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!