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.