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!


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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.