It's a book!

I started this blog on the back of a New Years resolution made in January 2011. I thought it would help me to discipline myself to create a writing schedule. By March it seemed to have gone the way of many resolutions, and I was no longer blogging regularly.

But this time, it wasn't due to lack of discipline. The blog really helped me find my writing voice and develop a routine - so in March I took out my 40,000 word MS, saw it wasn't working. I had learnt enough to know I had to cut 35,000 of those words. Fifteen months on, I have a completed 85,000 word MS entitled Cutting Loose.

So here I am, back to the blogging community (if you'll have me back!) with a dream come true - I have written a book.

Above is a picture of me, standing beneath a banner created by my friend Gosia, looking rather manic and delighted with myself. I'd a small get together last night with friends to mark the occasion. Below are the cupcakes I shared with friends to celebrate. You're welcome to try one-- I'd recommend the chocolate and peanut butter! :-)

Shtop! Sunday Morning Coming Down is a Must See

 

Truman Town Theatre’s Sunday Morning Coming Down opens with two brothers in their early twenties sitting at the kitchen table of the house where they were both reared.  John has been away working in Italy, and Chris gives him a catch-up of the goings on in Ballinrobe, their home town. 

Shoulders shook in the Cork Arts Theatre, and the laughs came fast, loud and unstoppable, while the boys shared anecdotes. Though the set is limited to the kitchen and living area of the McGuire’s family home, a whole town is made alive and vibrant in the imagination of the audience. Quinn, the local publican, Mary Feerick and a host of others not listed on the program, all enter and exit the stage through the vibrancy of Donnellan’s language.

The laughter stops with chilling suddenness as the tyrannical and tragic figure of Joe, the boy’s alcoholic father, enters the scene. This part was played with great vigour by Sean O’Maille. Theresa Leahy also shone in the role of the mother, her soft voice and controlled performance an effective foil to Joe’s sudden rages and mad deliriums. Both sons were perfectly cast; Conor Geoghan’s wild curls fit well with the character of John, a lad who, like his hair, won’t be contained by small town Irish life. Cathal Leonard’s characterisation of Chris, the good humoured elder son who works hard in the slaughterhouse and can’t see a way out of his life, got the most laughs with his tall stories. P.J. Moore in the part of Martin, the neighbour that walks in and out of the McGuire home as he pleases, usually at the most inopportune time, also offers moments of comic relief.

The language of the play is modern Hiberno-English as spoken in Mayo. There is liberal use of the phrases we grew up with – ‘so tight he’d peel an orange in his pocket’ – melded with the slang words of youth, ‘sound’.  The language reflects the highly metaphorical way in which English is spoken in rural Ireland. When Sharon, John's love interest – played elegantly by Niamh Shiggins – is offered food by his mom she replies no, she is ‘whaled’. In the lobby after the play, the second item on the agenda for conversation, after the piece of theatre we had just witnessed, was language. Talking to PJ Moore, who played Martin, he explained how in Waterford, where he is from, the word ‘Well’ conveys,’ hello, how are you?  What are you at? How’s your mother?’ He got a postcard from a fella once that just had that one word, ‘Well’ on it.  That one word said it all.

  And it was this, Donnellan’s keen ear, acute observational skills, and ability to convey the tightness and vitality of English as the Irish speak it, which was the star of this show. I was reminded of the story of Synge, sitting in his room on the Aran Islands, listening to the talk of the Aran natives through a crack in the floorboards of his bedroom. In this way, he filed for use the phrases, ways of talking and anecdotes of the native Aran people which he drew on for his writing of The Playboy of the Western World.  Ballinrobe has been Donnellan’s sourcebook for this play, and a rich and varied source it has proven. 

Pulled over by the Gardí last night - (J)ustice how are ya!

I went into the city last night to a poetry reading. I wasn't drinking - heck, I wasn't even having my cranberry juices straight, I was mixing them with water. My boyfriend was with me, enjoying the poetry and a few pints.

     Around 11pm we decided it was time to hit for home. I've posted before about learning to drive. That was three years ago - although some of you thought it was more recent, from the fact I'm still talking about it! Much of my time learning to drive was spent with my right foot shaking over the accelerator at stop signs, dreading having to start again. But I manage fine now, although since most of my driving has been done in the country, I am very much a country driver. I boot along narrow roads and boreens. With city driving I can get anxious. I hate changing lanes. I become glued to the spot, looking in every direction to make sure the way is clear: left shoulder, left mirror, rearview, repeat and repeat. It alwasy feels like I'm  just 'chancing it' and my hesitancy throws all the other drivers. Night driving can feel a little easier as there is less traffic, but on the flip side cars tend to go faster and I find it even more difficult to judge when to make my move.
      So, we are driving along out of the city on the dual carriageway. Somehow, I've got myself into the fast lane. I know I need to be in the slow one. I indicate. I see a car. I change my mind. I let him pass me in the slow lane, then indicate again only to see a white van coming up behind. 'Nasty white van' I say to my boyfriend. "A nasty van" he agrees. Again I hesitate, thinking I'll let him pass me in the slow lane. The van thoughtfully moves into the fast lane behind me. I swing into the empty left lane, and it swings back left again. Then I see the markings on it. 'It’s a garda van,' says I . 'Even nastier' says himself.

in

'I bet you they'll pull me over for erratic driving,' says I .

The words were hardly out of my mouth when their blue lights started flashing. I looked over to my boyfriend. Does that mean pull over? We decided it must. I felt like I was in an action movie - pulled over by the Guards for suspicous behaviour. I indicated and pulled in.

      I lowered my window and poked my head out - 'Did I do something wrong?'
     'Your nearly chopped the nose off that Fiesta.’
      I couldn’t remember any Fiesta.  At this point another garda was circling the front of the car checking my NCT, insurance and tax. 'And you were weaving across the road. We were wondering if you'd been drinking?'
      When in such a situation, I believe it is best to drop all weapons and put your hands up. I assured him I hadn't had a drop and when asked if I 'd a full license, which I couldn’t produce, assured him I’d drop it into a garda station in the morning. After drunk driver, their second theory about me was that I was a learner. So I began to tell him the story of how I passed my driving test first time in Cahir, the driving test centre with the highest pass rate in the country, and that they'd closed it the week after because they were passing even the grannies who were on their fifth attempt.
      "You’d want to come up and sit it in Cork" the Guard laughed, "we do a proper driving test down here!' He then warned me to find room for my driving license somwhere in my handbag with my hairbrushes and make-up (he had three sisters and knew all about women and their handbags).
    Assured that whatever about my spatial awarness, I certainly wasn't drunk, he wrapped things up. He pointed at the fast lane, warned me not to go into it, and told me not to be nervous taking off as he'd keep his blue lights flashing behind me so nobody could come and do me any harm.
      So I started up, my little black micra bathed in the protective blue light of a Garda escort.
   
         

I is for Instructors (aka teachers)

Doing a bit of a catch up on the A-Z. I just wanted to share this Taylor Mali youtube clip with you. 

Taylor Mali is a well known slam poet who also worked for years as a teacher. In this slam poem 'What teachers make' he makes a passionate defence for the work done by teachers. If may seems like a slim connection to the letter 'i', but I'm sure you'll also find this poem illuminating and inspirational.

Baby, Won't You Dance With Me?

On a night out, when I tell my boyfriend I want to dance, he’ll start telling me the music isn’t ‘right’. He doesn’t like the band. There aren’t enough people on the dance floor. There are too many people on the dance floor.  It’s just never the right song:  too slow, too fast, too techno. 

But it all boils down to one thing really – not enough alcohol.

Eventually, he’ll pinpoint the problem. He needs another drink first.  And another.  And another.  At last, he feels sufficiently fuelled.  At this stage, he’s mad for it. All indecision and uncertainty is forgotten - why haven’t we been dancing all night?  Time is pressing; we need to be out there, on the floor, showing the rest of them how it’s done.

     He takes me by the hand, or what he thinks is my hand; at this stage he is just as likely to grab my elbow – or foot.  He leads me on to the dance floor, not stopping when I bend down to tighten the strap on my shoe – I feel my feet will need all the support they can get.  It’s reminiscent of that scene from the Quiet Man where Maureen O’Hara gets dragged home by the top of the head by John Wayne – and she loves every second of it.  I’m mad to hit the dance floor. 

 I forget you see.  I forget the co-ordination skills of my boyfriend are poor when he is sober, never mind when he is drunk.  You know the way those pull-along trolley suitcases have become so popular? There are two ways of wheeling them. The first is to pull it slightly behind yourself. This way you cut a way ahead of your case through the crowd and it is unlikely anyone will trip over your luggage. The second is to wheel the case alongside you, thereby increasing the breadth of the space you take up on the footpath.  These case wheelers trot along paying no heed to the fact that their case is little over a foot high and people can’t see it until they are sent flying over it.  Passersby, streetlamps, bins – nothing stops them.  My boyfriend belongs to the latter category, except he wouldn’t be seen dead with a pulley case – I’m his baggage, or at least that’s how he treats me. He pulls me along and I do my best with the limited bit of rope I have (his arm) to avoid oncoming obstacles.

And now he's pulling me onto the dance floor. He eyes a fairly empty spot and makes for it. Then he’s off. He gives a quick look around to see what ‘moves’ are de rigeour in these circles.  Then he starts not to replicate them, but to better them. This involves kicking his legs higher, waving his arms harder, and shaking his body quicker than everyone else on the floor. But his favourite moves involve spinning me around. He sends me out like a spinning top on a string, then winds me back in again, out again, in again, under his arm, twirl.  At this point I’m beginning to feel dizzy. At over six foot, he has plenty of leg and arm to throw around the place and with which to throw me. I’m sent flying to various corners of the dance floor. All that talk of a suitable song was in vain – it doesn’t matter what the song is, he is dancing to his own beat.

     At last, it’s over. I’m beat. He tells me he wasn't that gone on the song.  Funny, but somehow the dancefloor has emptied. The others musn’t have really liked it all that much either. 

C is for Cachinnate

I've written before about my tendency to sneeze, loudly and uncontrollably: you can read all about it here.
     Unfortunately, loud, uncontrollable, inappropriate outbursts are not limited to my sneezing. My laughs are also show stoppers.
      If I think something is funny, I will let out a loud, sharp 'ha,', normally in tandem with banging my knee or the random body part of some other poor unsuspecting unfortunate. Oh, if only such skills had been recognised in me and nurtured by my parents and I a child, I could have formed a one woman band. My dexterous, multi-tasking skills could have been put  to use by blowing on a harmonica and beating a drum at the same time, and perhaps I could even have made a bit of money.

           

    Instead, these skills seem to go unappreciated by friends and acquaintances. Often, when I look up from my 'ha', tears in  my eyes from the exertion, it isn't unusual for the rest of the company to have forgotten the joke. The stare at me, shocked out of the moment by the raucousness of my laugh.
      A joke is a delicate thing, needing air and light to live and breathe. My laugh, like that of many other guffawers and brayers out there, effectively smothers the joke as if I had put a pillow over its face and shook and pummeled until there wasn't a dreg of life left. When the murder is complete, I, like others of my ilk, will look around to see if everyone else enjoyed the joke just as much as I did. More often than not, I am greeted with the image of those in my company wiping the spittle of their faces and looking rather grim.
       That literally puts a dampener on the evening!

 What kind of laugh do you have? Are you a polite titterer, a snorter, a guffawer, a giggler or a chortler?
     

    

B is for Butterflies

 When my mother was a small girl, when out in the garden during the summer, her grandmother would chase her, captive butterflies between her fingers. She would  hold them by their slight bodies, their coloured wings flapping. When she caught up with my mother, she would set the butterfly free inside the tent of my mother's skirt, their wings brushing against her naked legs. 

     My great-grandmother, when butterflies were in short supply, would do the same to my mother with the torso of the chicken she’d be after decapitating for the dinner.  The bird’s wings would still be flapping and he'd be creating a big fuss- understandable seeing as he had literally lost his head!

         This left my mother with a phobia of all winged creatures, though despite her fears, she is a nature and bird lover and feeds the birds each winter. Just don't put one in a confined space with her. As a child, she would never allow me have butterfly hair bobbins or dresses with butterfly patterns. She couldn't view them as pretty.

           When I would accompany her to mass as a child, the butterflies would dance in the air of the high vaulted church. She would not allow them to leave her sight line. An observer may have thought that she was captivated by the beauty of their performance. She was captivated alright - glued to her seat in fear. My eyes would follow hers and as a result, I have a small touch of the same phobia.

              As an adult, my fear has pretty much subsided, though hers has not. I can now clear a room of butterflies for her, she cowering in another part of the house than the intruder. When the job is done, she'll look at me as if I've taken on a burglar. 'You're very good, you're very good, aren't you great to be able to do that now?' 

      I still wouldn't wear or choose a butterfly pattern. Though whenever I see them, I think of my mother. And thinking about them tonight is leading me to think of her and Mother's Day tomorrow. 

                 Happy Mother's Day to my own mother and to all my readers that are mothers.

     

A-Z Blogger Challenge - A is for April Fools

April fools always reminds me of trying to play tricks on Daddy. My favourite one, to be repeated every year, and for which he always fell, involved filling a glass with lemonade and a good dash of washing-up liquid. I'd pop a straw into the glass, pretend to be sipping, and drift into his general vicinity. The drifting was important. You had to give the sense that you just happened to be there, that there was no darker purpose to your presence. I'd keep sucking away noisily on the straw until he would look for a sup and I'd hand over the poisoned chalice; he'd take a big long slug.
       First he'd pull a face, then he'd start to shake his head from side to side and next thing he'd be on his feet letting forth a stream of curses and swears. If my mother were to hear him using such words she'd tell him to go wash out his mouth with soap and water.
       There before you Mother!


You can hop along to other A-Z blogs by pressing on the following link
http://writing.wordit.com/index.php/Blog/A-Z-Challenge-Navigation-Buttons

Tomato soup

I got stopped on Paul street in Cork by a lady that I thought was looking for directions, ‘May I ask you a question?’ She’d already asked me one, so I didn’t see the harm in listening to a second. Too late I realised that it wasn’t directions she was looking for – such a person would normally say excuse me, and then just ask; there isn’t this ‘lead in’. My immediate panic was that I’d been caught by someone collecting for charity. They normally identify themselves with clipboards and coloured vests, stringing themselves out across the street like a human chain in that childhood game Red Rover. I’d make a dash to break through the line, but as in the schoolyard, I was more often caught than not.

‘Do you like tomato soup?’ was the question. Was I being asked out to lunch by a middle aged lady? I was debating which was more PC - to tell her I was too young for her or tell her I wasn’t attracted to other women when she continued with, ‘Would you like to take part in our market survey, you’ll get a fiver?’

At that, I was sold. This was one of those games where the loser was the winner – I was glad to be taken over to the other side. I said I would love a free lunch and texted the person I’d planned to meet to tell them I would be late; I’d something important I had to do. I was instructed to go upstairs to a room above a popular restaurant. There were a number of tables for one, and I was shown to my seat, given a questionnaire, and told to put up my hand up when I required service. I was going to be given three different bowls of soup. First you had to look at the soup and before tasting it, assess it on smell and appearance, then take just a spoon or two and give a first impression of taste, then consume the remains of the bowl and answer a host of questions.

I enjoyed my first bowl, sent back the second bowl half sampled and tolerated the third. A gentleman across the way seemed to need help with his questions. I wouldn’t blame him. I was smacking my lips together asking myself about the quality of the soups aftertaste. Some of the questions were confusing – what exactly was the difference between a soup that tasted freshly made and a soup that tasted homemade? I had to ask for the questions to be clarified and freshly made apparently doesn’t taste like it was in the fridge two days sitting.

The gentleman was talking so hard and hand waving he couldn’t be doing much tasting. Finally, he finished the last of his soup and left the building. I was cleansing my palate with a cracker getting ready for the next course when I noticed him come back in again with the lady from the street.

There was a bit of a kerfuckle. I put down my soup spoon the better to follow proceedings. The gentleman had gone out on the street, after consuming all three bowls of soup, and told the lady that was wooing people into the web upstairs, that he did not like tomato soup and that he had said as much to the people upstairs – when he was finished. She had made him come back upstairs with her to explain that he had lied to her and that she had not sent him up knowing he did not like tomato soup. Everybody seemed to be on the high key about whether this would affect the outcome of the tasting. I suppose, if you don’t like tomato soup, you’re not going to tick the pleasant box for aftertaste and when asking yourself does the soup taste like its been in the fridge for two days, you'd be bound to be wishing it would have stayed there. The poor lady from the street looked panic stricken, afraid of how she’d look to the team I’m sure, but arguing with the man really wasn’t helping her case. Now it really did look like she was harrassing the passer-bys on the street.

        The gentleman seemed very put out about consuming three bowls of soup when he didn’t like tomato soup. he really did seem to be taking it personally. Similar happened to me as a child - I can remember being forced to eat onions that weren’t fully cooked by a visiting relative. As a consequence I got sick. I have no doubt the expression on my face reflected his – and I don’t just mean green around the gills, but a look that says ‘Do you see now? I tried to tell you, but would you listen?’ I would have been about three, but I suppose that desire to please can be hard to shake off. And that sense of indignation afterwards even harder. In truth, I'm not the greatest tomato soup fan myself; I just like a free lunch.
So I finished my soup, ticked the rest of those boxes, and headed back out into the sunlight, kinda glad I hadn't broken that red rover line - I enjoy a bit of lunch time theatre.

I'm a Stylish Blogger!

Thank You! I've received this award from two bloggers whose blogs I really admire Ann at Inkpots N' Quills and Margo Kelly

The Rules of this award are:



1. Link to the person/persons who bestowed me with this lovely award. Thank you ladies! Three great blogger friends. If you don't follow them, well what are you waiting for!

2. Tell you seven things about myself. hemmm, can I think of seven things, now there's a challenge.

3. Pass the award to three other people... 

Seven Things About Myself:

1. I gave my first lecture today in UCC and I'm feeling really proud of myself! I only needed half the staff in the building to help me start up my powerpoint, but after that I was flying. Oh, and I made my boyfriend and a friend come to watch - I never do anything without making some little bit of fuss.

2. I love to wear dresses. I don't own any pair of jeans at the moment as I find them impossible to buy.

3. I want to be a writer when I grow up, but I abolutely hate writing pieces in cards or these list type things. I never know where to start. I'm quite a talker, but ask me to tell you something about myself and I'll shut up pretty quickly. These lists have the same effect.

4. I rescued (stole) two puck goats from a neighbour as a child, but my father returned them under the cover of darkness.  I need to do a post on that one sometime.

5.  I have a tendency to stare. I'm not usually aware of it until the company I'm in tells me to stop it.

6. I love baking, but don't always turn out the most perfect cakes. I told a friend at New Years that I wanted to start blogging, and she suggest I have one based on my culinary adventures and call it wonky cakes.

7.  Once, when sick as a child, I gave my brother a black eye for asking me how I was feeling. I am not a good patient.

And the award goes to:

There are so many great blogs out there, so to cut it down for myself I've only selected people that have started blogging recently.

1. show and tell
2. Things being various
3. This writing life
4. fashionablylearningtobe


 So thanks again, Margo and Ann, and I hope everyone enjoys these new blogs.

Time for making your mind up......

The General Election is on Friday and people up and down the country are rooting out their voting cards. And all that candidate literature that came in the door, that got walked on and then stuffed to the back of the bill drawer – is now once more seeing the light of day.

There have been canvassers knocking on all our doors – and I’ve been out doing some of that knocking. People that a few weeks ago were anxious for change are now anxious to have it all over.

Daddy has always voted Fianna Fáil. The banks guarantee, the deal with the IMF, the cuts – nothing was going to stop him voting for them this time around too. 80,000 people left the country last year in search of work – Daddy was still going to be loyal to the end to the party that wished them all Bon Voyage.

Until the leaders debate last night that is,  and suddenly, Daddy isn’t going to vote Fianna Fáil anymore. He is joining that group undecided voter. It all came down to Micheál Martin’s hair style. Daddy has had a receding hair line since he was 18 and now in his early sixties has a tonsure. But he has never, never had a comb over, and that is what Micheál Martin sported in the final leaders debate.

‘If he’s hiding his bald patch, what else is he hiding?’ that was Daddy’s analysis. The studio light reflected off the top of Micheál’s head during that debate, beamed into the living rooms of Ireland and it illuminated the whole issue. Just in time!

                                                         

Learning to Drive: Changing a Wheel

It took many people to teach me to drive. Too many cooks spoil the broth is the old adage and I believe the proof of that pudding, if you’ll excuse the mixed metaphors, is in my own experience. Today, I’m just going to tell you about the lesson I had from my dad.

My father, in response to my repeated requests for driving lessons, insisted that he teach me how to change a wheel. I was sure this was because he wanted to avoid being in the car with me when I was in control of the vehicle, especially as I was suggesting he teach me in his car; his cover story was that basic car maintenance is the first skill necessary to learn to drive. His teaching method involved him calling out the names of various tools that could be possibly required to change a wheel and having me go to fetch them out of the shed. It was like a fill-in-the-gaps test on a topic you hadn’t studied for – the harder type where you’re not shown the words you have to find. How was I to know what a Jack looked like?

What followed was like a game of fetch. He didn’t make too good a job of teaching Mickey Dee or the other dogs this game, so I don’t know what made him so hopeful with me. The game went something like this: he’d call out the name of a tool needed to change the wheel and I would have to look in the car boot, the work bench in the shed and his toolbox, and bring back the object requested. Every tool I’d bring out would be thrown down on the ground beside him with a humph. I would then think I’d been successful. I can understand why he confused the dogs – his signals weren’t the clearest. First off, his projection wasn’t good. Mutters turned to growls, though to be fair to him, he did get a bit louder as the mound grew. Unfortunately, as it grew higher again, he seemed to lose his voice altogether and started waving his hands in the air. Perhaps he had given up thinking I could ever change a wheel and was teaching me how to stop on-coming traffic for help if I got a flat. Still, there was a no, no, no when I went to take the driver’s seat. He kept repeating how could I ever be trusted behind the wheel of a car when I didn’t know a spanner from a jack. He went into the garage himself and started looking for the necessary equipment. He asked me to come in and have a look at the state I’d made of the place. I excused myself and told him I’d a fair idea of the lay of the land. From the exclamation that followed it became obvious that he once more wanted me to enjoy the scenic view that was his workbench.

When the going gets tough call mother – that’s the motto in our house. I cracked first and called her onto the scene. Dad greeted her with, ‘What were you doing with my Jack?’ My mother doesn’t drive and wouldn’t normally have reason to be hoisting heavy objects. Daddy glared at me, then her, ‘One of ye moved it’ - so began the hunt for the Jack. ‘It should be in the boot of the car,’ Daddy said, ‘and I wouldn’t take it out of there, so one of ye did.’ This led my mother to once more have a root around the boot. Almost immediately she found it. Though a moment earlier it's not being there was proof one of us took it, now it’s presence in the boot seemed equally proof we had, ‘Don’t go at it again,’ Dad said. At this point, the spanner had also been found, and I knelt with Daddy beside the car.

He told me to start changing the wheel. Daddy believes in active learning – there is no spoon feeding around here. I went to position the long sought-for Jack under the car. ‘No, no, no,’ he cried. ‘The nuts, the nuts! Would you not use your head? Would it not be easier to loosen those nuts when the pressure is on the wheel, otherwise it’ll be spinning on you.’ I could see the wisdom of his words – I just don’t know why all the wise men have to speak in parables and riddles instead of just spitting out what they mean (though to be fair to Dad, there was no lack of flying spittle). The bolts were loosened, the Jack inserted, the car lifted, the wheel removed, and another put on. Eventually, the wheel was changed. I was exhausted. It had been hard work. Lesson was definitely over for the day.

Daddy went back to watch television. From his hum of contentment, I could tell he was happy in the knowledge that his motor was safe, and fairly hopeful, I'm sure, that I'd seen enough of Jacks and spanners not to be asking for another lesson for a while.
       They say never learn to drive from a relative - another saying that proved wise. What I needed was help from someone outside the family. But that's my next post!

The Hills of Cobh

The hills of Cobh always make me catch my breath. And no, it’s not the beautiful scenery, nor my asthma – though both of these can cause a similar response. Nothing causes me a sharp inhalation like being at the bottom of a hill in Cobh in my little Nissan micra.

The hills of Cobh are practically perpendicular – it's no stretcher to call them cliffs. I think the Batmobile would tremble and shudder if it caught these slopes in its headlights. It may be able to drive up the walls of Gotham city’s skyscrapers, but a true test drive would be a spin around Cobh.
         When I find myself at the foot of one of them, I pause, blocking the flow of traffic, and look behind me hoping in vain no one is up my rear. But there is always someone staring back at me, disgruntled at my sudden stop. On the rare occasion that there is nothing, I find, against my will mind, that I must wait until someone is giving me the evil eye - I always work best under pressure. After the igniting glare from the driver behind, I quickly check that nothing is coming against me, put my car in first and my foot to the pedal and go as fast as I can in the hope that the momentum will get me to the top.
          Now and again, the unthinkable happens. A four wheel drive appears like a bull in my path and comes charging down the hills against me. Though my car is black, he seems to react to it like a red rag. I've no choice but to pull in and use my handbrake. Here's where things get even trickier. With the handbrake and the footbrake I can hold the car, but once I take my foot off the footbrake, I can feel it begin to slip. In those miliseconds where my foot hovers between the brake and accelerator my heart stops beating, and I expect the next second to bring the crashing sound of broken glass and bent metal. I don't have the strength to pull hard enough on the handbrake to stop the car rolling backwards - and when I do, I have trouble releasing it again. A glance in my rearview mirror and the eyes that look back at me are now filled with fear. They see that my car is slipping, but just as things could turn nasty, my foot makes contact with the accelorator, and I'm off in a roar that would make a boyracer jealous.
              The release of air from my lips when I get to the summit can cause a second panic, as it sounds like one of my tyres has exploded - but once I’ve realised that it was just my lungs and not my wheels that had been completely over inflated, I relax once more. Once over the top, I don't look behind me. The past is forgotten - the road brings adventures new.
          This fear of hills is practically a phobia. I know the root of its cause. I learnt to drive on corkscrew hill. But I think that's a post for tomorrow.

My Boyfriend is a Heron

During a trip to the zoo on Saturday, my boyfriend and I stopped for lunch. Having started the day with a large breakfast, we decided to share the one plate of fish and chips. No sooner was the plate on the table than my boyfriend started to tuck into the rather yummy looking fish. I chanced spearing my fork into one piece and cutting off a tiny bite. As I struggled with my fork and knife, the soft fish fell away beneath the prongs and blade. At that moment my boyfriend gave the plate a 90 degree twist in his direction, so the fish was no longer beneath my cutlery, and in the same motion pulled it in closer to himself.
I looked at him in shock. Other girls have boyfriends that turn from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, but mine metamorphoses into a heron. I thought of the poor little penguins that we’d seen earlier down by the pond, the fish being thrown into them by their keeper for lunch, and the wild herons from Phoenix park invading their little sanctuary to steal their dinner. I too knew what it was like to have my fish dinner taken from under my nose. I was left – beak open – watching. I didn't say anything. I just left him at it. As the last morsel of fish was going down his throat (it rippled like the heron’s as it swallowed) my boyfriend began to return, just as if he had taken a magic potion.

.

'Did you want some of that?' he said, as if the idea had just struck him, like a thunderbolt.
‘What would I have wanted lunch for?’ I responded.
He looked rather aghast and guilty at that, so I dug the boot in even further and told him he was like a dog that was half starved as a pup. So he promised me dinner that night to make up for it.

           The place he chose was Jimmy Chung’s, a Scottish chain of Chinese restaurants that serves an all you can eat Buffet. He probably thought this was the safest option after the lunch fiasco – over-exuberance on his behalf would have to be excused in such a setting. We were no sooner there than my boyfriend went into taking charge mode. He suggested, after we were seated in the brightly lit and busy restaurant, that we approach this strategically; 'Just take a little of a few things for the starter and then we can go up again.' Yes, Captain. I tottered up behind him to the starters’ area of the buffet. I put a couple of tiny spring rolls on my plate, a little bit of sweet and sour sauce, a won ton or two, a handful of prawn crackers. I looked over at my boyfriend. His eyes were flitting between the barbeque spare ribs and his already overfull plate. When I’m baking a familiar recipe I often won’t measure the ingredients, I just throw them in to the mixing bowl, giving an educated guess. My boyfriend was doing the same – but I didn’t think much of his institute of learning. I knew from the way he was looking at the sesame toast and the peanut butter chicken sticks that he wanted to split them up by inserting the ribs between them – I also knew they’d be having none of it. I nudged him back to the table, reassuring him he could come back up again, and we tucked into the spoils.

Once he’d satiated the worst of his hunger, he told me I’d done right to take less – I had the look of an expert. Oh yes, he said, it was clear I knew what I was doing. He’d do the same this turn as some of the dishes weren’t as nice as they appeared and he’d rather have had some more of the others. After a short break to ensure maximum capacity on the next trip, he went up again to the buffet and overfilled his plate. As he returned a string of noodle began to slip over the edge, about to throw itself overboard – due to the overcrowding, no doubt.

He couldn’t help himself; two plates of starters were followed by three of mains. Next came some cheesecake, a mango and then a coconut dessert, lime jelly and a massive bowl of ice-cream and strawberry syrup. Dinner took us nearly two hours between pit stops, pauses for recuperation and tactical planning. The restaurant isn’t designed to encourage people to linger, people are crammed on top of each other, happy birthday music blares out every now and again. It seems to be popular with groups of people in their early twenties and families – not a lot of couples were looking for romance beneath the insistent orange lights.
He leaned back in his chair at the end of all that and patted his belly, unfairly slim, one of the benefits for the heron of being such a long legged creature, a look of satisfaction on his face. It was a job well done. Not that he’d bother coming again. It was grand and all, but he’d tasted everything now – sure what fun would it be next time?

Arrah-na-Pogue

It is pantomime season, but if wanting something with a little more substance than your average ‘Oh, yes he is, Oh, no he’s not’ theatre experience, Dion Boucicault’s Arrah-na-Pogue offers all the fun and frolics you could ask for, but with an emotional journey to boot. We went to see the play in the Abbey on Saturday night. Written in 1864, the Abbey theatre held faithful to the script, but the production of the melodrama was modern in its ability to be tongue-in-cheek.

The play opened with rambunctious madness. Three trampolines built into the floor of the stage aided the troop as they all weaved around each other and practically bounced over one another in a scene reminiscent of a chase from a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Mobile scenery props - trees, suits of armour, a hobby horse and a sheep that baa’d at the most inopportune moments - did much to add to the general folly and comedy of the play. Characters ran on and off the stage with them, using them to give a sense of motion and the passage of time. It was an exuberant opening, but it made me a little nervous as to the ability of the play to follow through. Was the audience up for such a hell-for-leather journey, would we have the energy to stay with this for a two hour period or would it just leave us travel sick?

It didn’t take long to realise I wouldn’t need my travel calms, there were to be no bumps on this ride despite the speed and energy. Cues were picked up perfectly, and the cast of fifteen were as completely in tune as seasoned dancers in a piece that was a choreographically demanding display of physical theatre. Though all parts were acted beautifully and were perfectly pitched, it was the part of Shaun the Post, played by Aaron Monaghan, which kept the play from descending to a farce without substance. Boucicault, who played this part himself in its earliest production, knew how to give himself the best lines. It isn’t hard to believe that at the time of his greatest popularity he became known as the Irish Shakespeare. When Sean sees Arragh’s cottage on the morning of their wedding he exclaims “There’s Arrah’s cabin; the oysther shell that’s got the pearl of my heart in it” This was nothing until he got a grip on the pearl herself – and Arragh, played by Mary Murray, with her doll like features, was a convincing love interest. Her loveliness made it no wonder that Shaun sent spit flying half way across the stage in his eagerness to convince her how much she was treasured. I kept digging my boyfriend in the ribs and telling him to take notes of his more passionate endearments.

I cried when Sean offered his life to save Arrah’s and in embarrassment turned my face to the side, just to catch the lady beside me wiping away a tear. What made this play so unique and special was the way it would have you crying tears of laughter and sadness in almost the one hanky blow. Through all the farcical elements, the chases, misunderstandings and miscommunications – it was the love story between Arrah and Sean at the centre of the play that was the glue that made the jokes funny and chase scenes dramatic – their love story raised the stakes of this comedy and when their love was endangered, I really did want to shout out, like a child at a pantomime, ‘Watch out, look behind you!’

Would you like chips with that?

Mike sits in the local chippers, a plastic microphone in his hands. He serenades me as I order my curry cheese chip – ‘Flow on, lovely river, flow gently along/By your waters so sweet sounds the lark's merry song/On your green banks I wander where first I did join /With you, lovely Molly, the rose of Mooncoin.’

There is no escape - I learnt that early on. His dulcet tones have a tendency to sound initially like the iron bars coming down on a prison cell. My head fills to over flowing with all the things I've got to do, cupboards that need to be tidied, freezers defrosted, papers that haven't been sorted for six months that suddenly need to be sorted just as soon as I get out of this place. My brain goes into panic -how do I get out of this one - and I start kicking myself for not starting that diet. So out of politeness and an inbred inability to say no, I sit down beside him, munching my chips, and he tells me tales about his wife, his kids, his love of singing and poetry. ‘Did you hear this one....’ as he starts into another story from his past, a hope for his future. He has a penchant for mottos, some few words with a moral or instruction for living, 'It's nice to be important, but it's far more important to be nice.' I think he's about the same age as my Dad - early sixties. The sense of being trapped is reminiscent of when an older relative got their claws into you as a child -- you start off feeling you're doing your duty and you end up really enjoying yourself. You've always forgotten that by the next visit though.
         I reflect on his stories, about his various jobs, the places he has sung, the people he has sung for, looking for clues, things that will tell me how he has become a person who is unafraid to be himself - a person unafraid to sit in the corner of a chippers and sing into a child's toy whilst gangs of teenagers, their boxers peeping up behind their trousers, order burgers, and young people on their way home from work order meal deals so they won't have to face empty, cold flats and start cooking.

He gives hours sitting there, watching the customers coming in and out, when the shop is quiet talking to the owner behind the counter, watching out the window for the recognisable face of a regular - someone who'll actually take the time to sit and listen to his stories and songs. Despite all the people he meets and the people in his stories, I can't help but feel that he is lonely. Why else is he there, waiting for people? A spider sitting in his web ( though I'm sure he' rather eat the chips than the customers.)

            I met him one day on my way to the Post Office. I did a double take at seeing him outside of the chippers. He was with a guitar player - the two of them busking. The plastic microphone was left at home; they'd all the professional gear. Speakers so their voices could travel all over the city streets. They were between numbers and Mike asked me would I stop and sing a song. I was about to automatically say no, I didn't sing, when I thought, why not? I sang 'Young Ned of the Hills' : 'And he sings lady love will you come with me now/ Come and live merrily under the bough. ' Nerves caused my voice to tremble as it boomed up and down the city street. A passing lady, without looking, threw in a euro. A man came and pushed a mint into my hand as I sang - maybe he thought that I'd a sore throat.  I'm not that great a singer - I wonder did the people of Cork all feel like they were trapped, that there was nowhere for them to run, only into the nearest shop, as they scuttled up and down the Grand Parade doing their shopping?  Whatever they thought of me, I thought I was great. Mike would want to hold on tight to that plastic microphone - he could have competition for it.

 

Neddy the Donkey

Daddy bought me a donkey from a neighbour for my 10th birthday – he spent £20 on it and got £1 back for luck. That £1 wasn’t very lucky. Daddy fenced off the bottom of the hagart and Neddy, as I called him, who was only a foal, fed and grazed there, was fattened on nuts, and grew quite quickly to be difficult to handle. Much to Daddy’s delight, the donkey, being but a foal, was not broken in. All those Wild West movies had gone to Daddy’s head –he thought he was John Wayne and could break the donkey in himself – with me as his main piece of training equipment.

The first thing Daddy thought we should teach Neddy was chase. He would take down the field, after Neddy, shouting back over his shoulder what corners we were to block. Myself and my brother would have the job of stopping Neddy, but being quite small ourselves, we found having a wild donkey running towards us quite frightening, so Neddy would flip from being chased by Daddy to chasing us.

The fun really started when Daddy decided to get him used to a weight on his back. At first this was a blanket. The donkey would buck, bite and try to tear it off against the hedges. He'd leap and he'd run, he'd twist and he'd shake himself. This was such good sport that Daddy went looking for a better weight - isn't that what John Wayne would have done? There'd have been no pussy footing or taking it easy. So a second weight was sought - me. I would be caught and foisted over the donkey's back, I'd wanted a donkey, hadn't I? My arms and legs would hang like redundant stirrups against each of his flanks. And then there would be a scene that would make a bucking bronco appear tame. His rump would be slapped and off we'd go, he'd try to knock me against the hedgerows, decapitate me on the lower branches of the apple trees, rear his legs to see if that would shake me off. I'm sure the sound of my squealing did nothing to calm him down.

Neddy was a great ass. He was full of energy and would run around the field, his bucket caught by the handle in his mouth. He was never fully broken-in despite Daddy using the best training equipment available. A neighbour broke their wrist trying to ride him, my brother sprained his and I had teeth marks on my upper arm for years, scarred from where he bit me.

In the end, he was given to a farmer who was looking for a donkey and we would visit him when we'd go for walks.  Daddy had to hang up the bit and bridle, but he didn't throw them away. Maybe he thought there was a chance they could still come in useful sometime and he might still be named the great Tipperary Donkey trainer with Donkey Derby rosettes bedecking the walls. We all have our dreams.

It was being teased by a friend the other day for my pronunciation of the word Donkey that brought all this to mind. I pronounce it to rhyme with monkey – Dunk –ee. I found the song Delaney’s Donkey on You tube and was delighted to find that the pronounciation on this is the same. So it's not just Tipperary people that say it that way. I loved this song as a child – especially after my own experiences with Neddy the donkey. I think you might enjoy it too.  

Now Delaney had a donkey that everyone admired, tempo'rily lazy

and permanently tired

A leg at ev'ry corner balancing his head, and a tail to let you

know which end he wanted to be fed
Riley slyly said "We've underrated it, why not train it?" then he took a rag
They rubbed it, scrubbed it, they oiled and embrocated it, got it to the post an
d when the starter dropped his flag

There was Riley pushing it, shoving it, shushing it
Hogan, Logan and ev'ryone in town lined up attacking it and shoving it and smacking it
They might as well have tried to push the Town Hall down
The donkey was eyeing them, openly defying them
Winking, blinking and twisting out of place
Riley reversing it, ev'rybody cursing it
The day Delaney's donkey ran the halfmile race

The muscles of the mighty never known to flinch, they couldn't budge the donkey

a quarter of an inch
Delaney lay exhausted, hanging round its throat with a grip just like a
Scotchman on a five pound note
Starter, Carter, he lined up with the rest of 'em. When it saw them, it was willing then
It raced up, braced up, ready for the best of 'em. They started off to cheer it
but it changed its mind again


There was Riley pushing it, shoving it and shushing it
Hogan, Logan and Mary Ann Macgraw, she started poking it, grabbing it and choking it
It kicked her in the bustle and it laughed "Hee - Haw!"
The whigs, the conservatives, radical superlatives
Libr'rals and tories, they hurried to the place
Stood there in unity, helping the community
The day Delaney's donkey ran the halfmile race


The crowd began to cheer it. Then Rafferty, the judge he came to assist them,
but still it wouldn't budge
The jockey who was riding, little John MacGee, was so thoroughly disgusted that
he went to have his tea
Hagan, Fagan was students of psychology, swore they'd shift it with some dynamite
They bought it, brought it, then without apology the donkey gave a sneeze
and blew the darn stuff out of sight

There was Riley pushing it, shoving it and shushing it
Hogan, Logan and all the bally crew, P'lice, and auxil'ary, the Garrison Artillery
The Second Enniskillen's and the Life Guards too
They seized it and harried it, they picked it up and carried it
Cheered it, steered it to the winning place
Then the Bookies drew aside, they all commited suicide
Well, the day Delaney's donkey won the halfmile race



Those were the days.......

It’s one of my closest friends birthday’s today. Her birthday is the 12th of January and mine is the 12th of July, so we are 180 degrees polar opposites in the zodiac. She is the sure footed mountain goat and I’m the cautious, careful crab.

I’m suffering from a nostalgia for a time spent in Galway when we lived together and there were birthday parties, often fancy dress with robbers and geishas and superheroes; games of scrabble, where words were coined at a greater rate than by Kavanagh; and trips to supermacs at one in the morning even though we hadn’t been out - just straight to the garlic cheese chips - because that’s where the most excitement happened anyway .

         

                                         

Though like those in olden times eternal, we had the ability to make our own fun at home. Bridgette’s Dad used to send her loaves of brown bread through the post. I had always been securely placed as the baker supreme; but Bridgette’s Dad’s bread was delicious, and also a novelty as he was new on the baking scene. It was beginning to be known far and wide amongst Galway natives – his fame was surpassing mine. He’d do astute things like send the bread to the shop where Bridgette and I worked. The arrival of strangely shaped packages always creates a commotion in the workplace. Bridgette’s Dad was cashing in on that guaranteed stir. Questions would be asked, the bread revealed, his fame secured. I knew his plan.

So I felt I had to once more prove my worth in the kitchen. Bridgette’s Dad wasn’t afraid of the competition, and to goad me on, sent down a bag of chopped up rhubarb for the freezer - no doubt with a ‘do your best’ twinkle in his eye.

So I did, I pulled the rhubarb from the freezer and Bridgette thought best to get out of the way, so ducked into the shower. She always had a bit of a problem with the knobs of butter on the ceiling and flour footprints on the floor after I did a bout of baking. Obviously, her father was more orderly in his kitchen habits, but I’ve always believed genuine creative expression involves a bit of chaos.

So I started. I took out the rhubarb, I lit the stove, threw the match in the bin, I took out my sieve, my flour, the butter, started making my pastry for the rhubarb tart, thinking all the time that pastry would have Bridgette’s Dad quaking in his boots, pastry was a skill, when I turned around to put the butter in the fridge – OMG!

The bin was on fire. I'd forgotten to quench the match. Great flames were licking up along the side of the counter. I did what anybody would have done in the same situation. I screamed for help. I called and called Bridgette. No response. I would have to deal with this catastrophe alone. I picked up the bag of frozen rhubarb and single handed started beating out the flames. Lit papers from the overfull bin fell to the carpet. I started beating them also, chasing each one around the kitchen floor, the open bag sending cubes of ice hard rhubarb flying all around the room. I stomped and I swore and I beat those flames out –every last one of them.

Eventually Bridgette sauntered out, shower fresh with a towel wrapped around her head. I was half out of it in a chair swearing I’d never look at a stick of rhubarb in the same way again – and why had she trusted me with the matches anyway. She hadn’t bothered coming to my rescue, the reliable old goat, as apparently, I only screamed the once so she hadn’t thought it could be that serious. At that, the crab’ claws came out to do a little nipping – I could have died in an inferno and she’d have been safely underwater.

And the song that was playing on her shower radio as it all played out – The Prodigy Firestarter.

Happy Birthday Bridgette!

                  

Shopping battles

My boyfriend, sees shopping as a military operation. He is the Sergeant Major but he has only one recruit – me. He does a sweep search of the presses to see what needs buying. He calls out in a voice worthy of a drill sergeant what provisions he feels we need; there is just the right snap and projection to his voice as he lists kidneys beans and tinned tomatoes, onions and chicken. When we get to the car he asks me have I remembered the shopping bags – I never remember and he never remembers to remind me. The car trip is just long enough for a quick debriefing on what is needed for the week.


There is the battle with the trolley. I always trip along inside out of the cold and let him fight it out one-on-one. I’m far too sensitive for such scenes of violence. But when after some minutes my dashing prince doesn’t reappear, I decide it is time to go back out on my own rescue mission. I see him pulling and tugging the red handle of the trolley, in an out, trying to force it free. He shakes it so hard the whole shelter quakes. I step in and disentangle the two warriors, dislodge the trolley, and off we go.

Hands on the reigns, my boyfriend starts his route. There is no element of surprise in his attack – he starts at one end of the shop and works his way up and down every aisle. Rather a pain if all you want to get is a tube of toothpaste or a carton of milk. We mark time together, up and down the aisles. It is always the fruit and veg aisle first, down to the bottom, then right turn and up through the canned goods and soups, on, up into the next aisle, the toiletries, left turn, back down through the pet section, down towards the Indian, Mexican, Chinese food.

Despite the military precision in the planning, not so I’m afraid in the execution. There is no plan of what we will cook during the week; there is just a plucking of what we fancy from the shelves: Pizza bases, but no cheese to put on them; Mango chutney, but no curry or popadums. There is the usual new years, healthier diet conversation, so when I suggest a bunch of bananas as a handy breakfast fruit, he tells me that they aren’t low GI – that is news to me, as is the fact that Rice Krispies, on the other hand, fall perfectly within the guideline of a Low GI diet.

When we talk about first moving in together, my boyfriend often cites our first shopping trip as being particularly romantic. What I remember is that he disagreed to the purchase of a roll of tinfoil. I suggested it, for covering foods, it's something I'd always have in the house; he said we didn’t need it. I felt that shopping together, we were keeping his list – it was his life as it was before but with small accommodations. All of that has changed, but it still remains the best roll of tinfoil I never bought. It has been quoted in every shopping trip since as a rationale for any purchase. That super-duper baking tin – do I need it? Do you remember the tinfoil? Triple strength conditioner with special shine boosters and a special price tag – do you remember the tinfoil?

Finally, we’re at the till. Our basket is heaving. We’ll go home, throw our hands up in despair, and wonder what the hell we’re going to eat. He will sort everything into perfect order in the presses – tins on the top shelf, pasta and rice on the second, herbs and spices on the third. The job is done. At last, we can be at ease.

Dismissed.