Proud as punch

There are moments that you treasure, for always.  The memory and its lasting feeling is saved away. For, if and when you think of it, in murky times, your heart is topped up with the good stuff. Tonight I have saved away one of those. At the Thame Christmas Festival of Music our Middle got up, in front of a packed audience of a couple of hundred parents, teachers, pupils, band, sound system, mics and sang  ‘Away in a Manger’. Unaccustomed, unplanned,  unrehearsed and  unexpected.  My heart was in my mouth. Gone wrong with shock and nerves. To be honest, it could have gone either way with the last few weeks she has had in school. There could have been a dramatic dash from the stage in a shower of tears when she realised she was the only one up there. But, she stayed and sang beautifully with her sweet innocent voice, so sure she could do it. Oh lads, I’m so proud. More importantly, she’s so proud of herself. I hope she will look to this treasured memory and great experience, especially the applause, as the years go on, and gain from it.    

Fiannafailium leviosa

There is a line from a Martin McDonagh play, in which during my am dram days I played one of the auld aunts (whilst heavily pregnant I might add), that goes something like  ‘it’ll all end in tears...tears or death...tears death or worse’. Maybe this is worse. The bailout. We are the pariahs of Europe. And to make matter worse the English media are all to do about their £7 billion. Don’t spend it all in the one shop. We all know it’s in their interest over here, there is nothing truly altruistic about it. After all it is a loan, terms and conditions do apply. And need we forget the English exchequer stands to make a nice few bob with interest. Anyhow they are just lending Ireland the money so we can continue to buy their exports, isn’t that the way it works? It’s hard to keep up as all things economic and political keep changing by the hour. All any of us know is when the cigire from the IMF get the red biro at the budget who knows how we will get hammered on cuts and taxes. And I say we because even though we have made the move, we are giving it a go over here, much depends for us on how things are going at home and it’s beginning to look more long term than we thought. It will feel like limbo for a while yet. You hope that the kids aren’t affected or worried about all this doom and gloom, you would think some of it is seeping in, inevitably. So when The Middle, who is partial to pondering and mulling over all things universal, said the other day ‘there’s alot of things not right about the world’ I didn’t like the sounds of it. ‘What’s not right about it?’ I hesitantly enquire. ‘Well, knee shouldn’t have a ‘k’ and phone should be spelt with an ‘f’! She’s dead right.

There were more important things than the state of the nation in our house this week; I refer, of course to Harry Potter and friends. Perhaps wingardium leviosa might work on the government...make them fly away. Their Nanna at home said she’d love to go and see it but Grandad wouldn’t like it. ‘Sure he’d only fall asleep and then be askin loads of questions in the middle of it’ they all reckon. The Small Man who is Mastermind on all things to do with the spectacled hero informs us that that it’s dark, and quite scary, the girls mightn’t be up to it. But the mná in our house are always up for a challenge. Tickets booked, ensconced in the cinema, munchies on the lap, all set. The Youngest gets up to go the toilet before it starts. She’s wearing a high viz vest over her jumper, forgotten to take it off. In actual fact she hasn’t taken it off all week having been given them in school by a local sponsor, for the dark evenings. Himself and I just took one look at her and took a fit of the giggles. All she needed was a rolled up newspaper and a flashlight. ‘Mum, you’re crying, what’s the story’,  ‘they’re the best kind of tears’ I said ‘tears of laughter’. Scathered she is. There were no more toilet breaks and that’s a sure sign they enjoyed it. But watch out for the dodgy Irish accent, you’ll know what I mean when you hear it, beggorah. Disappointing too, for a Welshman. 

We’re Fawked!

Stop the world, I want to get off. Time is flyin by (I’m far too young to say things like that!). Just lock me in a room with a cup a’ Horlicks and Ireland’s Eye if I come out with ‘Won’t feel it now till the Christmas’. But it’s true. The evenings have drawn in, the days are Baltic over here with rows over whose wearing whose gloves ringing in my ears like a broken record each morning. Guy Fawkes weekend came and went in a blaze of fireworks. The local schools partnership put on a fine display, our crew well impressed. I was at a Slane concert half steamed the first time I experienced fireworks for real. There’s nothing like a few pyrotechnics to remind us of Mr Fawkes, a recusant Catholic, whose coup d’etat was scuppered back in the day, God help us. Those in power put him on the bold step, 1600’s still, so he was hung drawn and quartered with his parts distributed around the country (wonder did recipients have to sign for them?). Lovely, very musical. Thus last weekend every Fido and Fluffy in the town could be found cowering under the bed with their paws over their ears as the night sky snap, crackled and popped. Now speaking of dogs, this surely is a nation of dog lovers. Their proud owners look after them, train them and wait for it...actually clean up after them. They walk to heal and do what their told. It is commendable. Sometimes I think the dogs’ personalities are similar to their owners i.e. groomed, well mannered, routined, conservative and prone to wearing quilted green jackets when the weather’s a bit nippy. You won’t see a vet here with the poor mouth, that’s for sure.

As we all go about our daily routines it feels sometimes that some of the people here live in a bubble. With talk of imminent welfare cuts and students rioting it goes over many heads. There is some talk, for sure, but these stringent slashes will not affect the X5ers in the Home Counties. Probably affect their cleaners though. Here, the vast majority of cuts to the civil service will be made in the north, allegedly, but I guess that depends on which paper you read. I listen to RTE Radio 1 and read the papers with the grimacing reports of economic turmoil at home and what’s to be done by the two Brians, to sort out the catastrophe they got us into. Maybe it is time lads, to grab the hammer and break open the pension piggy bank. There was a two page spread in The Guardian recently, a ‘where did it all go wrong’ about our economic failings and of the pain, anxiety and misery people are going through in Ireland. We are the misbehaving student outside the head’s office awaiting punishment, that’s what our relationship feels like with Europe at the moment. And the real bullies, the bond holders, continue to call the shots, manipulating and dictating. It’s the uncertainty of it all that’s the killer. And those that do have money are not spending. So if your lucky enough to have a few bob, don’t be shy, spend away, put it back into the economy. Plough on and enjoy the little things cause if we ponder the bigger long term questions, the whys and wherefores of impending decisions our minds will become a very dark place. So ‘nothing to be done’ but KHL! 

How's that aul blob goin?

It was peculiar for us to land in Dublin airport and collect a rental. With lights, indicator and wipers established, boot packed to the gills, off to Tipp with us, gone wrong with excitement. It rained, bucketed down on our week home. There was apple tarts and chocolate biscuit cake (savage!) and tight hugs and kisses and gasps of ‘look how tall you’ve all gotten!’. And the kids grew a bit too. There was talk of austerity and the economy and Mary from Tesco. Fond farewells and a bag of Grandad Jack’s apples in the boot we turned the wagon Wesht. And as for the new Limerick tunnel...ya gotta love that! Zig zagging our way across Galway the kids met up with their old pals albeit to a tight schedule. There was quality time with grandparents and cousins. ‘Is everything we say goin into that aul blob of yours’ enquires Grandad Dydys. I got my knuckles wrapped over the sneaky parsnips. The Small Man trained with his old squad. Hard to know if we did the right thing but I believe he came away the better for it. When you haven’t heard it in a while the Galway cadence and banter is priceless ‘Arah how ya Bridie’ inside in Dunnes and ‘c’mer an’ I tell ya’ is music to my ears. We soaked up the atmosphere in town and a few scoops were had. When the sun finally shone through, for a nano second, we walked the Prom and shivered watching a gang of young fellas as they jumped from the top of the tower. ‘When we come back at Christmas can I do that’ The Small Man hopes ‘only if I can do it with ya’ says  I like an eejit. The bet is on. The last time I jumped I was a young wan. It looks much higher from the top now. Further farewells and laden with stones in their pockets from the beach, we made for Dublin. In synchronised mode all passengers assumed the position; elbows on the door, hand underneath chin, eyes gazing out the window.  Shattered,  drained and melancholy we headed back on the blue plane to our own beds with the comfort that we will be back again for Christmas. I await the emotional repercussions.

To trick or treat or not to trick or treat, that was the question. Hamlet man, I feel  your pain. In these here parts we received conflicting advice on the correct etiquette for Oíche Shamhna. Sussing out the girls’ friends I was informed that they did not trick or treat, it was considered rude to go from house to house. I see, is that the way it is. Before we broke for half term one of the Italian mums handed me an invite to their Halloween party. So that solved our predicament. I assumed it was a kids party. So, one witch (complete with her mother’s good fishnets and red lipstick), one surgeon (guts hangin out) and one psycho killer hopped into the car and the GPS did its thang. We locate the house. The devil and his missus answer the door. There’s a pair of Spanish pumpkins in the kitchen and Dracula is tuckin into a glass of wine. We are the only adults not in costume. Morto. Pure Irish. And....everyone else brought a dish. I came with a bag of goodies for the kids. This is an international Oíche Shamhna. Because of the RAF base in the vicinity many Italian, Spanish and Dutch families complete a  3 year stint here. It never ceases to amaze me, the lives people live. One Spanish pilot said he used to fly for the Spanish royal family. His wife said they had no life, he was always gone and now that he’s around so much he’s getting under her feet.  Sure ya can’t win. Good food was had, trick or treating was executed, Piñata bet to bits, we headed home on a sugar buzz to thoughts of school in the morning. 

The Roman Cailíní

It’s all excitement this week. End of first term and it’s Y4’s turn for assembly. As they are learning about all things Roman, the women in our house have to go donned as Roman soldiers. So, no pressure, I had to make a costume. This is a challenge. I am not creative. I can’t do fancy fairy cakes or make Christmas decorations. Our house, growing up, didn’t have a plethora of pipe cleaners, coloured crepe paper and glitter. The inside of a toilet roll or cornflake box at a stretch, maybe. Who, in all fairness, ever had pipe-cleaners at the ready? None of the houses on our row, that’s for sure. More often than not we couldn’t even find a scissors, don’t mind paper glue.  The most I can stretch to at birthday parties are RiceCrispie buns and even at that the crispie to chocolate ratio is like a dodgy concrete mix, more stones than cement. But I have to say, Mary-Make-n-do-Fitzgerald would be propa proud of my endeavours to make a Roman soldier costume from one of the many cardboard boxes stacked in the garage. I didn’t even need a grown up to help me. There isn’t a shred of tinfoil or string left in the kitchen after my capers. The McCarthy crest was sourced, complete with Latin motto (had to get down with the local lingo of them Roman boys) and ensconced on their armour.  Hence my Roman Cailíní were fortis, ferox et celer as they marched around the school hall with their legion, prepared for battle. Just as well I went to some effort as many others had pulled out all the stops.

After assembly we are like coiled springs. A mix of anticipation and agitation. It’s tangible. Our first trip home to the auld sod is imminent. ‘Are we going on the blue plane or the green plane to Ireland’ asks the Middle one. It’s always the blue plane which necessitates packing belongings for a family of 5 for a week into A4 sized envelopes. I hate tha! It’s the strangest feeling.  I should be excited but the exhilaration of going home is tainted with knowing we have to come back. There will be more goodbyes. We are returning as visitors to our homes. I question whether I have any emotional fuel left in the tank. Nonetheless I cannot wait to see everyone.  The kids will meet their Irish school friends and exchange tales of who is playing with who and their favourites on XFactor.  I look forward to walking down Quay Street, maybe go for a pint in Naughtons. You don’t hear ‘how’s things!’ or ‘how ya gittin on!’ in Thame. It will be nice to tune into the Galway accent and top up the kids Irish twang as the English one creeps in.  I miss the sea so off to the Prom and after kicking the wall I may be found at the top of the tower in Blackrock filling my lungs with Atlantic air. I might even sleep in the shelter for the night. ‘Well...are ye settled yet’ will be difficult to answer. It’s early days. An Irish lady I have got to know ovah, has been living here 20 years. Still finds it hard coming back following trips home to Ireland. That’s comforting.  The Youngest wonders about the smell of people’s homes and thinks that the house in Galway will have lost our smell. She’s right, each home has its own aroma. She hopes her clothes come back from Clonmel and Galway with a smell of the Nanas’ houses. I’ve no doubt they will. 

Sums it all up

My head was all a spin last week with numbers, NAMA numbers, all 50 billion of them. Don’t get me started. I don’t have the energy for a rant. There is no leadership. There is no accountability. There is no empathy. How could there be, from politicians living in a bubble. Hell will freeze over before any of them will raise their hand and say ‘sorry, we got it all wrong’. Told ya not to get me started. I’m in a tizzy this week with more numbers. My head feels like a snow globe, when I lie down all the digits float into the space surrounding my would be brain. It’s numeracy here, not maths, not even sums as it was in my day. It was easy then, plus, minus, equals, divide by, carry one over and off ya go. Here, in primary school, they do things differently and all I’m hearing between sobs and frustrated pulling of hair is ‘that’s not the way Miss used to do it in Ireland’. Now The Middle has decided she doesn’t like sums anymore even though she’s a dinger at them. She sets herself high standards. I know it will click. I will have to dig deep for the patience and tenacity required. The mathematical language is dissimilar. There’s talk of chunking and arrays and woe betide ya if you mention ‘carry over’. We are not to teach our children maths the way we were taught, teacher told us at a ‘Multiplication for Mums and Dads’ evening. Sure what else would you be doing of a Tuesday night. The response in our day, at the kitchen table doing homework, (while the dreaded stew with the sneaky parsnips boiled on the range) to a cry for assistance with maths was ‘I don’t know anything about equations, ask your brother’. And the rows continue over the lack of decent pencils and no toppers.

So there’s those maths. Then, there are my own stats. I have to master a fancy Excel package, all by my own self, for a research project. Here’s where Himself comes in.  I have him driven demented. Chi-squares, Spearman’s rho correlations do not float my boat; I got on fine without them up until now, thank you very much. Discombobulated is the only way to describe my demeanour at this present moment. The trajectory for the book-window-outside wheelie bin has already been worked out and I didn’t need any maths for that. It will just take maximum force and velocity.

Regardless of all things numerical the kids have found their groove in school and out, with the calendar full of social engagements and activities. The bell rings regularly for them to come out and play and now the problem is trying to get homework done before they go out. I’m not complaining. Some of the mums are trying their damdest to coerce me to join the PTA. One of them informs me of the executive committee’s (remember this is a primary school) modus operandi  ‘we work ratha well togetha...as deputy cha and cha, she’s strotegy and I’m spin..do join us..we need oll the help we con get’. Whatever you’re having yourself, but I’m washing my hair for any of those meetings. I don’t mind making the tea, stacking chairs, cleaning up or supervising children but not the PTA. Fireworks display, book fairs, cake sales, movie nights in local theatre are all marked in the calendar. The school’s hard working fundraising committee know how to skilfully extract all that hard earned City cash from the Land Rover glasses-on-the-forehead crew with a fab black tie do apparently organised for early next year. I’ll have to dust off the gúna déas nua and heels for that one. Nathin like a bit of turkey and ham followed by copious pints, heels off and ‘hands..touchin hands...Sweet Caroline..oh oh oh’, a good old social. I’ll be looking forward to that one. 

No flowers please. RIP 'G' plates

As the weeks roll into each other there are tears and laughter, joy and sorrow, trasna an uisce. This weekend was tinged with sadness. We had a loss, a removal. No flowers please. A sad day for me, laced with nostalgia. Yes...the time had come to remove the ‘G’ reg from my jammer. I had moral support from Nana and Grandad who were over to visit. The house was filled with anticipation and excitement to see them. Grandad Jeep always likes jobs, so drill in hand, he carried out the dirty deed. I wanted to beat my chest and don a black mantilla for the rest of the day. Had I a mantelpiece it might take centre stage, akin to an urn. This was the only car I’ve had with G plates and funnily enough it meant alot, like a badge. I will truly be coming back as a visitor with my new yellow reg. ‘That’s the start of it now’ were the responses from the West. With the plethora of hoops one has to jump through to register an import over here, emotions of sadness were coupled with a sense of achievement.  There are forms for everything in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate. There were C of C’s, MOTs and off to the man behind the hatch at the DVLA. I think they should change the agency name to the DDTDWAFC (Don’t Darken This Door With A Foreign Car). The Department for Stupid Questions came up with these on a Monday morning after a feed of porter I would think, ‘Why did you live in Ireland?’, well it just so happens I was born there and I’m Irish, that’s why. Another, ‘How long will you be living in the UK?’, well, you tell me sunshine, if you have a crystal ball there on your desk give us a gander will ya? But nonetheless, another bureaucratic box ticked.

Thus the Galway plates take pride of place in The Small Man’s bedroom. The times they are a changin. The long and whining road of adolescence approaches, far too quickly. Spots, rancid feet and the wearing of an attitude, are coming down the tracks. He had his first disco recently. Trinny and Tranny weren’t needed to decide on his attire for the night, the only criteria I gave him was no soccer jersey or tracksuit bottoms. So, all sharp in shirt and jeans he looked tall and handsome with the hair all Justin Beberish, waxed within an inch of itself. If his Grandad saw him there’d be talk of ‘cutting gibbles hangin down in your eyes’. Like the ballroom of romance all the boys were on one side, all the girls on the other. We arrived to collect him early and had a peak at them dancing. I wanted to get stuck in but that wouldn’t have been good for his street cred. Well able to throw shapes, he thankfully hasn’t inherited his father’s non-dancing gene. Red faces and the sweat pourin off them the boys and girls spill out. ‘I’m going clubbin when I’m older’ he said. The thoughts of it put the fear of God in me. ‘Did they play Bruce?’ ‘No mum’ ‘Any U2’ ‘Ah, no mum, they’re pants’ and the friend said ‘they only played Pendulum once’. Who are they when they’re at home? I am now officially old. The Small Man goes into spasms if he hears Christy Moore or Radiohead. Shockin. I’ll learn him yet. ‘So, did you say thanks to the birthday girl for a fun night?’, I enquire ‘God no, that’d mean I had to talk to her’ was the response. The times they will change I fear, but not for a good while, I hope.