mentor and in my formal education a few stand out - Mrs Curran in Mother Of Divine Grace Primary School in Finglas, Mrs Rigney and  Miss Ryan in the Dominican College in Eccles St.  Top of the class for me though was my beloved Miss Kirby (later Coffey) in sixth class.

It cannot have been easy being a teacher in ‘60s/’70s Ireland. Schools were run with an iron fist by religious orders, class sizes could reach fifty in crowded urban areas, corporal punishment was commonplace and the curriculum dripped with De Valera’s image of Ireland. It bore little resemblance to life lived in suburban North Dublin. The State Censor made sure our little minds weren’t polluted with any foreign filth. Schools had many teachers who were, quite simply, in the wrong job. Economic necessity and lack of opportunity trapped them in classrooms with children about whom they cared less and less with the passing of each bitter year. It is hard to inspire when you don’t give a damn yourself. Control was the key in getting through the day.

Some people are born to teach though. Miss Kirby was one of those wonderful people. She came into my life when I was eleven, on the cusp of that leap from what once was to what may someday be. She saw my potential, offered me more challenging material, brought me books from her own collection to point me in the right direction. She was from (I think) Co. Kerry and her tastes were more rural than mine, but I enjoyed the books she brought me, I particularly enjoyed the way she spoke to me – as if I was already grown-up. I blossomed under her tutelage.

In October 1973 she set us English homework. We were to write to her as if she were a visitor from another country, and tell her something about St. Patrick’s Cathedral. We had been working on a project about it and I had become fascinated with Jonathan Swift, St Patrick’s most famous Dean. I sat down with my copy and pencil. I loved, still love, the sound of a pencil scratching across the blank page, and I wrote and wrote.  I described a time travelling adventure I had with friends, Andrea and Ken Kelly; how we had travelled back in time and been befriended by Jonathan Swift (who asked us to call him Jonath). We lived with him for a while, met his lady friends Stella and Vanessa, toured about early eighteenth century Dublin with him and he discussed his writings with us. Ten copy pages later cramp in my hand forced me to time travel us back to 1973 and The Ha’Penny Bridge. I was amazed that almost two hours had passed since I began and was enormously proud of myself. I hoped I’d get a gold star for it.

I had to wait a few days for the copies to be returned to us. Miss Kirby placed it on my desk and patted the cover. I can still feel the butterflies I got as I opened the copy. At the end of the essay were THREE gold stars, and in red pen underlined twice Miss Kirby had written ‘Come to me, CHILD!! For your just reward!!! Find out who painted Stella’s portrait.’  I glowed.

Miss Kirby made the most enormous fuss of me. I was sent to each fifth and sixth class to read out my essay. I died inside at this, but did it. Miss Kirby asked one of the mothers, who worked in an office, if she could type up my essay. Ken Kelly, who was a talented artist, sketched St Patrick’s on cardboard and we cut it out and stuck it onto the typed pages as ‘illustrations’. Ms Kirby sent the essay to the Dean of St Patrick’s, and told him about our project. He visited the class to look at  our work and to shake my hand. He was a lovely man and we were all surprised. We thought Protestants were completely different to us, but the Dean looked just like everybody’s Grandad! He was a kindly gentleman and enthused greatly over our work.

I went off the boil intellectually in secondary school and I didn’t return to creative writing until I hit my forties. But I have never forgotten Miss Kirby, her interest in me and the love she gave me for the written word. One Good Teacher.

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.

The Tyrone Guthrie Centre

Well – this week finds me yet again in my second house/home. And the beauty about being in this enormous rambling creaky old house for brief (too brief) a period is that here I have no bills to worry about, no meals to prepare or beds to make, no cleaning to be done, no washing – endless bloody washing to be put on, put out, taken in, sorted and redistributed; then the whole bloody cycle starts again.

I love this place. I love the people who work here. I love the laughter with them - the slagging and the inevitable smutty chat. Smuttiness is good. Almost as good as flirting.  Flirting and laughing and smutty talk make the world go round.

 I love the silence and the space. I love the erudite conversation and hilarious discourse around the table at the evening meal. I love the food. Good food. Great food. Almost as good as sex food. Even almost as good as chocolate food!

This time I’m billeted in the Morning Room where I write with a morning cuppa for an hour or so. I don’t know why it’s called the Morning Room as the sun never quite reaches it at any time of day. After breakfast I take a stroll, the length of which depends on how well the work is going. So far it’s been going well. After another hour or two I take another break. Maybe wander down to the sitting room (where I sprawl as I’m writing this) and gaze at the lake which can be either still and eerily flat or glint with dancing sunshine. I am quiet. The house is quiet. The silence here is really extraordinary – it has a quality to it I have never felt (heard?) anywhere else – not even in my beloved Donegal. They say the earth hums in B flat. Well, the Big House definitely hums a different note.   

At lunchtime I might run into one or other of the guests who are here – one’s rarely bored with people staying in Annamak – all with fascinating tales to tell. Someone should write a book set in this place. A good old murder mystery maybe – g’wan all you crime-writers out there – double dare ye!  The house is an ideal place in which to set a ghost story – and the story of the ghost in one of the rooms here invariably comes up. People believe what they want to believe – its called faith.

The early afternoon I dedicate to a little thinking and reading, then try to write for another two hours. Then dinner. Oh! Annamak dinners! Depending on what stage people are at there might be long chats over glasses of wine. Or, as happened on my first night her, a few songs from musicians – what voices they had! What songs they knew – wonderful. On another occasion some years ago there was an art exhibition and story reading from other guests.

When we wind up for the evening I sometimes stroll in the grounds or if I have some detail on my mind return to the desk and write again. I give no time to mundane tasks – barring showering of course! In Annamak I simply am.

The other Evelyn Walsh will be back here next week.

Namaste.