Flus and Festives

If Carlsberg did flus....you know the rest. First I got it. It took me down. Then the kids got it, well the women so far. This past week it’s been like having different children in the house, the bodysnatchers have been here.  Both my girls have been floored by this flu that’s invaded the school. There were ten children missing in their class today. They missed their school disco, their choir concert. It lingers now with the Youngest. Stuck to the bed she’d sleep for Ireland at the best of times but this is different, no chat at all, no energy, lifeless.  All you want is for them to get better, it breaks your heart. As a parent you would take all the unpleasant feelings away and suffer yourself. I have been marooned at home for over a week now with one or both and this evil viral flu. At least you’d get out for a few hours during the day in prison. And they wouldn’t keep playin the same movie over and over again. Well maybe they would, it is a form of torture after all. Now I’m a big fan of Jack Black but there are only so many times I can watch School of Rock.

Nevertheless, despite the mountain of tissues, packets of Lemsip, spoons of honey, cough bottle, flat 7up, snot, moans, groans, aches and pains Himself put the tree up. Dragged it in and scratched his head at the lights that didn’t work. There was a bread knife taken to the bottom bit, health and safety all important in this house. Now if we had a cat to swing he’d be dead, it’s like Narnia in the sitting room. We eat our breakfast amongst the spruce. Each year you dig out the old decorations, up to the attic or out to the garage. I cannot help but be melancholy for Christmases past. I cannot but think of our old house at home, the enjoyable Christmases we spent there. Each year the tree changes a little, from being bottom heavy with baubles and bits to now chock full around the middle as the children get taller. The excitement of the lights going on is still there, even with all the electric accoutrement they play with. And now the countdown is surely on. Seven more big sleeps before we get the ferry from Holyhead. Please God we will all be well. Christmases past, when they were babies, there was always a trip to Westdoc, par for the course. I cannot wait to see everyone again, to back meself into a warm fire. Bring it on...cooling ham, wonderful kitchen smells, glass of Bulmers and mince pies for Santa (Christmas Eve in Clonmel) , bleary and bright eyed a sea of shredded wrapping paper Christmas morning, Quality Street and Harry Potter, boxes of Tayto and Gladiator, the company of family and snoozing on the couch. The simple pleasures! 

Shares in Lemsip

My body has been kidnapped by the flu, never had it before. I don’t think I’ve ever been this sick. Temperature off the Richter, the sweats, joints felt like they had been kicked and punched, my chest filled with daggers. Now on day 7 I am beginning to sound like Marian Finucane all husky and chesty. Soooooo fed up. My two girls who are pegged out on the couch, they have been taken over by the evil virus also. Went to the doctor this morning but it’s viral so really there is nothing to be done but run its course. We left our mark, the Youngest threw up on the carpet in the surgery. They have a thing about carpets here, who in all fairness would put a carpet in a doctor’s surgery? And to top it all I have a number of assignments due in, including statistics (the mere mention of the word makes my skin crawl) which I don’t understand, have no interest in completing so I am not in a good place right now. I don’t have the patience to be a good patient. This whole sick business doesn’t suit me. Of course, it all kicked off when Himself was away with work in Florida. It is a man’s world after all. Usually it’s one or all of the kids who get sick when he is away. Not this time, just little ole me. He missed his Christmas do last night, because we were sick. There was huffing and puffing and sulking, the tux all forlorn on the hanger, unused. Face...bovvered. Just want my body back. 

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. 

Shtone mad

The Queen had her annus horribilis,  Himself had a weekus horribilis. We all did. His kidney stones were giving him jip. When you receive a call from your beloved’s colleague to say he has taken poorly and been rushed into hospital by bluelight taxi, (but don’t panic)...it’s not good. The mind goes into overdrive and we all know the mind’s a powerful thing. Flat to the mat down the M40 to find the hospital. Phone goes on the blink leaving me incommunicado. Then the SatNav gives me the two fingers and decides to pack it in, just to add to the mix. I cannot find the hospital and feel like the Connemara man...which way in here is owit! I don’t know who is collecting the kids. It’s very hard to cry and drive at the same time. The words of my hero Samuel Beckett spring to mind ‘Ever tried. Ever  failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’. So, no matter, A&E was found.

It can be awkward the first time you meet your other half’s boss, what to say, give the right impression and all of that. But I challenge anyone to advise on the correct etiquette for the following situation. Himself pegged out on A&E gurney clutching puke tray, issued hospital backless gown, stocking feet stickin out underneath blue blanket, he as pale as a ghost speaking fluent incoherent on morphine, stripped of all dignity. He looked like death warmed up. ‘Nice to meet you’ says his conscientious boss as he hands me a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of water, ‘he might need these later’. As with all things medical the where and when of pain was repeated to numerous doctors. Discharged nonchalantly by the first hospital it was home to bed where things went from bad to worse. High fever and more torture, he was like someone going cold turkey. The doctor was called and off to urology with us but to the wrong hospital, we discovered there are a few in Oxford.  I did have one particular Ally McBeal moment when the confused nurse asked me when he had the kidney transplant, having been sent to the wrong building. In my head I leapt across the counter and attempted strangulation. She proved ever so helpful when I insisted on a wheelchair. 

Himself reckons he saw the future on morphine. ‘So when are the rest of them due’ I ask him. It would appear that Lackagh Concrete doesn’t hold a candle with the amount of stones in his kidneys. The main boulder has been whisked away to CSI Oxford for forensic analysis. I wanted to make cufflinks out of it. I ring the mother-in-law to enquire of family history. ‘Oh, his father had those, he was in for nearly a week with them’ she says. That’s reassuring. Allegedly, the pain is on a par with labour pain. But what’s this? Men having something over our labour pain. Jaysus, we couldn’t be havin that now, ladies! Although, seeing the suffering he went through, I’m inclined to believe it (but we’ll keep that to ourselves). 

The thoughtfulness of bosses and colleagues in his job was unreal. The kindness and support from the teachers, staff and mums here was amazing and we not a wet week in the place. One lady in particular took the kids, dropped over a bottle of wine and frozen dinner to the house, then cooked me a bite late in the evening when I went to pick them up having been at the hospital. And she with her own troubles, sat and listened. I owe her a few scoops as we missed Arfur’s birthday last Wednesday. So like Lanigan’s Ball, he stepped out and stepped in again, but thankfully he is out again. But watch this space, they have to get the kango hammer at the remaining gravel so he may be in again.  

Disco Diva Towed Off

People over here, are amongst other things, house proud and price conscious. Honourable attributes, some would say. I witnessed a lady hoovering her garage; life is too short for such futile endeavours. The bare minimum is all that’s needed and if the clothes don’t get taken in off the line for two weeks, I’ll get to them...eventually. There are far too many other things to do like jogging your muscle memory.  My leg muscles had a trip down memory lane recently on a jaunt to the local roller disco. Awful craic and both hips intact after the escapade. The last time I donned a pair of roller skates was over 25 years ago when my legs were much skinnier, my arse smaller, my eyeshadow bluer. Those of us of an age will remember it well...The Savoy on Eglington Street! Drainpipe denims (bet into them), leg warmers, batwing jumpers, stuffed bras, large belts, big plastic bangles, roller skates, disco tunes, Lilt, Space Invaders and pool, all the eighties boxes ticked. A great spot if you were meeting friends or ‘goin with’ anyone. This time around I needed assistance closing the ‘quads’, erstwhile known as bootskates. ‘They used to have laces in my day’ I said to the young fella as I grappled with the straps. ‘Mum are you sure you want to do this, we’ll be alright on our own. You can just have a cup of coffee and watch!’ my two women afraid of their lives I would make a donkey of meself. ‘I’ll have you know I won the roller disco, twice’, they were proudly informed. My legs never forgot and I took to the floor like a duck to water. Had they belted out a bit of Boney M, ABBA, Big Country or Kajagoogoo I was there, back in time.  The two eventually got the hang of it but later that evening getting up and down from the couch proved difficult, their little derrieres got a beaten. ‘Mum’s a dinger on the skates Dad’, I have gained kudos in the cool mum category. We’re going back for more next week.

English may be the order of the day all round but with accents certain things are lost in translation. ‘If yer talkin in class you get towed off [told off]. Does the teacher not just give out to ya?’ the Youngest says. Their peers hear thirty three as ‘turty tree’ no matter what way they contort their little tongues between their teeth. One lad in the Small Man’s class thinks his English is really good considering we have only been in the country for over a month. Bless his cotton socks. My crew can’t understand why our salt is their solt and morning is moaning. The philology of English suggests influences from many different idioms. However, Irish people speak English with different syntax, at times.  I was told by someone that our accent is more lyrical and kinder to the ear than theirs. Every now and then I miss the Irish accent and even though never fluent at Gaeilge the kids weren’t bad at the cúpla focal. I miss hearing that too but that’s easily sorted with a few Irish books. Perhaps it is the beginning of a strengthening of identity, it’s inevitable.  Having said that, two hours of Christy and Luke Kelly in peak Friday afternoon traffic to Birmingham threatened to rattle my love of the ballad. I’m old school. I don’t have a gadget for the iPhone in the car and they were the only passengers in the car door.  It was either that or white noise on the radio. Still can’t tune it in right but I did find two new buttons on the dash after four years of owning the car. I’m such a mná.

Lost in Translation

Was waiting at a pedestrian crossing the other day, canvas shopping bag on my shoulder. It reads ‘This bag is for the messages’ written in large print, with a list of necessities on the other side, ‘sliced pan, pound of butter, cream buns, tay bags, slices of hang’, you know, the staples of any Irish household (see www.hairybaby.com). A group of young wans coming home from school were comin up beside me, bit giddy in themselves. One of them proceeded to read the large print. She was totally addled, may as well have been Greek. So when the fear dearg turned glás I crossed with a spring in my step and a slight smirk on my face, like I had a secret.

Scratchy pants and yellow patent wellies

Scratchy, hairy, grey pants with the crease down the front that’d cut ya. Black brogues. Pressed polo shirts. Hair up (our Small Man’s is borderline put-up-able). Book bag, shoe bag, kit bag, indoor shoes, outdoor shoes. Hang sangiches and crunchy apples. But it’s all very confusing. In their last school they had two bags; a school bag and gear bag for PE on a Friday. Not here. They have a bag for everything. ‘Where’ll I put me lunch box?’ the Middle asks. Good question. I think she’ll have to eat it before she goes to school to avoid carrying another bag.  Oh yes, it’s that time of year again. All-Ireland hurling final time and the holidays are over. It means back to school. This was a happy house, Tipp victorious. Himself as white as a sheet listening to the wireless via the phone. I don’t think the neighbours appreciated the flag hangin out the car window. At the school the playground is a sea of mums and dads and buggies. The bike shed an assembly line of scooters. First day and the place is hoppin, like Central Park of a Saturday night. Himself and I gone wrong with nerves. The kids wound up like springs with anxiety and excitement. A brood of plaits and ponytails escort the girls to their classroom. The Small Man shuffles to his prefab, inconspicuously.

The house is quiet and I am slightly at a loss. Off to Oxford for a few bits. Availing of the free WiFi in a local coffee shop it’s obvious before they open their gobs the pair beside me are American. She has her towns mixed up for a start with the yellow patent wellies on her, thinks it’s Glastonbury. Both have come to Oxford to expand their vocabulary, me thinks, cause like every like second like word and whatever and stuff is like, d’ya know what I mean like. Reminds me of Joseph O’Connor’s piece for Radio 1.

I watch the clock until 3pm and walk down to meet them. The two women have all the news, like which teacher has a cousin twice removed living in Cork and such a wan’s granny is from Belfast. That’s girls for ya. Our Small Man is not a happy camper. He misses his buddies at home, his loyal companions with their own banter, jokes and chat about matches. The Galway sense of humour is unique. It doesn’t exist in these here parts. No-one prepares you as a parent for the pain in your heart when one of your children is just unhappy, especially when they are nearly as tall as yourself. There is no parenting instruction manual and if there was all this would be in the small print, in the terms and conditions. That invisible cord attached tugs at your emotions, good and bad.  In the words of Bruce Springsteen it’s ‘one step up and two steps back’. We question the move, the whys and ‘to what end’ of it all. But, as the week progressed much has improved and he is back to his cheeky, enthusiastic self. All are settling in, as well as could be expected. We have to take the rough with the smooth, there is no way around this part of our journey but through.

The girls have been invited to tea, after school. Here’s the thing, tea is dinner. But if their dinner is tea, then when do they have their dinner? Surely not at lunchtime. God no. What about supper then? Bit like the school bags, I’m addled. ‘What if I don’t like the dinner’ the Youngest is worried ‘Just eat what’s put in front of ya!’ they are warned. Tea goes well, fun was had, no one lost an eye but not a whole lot was eaten. But if I invite their friends to tea it’s tay they’ll get!

Bootie shakin seanos in Notting Hill

Got the babysitter again. The kids didn’t frighten her too much. Always a good thing. The pair of us headed into downtown Thame, check out the local hostelries. Found a local pub that smells and looks like an old B&B in the inside. Carpeted, with flowery wallpaper and lino in the ladies. Perfect. Reminded us of one we used to frequent when we lived just off The Curragh of Kildare. Them were the days. Pints on a Sunday afternoon, pre-children. Met a man who informed us that WB Yeats used to live in Thame, same man knew one of the Fureys (as in ..& Davey Arthur). We supped and put the world to right, as you do.


The auntie nuns are coming to visit from Chiswick. ‘What’ll we do with them for the day’ Himself says, ‘Better get a nice packet of biscuits, instead of those nursing home ones in the press’. These are no ordinary nuns, fluent in two or three languages and have many a story to tell about Uganda, Dubai and London. They are good company and love the chat. The Notting Hill Carnival is mentioned so that’s our plan for the next day. So we take the train to Marleybone. There is an announcement that there will be no delays. I thought that’s the way trains were supposed to run, on time, without delays. Go figure. ‘How many more trains’ the three are shattered already, the Tube no longer a novelty.

Notting Hill Carnival is a celebration off all things Caribbean, the streets of Kensington alive with the sounds and smells of reggae and jerk chicken. The kids sit on the footpath getting stuck into a 99. ‘Mum, will ya stop’ the Middle pleads. ‘Stop what’, ‘Stop dancin’. I’m given it socks to the tunes, like a mix of Caribbean bootie shakin and seanos. ‘I’m not dancing, I’m just movin to the music’. ‘Ya, exactly’ she says, ‘please stop’. Yes, I have reached that stage in my life where it is my duty and honour to embarrass my children in public. They ain’t seen nothin yet!

Surgeons and pyjamas

I am melancholy. It must be the rain, reminds me of home. The anxiety and anticipation around starting a new school is beginning to build. The summer holidays are lingering. It has been intense with bells on. I can hear my friends at home ‘I wish to Jaysus they were back at school, they’re killin each other’. That’s not said here but implied, it would never be said that way. I was invited to a coffee morning. I make scones, they are well received. The form isn’t great, there’s only so much talk of holidays and property I can stomach. When I hear ‘my huzzzbind and I got stuck in Egypt during that dreadful ash thingy’, I pine for home, for Galway banter. But for all that bullshit, there are normal, down to earth women I can relate to. Those with the funkiest expensive houses, the coolest clothes and the high achieving alpha male husbands I have found to be the rudest, devoid of a sense of humour. It’s all aesthetic. I am outside the cliques. I do not fit into any of them nor do I want to. Nevertheless, I am not excluded.


The children have made friends and the doorbell rings with new playmates calling for them. This is an awakening. It’s the way I grew up. We went out in the morning and came back when we were hungry. In Galway all their ‘play dates’ were pre-arranged and Mum-taxi-services drove them everywhere. They are occupied and content and it’s X Factor time again, kills that awkward hour on a Saturday evening. As September draws near and the evenings darken, it means back to the books for me also. I too am filled with anticipation but in a perverse sadistic way I am looking forward to it. Keeps the cogs working cause those same cogs have to get me a job soon.

The Small Man is hounding me for new football boots. SatNav set, off we go up the M40 to Bicester Retail Village one of those discount places. The Youngest pipes up from the back ‘I want to be one of those people who do operations when I grow up...their costume looks comfy, a bit like pyjamas’. I nearly crash the car I’m laughing so much. Don’t mind career guidance or psychometric testing, just base your future career plans on a uniform looking like pyjamas. We arrive and for a moment I think I am at the Dublin Horseshow (never been but it’s how I envisage it). I have never seen so many Land Rovers, BMW X5 and Volvo jeeps all in the one place. They have a uniform i.e. jeep – check, Mulberry across-the-shoulder brown leather bag – check, long flowey cardigan – check, skinny jeans – check, long hair pref brunette – check, teenage daughter with braces in tow, iphone stuck to the side of her head – check. This place has all the hits, Dolce & Gabana, Missoni (I couldn’t bring myself to even darken its door for fear of the damage I might do!), Fendi, Gucci, Agent Provocateur (for all your fancy knickers) and the rest. I come away with the football boots, a table cloth and two mugs...last of the big spenders.

Six degrees.....and Pimms at the Mayor's gaff.

‘Please don’t frighten the babysitter, we need a social life’ I warn our three. ‘What’s a social life’ the Youngest asks ‘Ye have one, we don’t’ I said. Turns out, between the jigs and the reels, and meetings in the park with the Mums-are-us, the wife of the Mayor went to school with a sister of our next door neighbour in Galway. And, one of the other ladies' brother lives in the nearest village at home. Go figure. Ye just don’t know who yer talkin to. So, we are invited to dine at the Mayor’s gaff. 'What'll ya do if it's fish tonight', I ask Himself, 'Why d'ya think I'm havin a quick sandwich now' he responds, all worked out. What does one wear? I don’t have a summer and winter capsule wardrobe, it’s all the one, cause there’s only one season in Galway.

‘In or out’, Himself asks gesturing to the shirt. ‘Which shoes?’ I respond, we have no full length mirror. Off we go, new hairdo and bottle of white under our oxters. Introductions were made to the other couples followed by Pimms under a fairy lit parasol on comfy seats. No picnic benches or white plastic furniture here. The back garden appears as an extension of the kitchen, fresh out of an interior magazine. You know, all modern and shiny and white with an island bigger than our kitchen, perfect for all that entertaining. The crockery matched and we are assigned to our seats. The couples are used to each other, the banter flies over and back. We watch our p’s and q’s. Can’t let the side down. I’ll refrain from breaking into Nancy Spain for a while, although something tells me we are not in such company.


The hosts are most pleasant, the food delicious, surprisingly home made. Maybe the caterers had double booked. It’s all sooo middle class, all very polite. I don’t know where I fit in but know that I am different. I don’t have to worry about finding a decent cleaner or replacing the 23 windows in my Victorian townhouse. ‘So will you be joining the other ladies of leisure’ I am asked by one of the alpha males. ‘No, I’m just a poor student’. Anyway I don’t like tennis. We walk home, and I walk the babysitter home, so convenient. Himself has the G&T made, a nightcap. ‘Well....what’ya make of all that?!’ he says. ‘I don’t know’, says I ‘but me ears are burnin’.

Where'll I hang me Swans?

More brown paper and another box, full of photos that Himself had taken in Galway of local scenes and the children. Holidays, baby shots, school photos. We have to choose. There aren’t enough hooks and we are not allowed by order of the landlady (she with the cleaning fetish) not to put up any more hooks. ‘Where’ll I hang me swans?’, he says referring to the Claddagh photo. So the Hookers and Swans now hang side by side. I left him there with the rest, I had a date at the hairdressers, had to get the hair done, a new me. I was going short and we had a dinner invitation to the Mayors house...not here a wet week and well in.


I fear the do will be the price of a small house. One lady was having a foot spa while her colour cooked, another said she would have her ‘usual fruit tea’ while she discussed the merits of one masseur over another. I am soooo low maintenance, I think to myself, as I look at my greys and my ripped Converse. The ladies, all freshly tanned back from the hols, compared and contrasted previous years, and where they were off to for half-term. Barbados was mentioned. Their holidays are not like ours. We move in different circles. I am escorted to have my colour washed out, ‘will I turn on the back massage for you’ the nice girl says, ‘never had one, give it a go’ I said and the chair kneads my back. I still can’t figure out if it relaxed me or irritated me. Nonetheless, I am happy with the outcome and arrive home, on the bike, a new woman. ‘It’s the very same as mine’ the Small Man says. He’s right, should have just gone to the barbers, much cheaper but wouldn’t have been privy to the same conversations.

MOT and a COC or a SVA to the DVLA

We must be the only two eeejits trying to import cars into England. It would be easier to just buy a new one. Have to get an MOT and a COC or a SVA and send it off to the DVLA! Yards of Red Tape for my lawnmower. I’m loving not being 100% car dependent, as do the children. It pushes me as a parent to give them a bit more freedom. They can cycle to the shop or the library by themselves now. I listened to a podcast about 2 inner city Dublin boys, aged 10 and 13 who, back in 1985, were playing in their front garden and were told not to go too far as ‘their dinner was nearly ready’. Up to divilment they got the ferry to England, and ended up in New York. Fantastic piece of radio (Documentaries on RTE Radio 1). The Middle and the Youngest were so pleased with themselves after cycling down to the local Waitrose for washing powder. You should have heard the list of rules I gave them before they left! When did we as parents become so neurotic?


Again, some things never change. ‘Will go up and have a shower’, I says to The Small Man, ‘What do I want a shower for, sure who’s goin to be smellin me?!’ he retorts. Wiseguy. He has a buddy now, a football lover too another classmate who lives a few minutes away. The girls have found some playmates too, s’all good, at times, until they were slagged about their beautiful Irish names. Kids are cruel but they got over it. I have found a running route, sorts out my head space. Lots of runners here, all training for some class of a half, full or ultra-marathon. I'll just keep it tickin over for the moment, maybe a half one next year. We spoke to Grandad Dydys this week on Skype via the brothers computer. Hilarious. ‘This is a mighty yoke, yer lookin fab, I watered your plants’ he says shouting at the camera. ‘Grandad Jeep in Clonmel is able to do skype all by himself’ the children said to him. Water off a ducks back, the man will not even entertain a mobile phone.

As the days pass we are settling, slowly, but surely. We have figured out the heating system and when the bins go out. Elation, the local soccer club has agreed to take The Small Man onto their squad. This was a source of much anxiety as soccer (‘it’s football over here Mum remember!’) is his outlet and passion. If he didn’t get playing with some club I was signin meself into St Brigids. His coach in CCFC at home gave him a glowing reference boosting his confidence no end and much appreciated. He needs it as this move is hardest on our Small Man in many ways. The two biddies always have each other and as I keep telling them, when they can’t bare the sight of each other, when one is breathing in the wrong direction or making too much noise when they’re eating, they are lucky.


God Bless Mr Apple and his i-gadgets! I used to be an ‘i widow’ but if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em. My iphone Irish radio podcasts are a godsend (cause English radio is pants) and this morning Anton Savage kept me company via WunderRadio. The weather is good and with a great public transport system there have been plenty of excursions and day trips to keep the kids amused or they’d take the heads off each other. The area is quite quaint, chocolate box picturesque and very English but those I have met so far have been very open, welcoming, helpful and kind. The area abounds with farms selling their own produce and many where you can go and pick your own fruit & veg and enjoy your packed lunch while the kids hang out in the play area. Last week we went to Rectory Farm where my 3 picked their own strawberries, with the lot coming to about £10! Would you ever buy that many strawberries in Tesco, don’t think so, but they had a blast. But some things never change. I am coming to the conclusion that children will ask the same questions no matter where you bring them ‘Where’s the toilet?...Did you bring any food?...When is it lunchtime?...What’s for dinner?....Can we look in the giftshop?’. We were in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, very old and famous, with wonderful artefacts of all things Egyptian and Asian. Upstairs in the Japanese section the 3 were gettin giddy, sugars were low. Picture it, all very quiet and tranquil with exquisite Japanese screens and paintings in a dimly lit setting, people meandering around the exhibits massaging their chins. ‘Mum, c’mere and see this’ it was a proper Samurai costume with swords and all the trimmings. Loud as ya like, with all the actions, the Small Man breaks into ‘Everybody was kung foo fighting....’ and the girls join in. Priceless.

‘Is it awfully posh?’ asked the sister-in-law. It’s not Rachel-issue-with-her-vowels-Allen posh (you know..batter your bread, cap of tea, then put it in the aven..) but different. Jisht of recent conversation I was privy to, regarding summer holidays ‘It smacked a little of an overpriced Butlins, there was some solsa doncing by the pool...and at one stage I was practising my archery in my bikini and I said, dahling, won’t you take a photo, I look like someone from a Tarantino movie’. You can tell alot about the class of a town by its shops and here in Thame there is an Aga shop. Haven’t been in it yet, my own is in the garage beside the Land Rover!

This is the first time we have rented since we got married back in BC. It felt like we are just too big for this house, that we would never settle, a bit surreal. The Small Man is 10, the Middle is 8 and the Youngest (by 2.5 mins) is 8. There are more tears and fighting and blame slung at Himself for ‘gettin a different job..what was wrong with the last one’. We miss our kitchen, our sitting room, our bedrooms, the smell, feel and noises of our home in Galway. The Youngest wonders if she will ‘catch it’, the accent. ‘Of course not, you’re a Galway girl’ I reply lying through my teeth. The removal guys were so helpful as they trawled in and out all over the owners cream carpet (go figure..with the children it may not be the same shade of cream after a few weeks). Something tells me she was a cleaning fanatic, nozzles and sprays everywhere, I never knew there were so many. Never a priority of mine. I would fit in well with the very wealthy aristocrats who don’t mind a bit of dirt. They reckoned we should rent the house next door too! So much remains in the garage, many boxes filled with books which I cannot part with, other boxes with contents unknown. But the neighbours’ garages are packed to the gills with stuff too.


I cried like a baby for the first few days in a sea of brown paper and boxes. I couldn’t find anything, where should it all go. I had a rhythm in our kitchen in Galway, I needed to find a groove in this one. It sounds sentimental but everytime I imagined the Prom, or Quay Street or the kitchen in No 25 or Turlough I was off. Himself went to work, I wished I were him. He had familiarity. I did not.

When we returned from our holiday in France and before the removal van met us at the house in Thame we went to Maas, then tea after Mass, as you do over here. The Catholic community is akin to the Protestant community in Ireland, close. The Middle reckons the school is even holier than Annagh Hill, their old school. It takes its religion seriously and the congregation sing the hymns, all the hits. It felt good, familiar. It gave our spinning minds peace. Mass is a meeting place, a spiritual and social get together and a place where we met the kind lady who had the names and numbers of soccer clubs, piano teachers and classmates mums...and they had custard creams. Connections and conversations were beginning to happen. The smoke signals had gone up and it was known that the Irish family had arrived.

‘There’s a secondment in the UK for 6 months...the boss reckons it would do me good to put my name in the pot’ he says ‘I could commute at weekends’. ‘Why not..go for it!’ says I, like the way I decided to do the Dublin City Marathon but not really knowing what was ahead of me, until I crossed the finish line...like the way I took on a degree to fill the time in the evenings and keep the grey matter tickin over (sin sceal eile!). If it worked out maybe it could mean a change for us all..new experiences...a stone’s throw from London..only across the water..sure they’re not that different over there..the nannas and granddads could get with it on Skype. And so it began. Say yes and just do it, worry about the minutia later. However, an absentee husband proves draining, physically and emotionally, what with the wear and tear three active lively loud brilliant children have on mind, body and soul. Planes delayed, clouds of ash, nine assignments, three exams, stresses and strains, the year has been busy. The secondment turned indefinite when a taste for the new job was had and ego took over (although Himself would argue to the contrary). The decision was made. Put the house on the market, rent over there and see how it goes. Sure the economy in Ireland is makin like Domestos anyway.


I underestimated the emotional carnage that ensued. Heart wrenching goodbyes to the children’s friends and teachers. Stomach churning hugs and kisses from the nannas and granddads, aunts and uncles in Galway and Tipp. An all merciful party that saw grandad givin it socks in the nightclub to ACDC, with the brothers, sister and I givin it up on the dancefloor to ‘your sex is on fire’ with ‘the luveens on fire’ complete with leg guitar! As the tears and snot abated, the coffin ship awaited. Decluttering should cleanse the mind but it brings memories and emotions to the surface. I filled a skip and still there was more stuff. My hen night acoutrements from 16 years ago, at the back of the press, having come with us from one abode to the next. The movers went through the house like grease lightening. Anything that didn't move was bubble wrapped and packed into the back of a truck. Off we went to France for two weeks, to return to our new lodgings (not a good idea!). But nothing ventured....children are resilient...time will tell, so they say.

And now we are here, lock, stock and garage full of unopened boxes in Thame, Oxfordshire. The house in Galway, our once home, lies vacant. And how is it I can find the teak oil and I can’t find the iron? Although, it may come in handy for cricket!