Beaks, bodices, ghouls n goblins

It’s been a while, too long. So like the couple from Date Night we were away off into town. After a day of chauffeuring the kids to all their social engagements, it’s our time. Sometimes it just feels like too much effort, far easier to assume the position, lounge in the couch groove in track suit bottoms with a glass of wine and a packet of Kettles and give out about the plasticity of the presenters on X Factor. Stuffed, plucked and buffed they are. All shiny like the wood floors the nuns made us buff, as kids, in my old primary school, Scoil an Linbh Iosa. That smell of lavender wax still brings me back to times-tables and conjugations. Quay Street Halloween weekend, on the other hand, was as far from X Factor as you’ll get, a cacophony of hoots and hollers, all manner of shapes and sizes and crooked non-veneered teeth. Standing outside Neachtains we take in the sights, sounds and smells. A team of fully grown oompa loompas make their way to the nearest watering hole. Witches, zombies and the beardy guy from The Hangover, complete with strapped on baby, soak up the atmosphere and the pints. There are wigs, warts, wands, beaks, bodices, ghouls and goblins, truly a night for abandoning the self, a chance to go out and play dress up. Free the Id, I say. My equivalent of dress up was, however, merely longer earrings and higher heels. And a bit a’ lipstick. Pathetic, yip, I know. I don’t get out much. A lady beside me at the bar is decked out in Miss Havishamesque wedding dress with what appeared to be the end of our garden stuck to her front and back, a plethora of twigs and branches that Eanna Ni Lawhna would have been proud of. I am concerned she is standing quite close to the fire. So is she. The clue ‘Fund’ hangs from her waist. Miss Hedge Fund cautiously moves away from the fire and says to her friend ‘I’m headin’ and takin me bush with me’. And so she did. Behind me a zombie orders two pints of Guinness and a vodka and Red Bull. At the bar there is a raven. She lifts up her beak every now and then, complains about the heat and takes a sup from her drink. The taxi driver who drove us home told us of how he had lived in eleven different countries, from Niger to Syria, Italy to Morocco and is now well and truly settled in Ireland. Despite the weather, despite the economic challenges we are so lucky, he reckons. It remains to be seen. Last weekend, in Galway at least, very few gave a jot about Greece or impending budgets. The place was hoppin. We’ll have more a’ that, thank you very much.      

The Full (Irish) Monty

I was watchin Monty Hall in Connemara the other night and thought, this lad’s havin a laugh with the turquoise water and the blue skies of Roundstone. Monty man, you stole the summer from us. How come him and his dog got all that weather? Nathin left for the rest of us. It’s one of two things, I pondered; either there’s some serious CGI going on or Roundstone and surrounds were stuck in some 80’s time warp when summers were much better.  I want his job. He gets to arse around in a boat scouting for dolphins and whales with his trusty dog Rubes by his side. Catch the odd fish here, swim with the odd dolphin there, go for a few pints with the locals, come home cook your catch outside in the sunshine, blah blah blah to the camera...ya I could do that. And let’s face it ladies, he’s easy on the eye.

We, on the other hand, didn’t arse around in a boat or catch our supper on our family escapade to Roundstone. Recently off the cuff we headed off on a Sunday morning to stay the night there before heading to Aran for a day trip the following morning. Mainly, to satisfy the Youngest’s fascination with a B&B, the concept of which she cannot get her head around. ‘Will we have to use their family bathroom...where does the family eat?’ she wonders. The bean an tí was most welcoming, serving us freshly made scones and tea. Himself reckons they were even better than my own. TMI, should have kept that one to himself. Deployed methods to tire out the three included a trip to Dogs Bay and the playground. Suitably shattered that evening I looked forward to a steaming bowl of mussels and a glass of quelque chose.  We didn’t make reservations. So around 7ish we wandered downtown Roundstone to check out the local hostelries. Two of them of them finished serving food at 7, although the signs outside said they were serving until 8. The other was fully booked and we were told to try the cafe next door. No mussels and I’m like a weasel. ‘Won’t the lady in the B&B be able to cook for us?’, the Youngest suggests. Well if her dinners were anything like her scones we might have been best served bribing her to throw an extra spud in the pot for us.

The following morning we were treated to the full Irish. No complaints there. We headed off to Aran and I hoped to see the dolphins I’d seen before on my last trip to Aran some years ago. Alas, they must have been otherwise engaged with the dolphin equivalent of Irelands Next Top Model hosted by Monty Hall. Bikes hired and away off to see the Dun Aengus. On route we stopped for a swim and I couldn’t feel my limbs afterwards, freezin. I’m nursing a cold ever since (such a wuss). So, we returned from Aran with achy legs, three singing Leprechauns, two colds and memories of a fantastic trip. And no one up-chucked in the car. 

Is it back to school time yet...?

Me head is melted. This summer there were times I’ve said to myself I’d rather be in the bog footin turf with the midges than refereeing the wrangling and bickering between my three. Mentally exhausting, no? You know the score, it starts off all jovial. They master the act of seducing us into thinking that they’re getting on, then all hell breaks loose and it inevitably ends in tears.  I never get it right, I ‘always listen to her’ and I ‘never blame him’ and ‘you’re just the worst mother in the world, d’ya know that’. Cue stomp up the stairs. Cue door slam. And then the kids follow suit. The Small Man is sportin’ a tude like no other. I know, I know,  all part and parcel of behaviour as he sourly kills time queuing to get into the Adolescent Club. The girls are sick to the back teeth of each other. I am ready to go to bed before they are most nights. I envy their inestimable energy. This all very normal sibling grating is however coupled with the wish-we-never-moved-back remarks thrown into the mix. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t, and I’m damned if we had a choice. Consequently, my retort is when you’re 18 you can live where you like. To top it all there has been the weather, and only the one type at that. The less said on meteorological matters the better. You would think that being born and raised in the West of Ireland that I am now immune to rain in all its guises. The slanty rain, straight down rain, the big drops rain and the misty betwixt n between rain. However, getting out for a run with the wind and the rain lashing against my face, tunes in my ears is my lifeline to sanity and until they go back to school those have been rare as hen’s teeth so the lifeline was spread thin. Bad weather and boredom can foster creative endeavours or breed tetchy underbellies or both. Shenanigans in the kitchen included the three deciding to make pizza from Jamie Oliver’s 30 Minute Meals but in reality and without the aid of a fandangled food processor or a crew to abet it’s a good thirty minutes to take everything out of the presses and two hours to clean up more like. After seeing the fantastic Super 8 they decided to make their own videos and house subsequently trashed to make sets with sheets and cardboard and my one and only good lipstick was decimated. There was fun had and no one lost an eye, that’s always a bonus. The pizza didn’t taste half bad either. Roll on Thursday, I'll be whooshing them out the door, back to school and back to some shape of a routine. 

Where were the Swans hangin?

We pass our removal truck at the ferry terminal, the lads’ cab curtains closed as they snooze awaiting the ferry after ours. The crossing was so calm, the sea like a mirror. On our boat there were tired parents carrying shattered children, ready like us for the last part of their journey once they disembarked in Dublin. Irish and second generation Irish heading home to see parents, friends, relatives, endeavouring to keep their connections. We arrive home, the birds getting ready to start the day shift, dawn not yet broken. There was bread in the press (the press, not the cupboard), milk and beer in the fridge and a welcome bunch of flowers. The folks had been out to give the house the once over, what a treat. After our 4 hours kip the removal truck squeezed up the laneway,  the driver and his helper  like long lost members of the family. One of them said he didn’t mind the trips to England and France, said it gets him away from the wife and kids for a while. It's mayhem. The boxes just keep coming. The kids decide to get stuck in, utter bedlam. Dejá vú. Paper, bubble wrap, boxes. In the midst of all of that the Tesco man rings looking for the house and I try to give him directions. He arrives, scratchin his head. ‘Where would you like the groceries, Mrs?’, ‘Anywhere you can find a spot’, I replied. I was delighted with meself, that being the foresight to order the groceries online from England and have them delivered at home in Galway (isn’t the web a mighty yoke) but bewildered at the same time as to why in all that’s good and holy did I order 5 tins of kidneys beans? I also now have enough Flahavans and rice to last the year. Poor Mr Tesco Man struggled to inform me about what was out of stock and replaced over the noise of smashing crockery as the kids did Greek wedding practise. I may never move again. Order needs to be restored.

Outside our back door now resembles a Smurfit packaging warehouse.  All we’re missing are a couple of forklifts and a few clipboards. It’s amazing after you have been away for a while that you see all the things you didn’t see when you lived in a place. I guess it’s selective, you choose what to ignore. Five years ago we laid a patio at the back of the house, all by our ownselves, nothin fancy. It remained unfinished, don’t know why. I think we ran out of something, patience perhaps, that and lack of some class of a tool or another. The slabs had been stacked and remained there in situ for the next 5 years. David Attenborough would have had a field day with all the creepy crawlie squatters. So, with the help of our entomological visitors,  we finally almost finished it. This time we ran out of slabs. Himself asked me why we didn’t complete the project then. That’s us, half a job. Wouldn’t happen in Thame, God no. Meanwhile the curation of the empty walls with the ghostly outlines of our old photos may have to be outsourced. ‘Where were the swans hangin’? Himself asks.  It’s like a jigsaw puzzle and I was never any good at those. Another job left unfinished, for the moment.

It goes without sayin we didn’t return for the weather. The summers are certainly hard work here compared to where we lived in Thame in terms of entertaining the kids. With camps and activities more competitively priced, coupled with sunnier weather, it makes for a less arduous summer for those looking after the ‘I’m-bored’ brigade. Be bored, that’s what I say. It’s your summer holidays, you’re supposed to be and should be bored most of the time. Ironically though, we didn’t have the luxury of popping in for a dip in the sea when most needed. We couldn’t have been more inland. Here, the wonderful grey Atlantic is on our doorstep and the kids for the first time this year (in between showers) braved it, sans wetsuits out in Blackrock. They lasted about 20 mins. I was well impressed with them. I baulked, just too damn cold. Next time I will be braver, treat it like penance.  

Hair clips and Cheerios

I am struggling to corral my reflections and emotions about going home. This last week has been a long time coming. The questions about when and why we are going back, you must keep in touch, how kids adapt, how we will all readjust, how difficult it will be for Himself commuting, how brave we were for giving it a go. Friday’s final assembly at the kids’ school was a heartbreaker. The Y6ers all saying goodbye to their primary school years, the teachers milking it, giving them a right good send off. I could not look at The Small Man without welling up as his new found friends and he reached an emotional crescendo. They were inconsolable especially our Small Man and his Italian friend who returns to Italy the same day we go back to Galway. I could see him fighting back the tears all day. You just know it with that face they make. We are such cruel parents putting them though this again, just a year after they said goodbye to their Galway friends. The girls just let the floodgates open big time in the school playground, the tears unstoppable as they hugged and embraced their buddies. The teachers and staff of St Joe’s compiled leaving scrapbooks for all three with messages from their classmates and photos from throughout the year. Birdboxes, cricket matches, school plays, sports day, the big trip to Woodlands. I could not bring myself to open it until Sunday night. They are treasures I hope they will value as the years push on. I certainly will. Friday night I went for a drink with the women, the Tay n Tunes crew and the rest of the ladies I have gotten to know, their parting gifts so thoughtful.  Pots of Towersey jam, black bean soup receipe (truly honoured!) poetry books and the rest. We will endeavour to meet up when they come over in August. We arrived in a place, submerged ourselves in the community, we were welcomed with open arms and this makes the leaving all the more difficult. 

The melancholy has abated. Thoughts and emotions of leaving and goodbyes are replaced with excitement about going home. The past few days have been a whirlwind of bubblewrap, paper and boxes. Last year the night before we left I huddled with the kids and  cried my heart out, our house was no longer a home but an empty shell. Last night I sat in the sittingroom of the house here, bare walls, minimum furniture, it was like water off a duck’s back. No connection to this abode whatsoever. Today in the vacant rooms I stood and admired the collection of hair clips and Cheerios left all over the house, before the kids hoovered them up. The black line of our furniture is left on the manky beige carpet, now ready for the next round of tenants who will occupy the house. Good luck to them. I just want to get going, now ready to go home. We will all have to readjust, settle back in, even though we are going back to what we know, where we are from, our own house, where we fit. Our two girls always have each other, to mull over things together; so lucky. It helps. They just want to bring their friends back from England so that the girls at home could meet them all. The Small Man, in that no man’s land between child and adolescent, is tetchy and ego centric be times. He is apprehensive about meeting up with his old friends, will they have changed much; he reckons he has. They are also a year older, I tell him and reassure him that their personalities will be the same, just as his is. He certainly has had experiences this year that they will not have had and vice versa. That’s what makes life interesting, the sharing of stories, the recounting of particulars about those you have met. A line from The Wallflowers song One Headlight springs to mind ‘I aint changed, but I know I aint the same’ and that’s how I feel about my experiences this year. We have all grown, the kids inside and out. I hope for the transition to be as calm as the Irish Sea we now cross on our way ar ais trasna an uisce. 

Shakespeare, breakfast roll man

As our departure draws near I had a bee in my bonnet to visit his nibs birthplace. Well given that I have spent much of the last 5 years studying his works I figured why not check out his crib. After much grumbling and giving out, like it or lump it, it was off to Stratford-upon-Avon with us. It's a picturesque village for the most part but the facade looks like a post office or public swimming pool, all red brick and tinted windows.  Not sure would the famous man of words find it aesthetically pleasing. Once inside we were guided along through a serious of short vignettes of facts and figures regarding William Shakespeare, in the voice of Patrick Stewart, Captain of the Enterprise. ‘I never knew Shakespeare wrote StarTrek’, The Small Man thinks he’s hilarious. No, but you can be sure if you poked and proded it enough you would probably find Shakespearian themes and references scattered throughout. I have to say, the kids were well impressed. The Youngest said it was better than she expected, and, no whining. Meanwhile, Himself is away off searching for monkeys and typewriters. The old house itself is just as you would imagine. Tiny windows, low ceilings and doorways, stone flagged floors, Tudor style and slightly askew. His father, John Shakespeare was a glove maker so all the tanning for leather was carried out on-site using, amongst other stuff, urine. They must have had shares in Febreze. On entering we were escorted through the various rooms by strange people in period costumes (well, they said they were costumes but I’m not so sure, they looked awfully comfortable in them). We proceeded up the rickety stairs to the room where he was born, and where he slept along with his parents and siblings, for much of his early childhood. Crowded, smelly and they still managed to produce more children. Little boys at that time were apparently dressed as girls because the belief was that the evil spirits and whatever you’re havin’ yerself would spare the boys life if they were disguised as girls. Girls weren’t worth the effort, those from the dark side priced little boys. Funnily enough, this would continue into later life for budding thespians, since men had to dress as women frequently where ladies were not permitted to tread the boards. My two girls, little feminists, not impressed. They reckon women had it rough in ‘olden times’ as they call it.

And so there he was, a young gassun, helpin his aul lad make a few gloves, fast forward a few years and he’s away off to London to make a name for himself. He pitches his plays (many of them reworkings from other writers but sin sceal eile) to a few dragons to be told ‘I’m out’. Finally he gets a backer and The Globe’s his oyster. On return to his homeplace he buys a house for himself and the missus, and also inherits the family home after his father’s death. So what does he do but lease it to a lad who turns it into a pub, the Swan and Maidenhead Inn. Shakespeare, the property developer, a breakfast roll man, hard hat, high viz, cup a’ scald in hand, truly a vision of times past. After all that, we were treated to a couple of lines from Taming of the Shrew, in the wonderful garden, by two actors. The Youngest said she didn’t get it, what on earth were they talking about. The Middle was lost too but enthralled nonetheless and we managed to run the giftshop gauntlet without purchasing. All’s well that ends well. 

Ag dul abhaile

My mind is yet again in a state of flux. It’s like a Rubix cube constantly twisting, without any resultant blocks of colour. The decision has been made to move back to Galway. We are among many of the casualties of the property and banking catastrophe. A mortgage on our home we can neither sell nor rent and large wads of rent in this exclusive part of England is just not tallying. The English country quaintness of Thame and surrounds comes at a high price. The property prices and rentals remain consistently high due to an unhealthy obsession with schools (education industry more like) and because of its proximity to Oxford and London. I guess our decision has been made for us but I have also come to the conclusion that you do not arrive at a right or wrong verdict. You make a judgement based on particular circumstances and run with it. It is only retrospectively can you label it as a right or wrong one. There is a sting in this tale though as Himself will now join the many others on the early Monday morning and Thursday/Friday evening flights trasna an uisce. The Shannon Heathrow route is busier than the Rahoon Eyre Square bus with all that’s commuting over and back.   I don’t have a crystal ball and I don’t know how this will play out. For sure, I know he is lucky to have a job, no doubt about that so I may stop such moaning.  We did the commuting thing for a year before the move. Thus I know what is ahead. There is the accentuated Sunday blues with the bag at the front door ready for early Monday morning departure. The delayed flights on the return and disappointed children are all to contend with again. I met a man from Tynagh during the week at the school, has been over here 24 years. He made the comment that there are many who during the 80’s had emigrated to England and moved back again. Now because of work and, without wanting to uproot their families, they now commute. That’s just the way it is. Just as the news of our arrival spread like wildfire, over the last few weeks so too has the news of us heading back. The account of our impending return now rolls of my tongue but yet feels like the needle is stuck. I feel like a character in a Beckett play.   

I don’t regret the year. I have made some good friends. Some I hope to keep very much in touch with and meet up with whenever I can, others I will never see again. The kind, helpful and genuine nature of many I will never forget. The year has been stressful, emotional and difficult. For my part I have learned much and those same contemplations I choose to keep to myself, for the moment. The children have relished the experience of living in a small town and all the conveniences that come with it. The doorbell here is worn out with the buddies looking for one or all to come out and play, like the way I grew up. I am hoping they can draw from the confidence they have gained knowing that they came to a new school, assimilated the different ways of learning and settled in to very established classes.  I am truly proud of their achievements. They have made some great friends and will keep in touch with a select few. The ending or not of these friendships will take its natural course. They look forward to settling into their old school, seeing their old pals, being close to their grandparents and living in their old house again. So too am I.

Accordingly, emotions are running high with all of us and the slightest thing ignites, sets us off, as our departure draws near. There will be difficult goodbyes. The underlying feeling of going home to Galway, I hope, will eclipse the farewells and feelings of sadness that come with it. Not just for the children but for all of us. 

Al-Cat-raz

I feel I know my neighbours, even though I don’t know them. I don’t even know their names. The neighbours in one of the gardens at right angles to ours spend alot of time outside in their garden, as you do. There are three generations living in the house, grandparents (granddad and his second wife), parents (daughter of granddad and her Irish/American husband) and grandchild. Space is at a minimum thus the garden is like another room. The elders spend time in their hot tub. And before you ask, I cannot tell if there is attire worn and if there is, bikini or ‘costume’, Speedos or leopard skin thong, is just TMI. On any given Friday or Saturday night the unmistakable sound of a can of bear being opened can be heard over the bubbles of the tub. And sometimes during the day, when mum and dad are gone to work and grandchild is at preschool, they relish the privacy and they crank it up, put the bubbles on max and he sings away to his wife. A great voice to boot. The other day they were all out in the garden, as we were, and I could not help but eavesdrop as granddad enlightens his grandson as to the various cats buried in the garden. He comes to the final one, let’s call him Tabby.  I was introduced to said cat just the once before his demise, in strange circumstances, but I cannot recall his name. It was 11.30 of a mid week night and I was up potterin away on the laptop in the sittingroom, Billy no-mates. Kids asleep, not a sound. In fact it’s noisier at home in Galway with the cattle mooing and the foxes screeching at night. The door bell rings. Here, it’s questionable as to whether or not you phone someone after 9.00 don’t mind ring the doorbell at such an hour, so I was intrigued and scared shitless. There was a full on should-I-shouldn’t-I-answer-it in my head. Could be a head the ball with a machete in one hand and my P45 in another, could be just someone looking for help. Ah sure, what the hell, I’ll answer it. I could see through the frosted glass that indeed it was a man, and as I had turned on the hall light, I now could be seen also. So I had to commit and gingerly opened the door after I blessed meself. Lo and behold it was singing hot tub neighbour, with a flashlight. 'Ah how ya, it's only yourself' I said relieved. He was so embarrassed and so apologetic. Here’s the thing. He has, how do I say it, well...a gammy eye, so one looks east and the other looks west and let’s just say, it was bit awkward. I just stared at his forehead. He was sorry to be botherin me and for waking me and would I mind if he had a look in our garden as he reckoned their tabby had climbed over the fence and got stuck in our bushes. No problem, and I walked him through the hall and out into the garden. The cat had a stroke, he recounted, and could get a little perplexed. It’s the medication you see. I fought to restrain the giggles as a serious of questions and images flashed through my head. ‘Can you account for his last movements, sir, can you describe what he looks like, sir, has he gone missin’ on ye before, sir!’. An artist’s impression of a large fluffy cartoon cat, eyes fixed with stars and tweety birds floating and fluttering around his head, sprang to mind. So here we were in our garden, almost midnight, like wardens with search lights, looking for tabby who has done an Alcatraz over the fence. His missus is in the tub. He’s whispering loudly over to her, ‘which direction did he climb ova’, love’, ‘Well, I don’t knoowwww, swee’ha’!’, clearly upset and half cut. We trampled through the shrubs and sure enough, we shone the lights on this poor orange mass of fur, huddled in a ball, all at sea. He was carried home, with loving care and there were more apologies again for the disruption. Sadly, yon cat was not to be for this world for very much longer, I think it knocked the wind out of his sails. The adventure was all just too much for him, Ga’ help us. 

Spi’ on me Pe’er!

The arrangements for Obama and Her Majesty’s trip were nothin to it. Shannon v Dublin, Birmingham v Gatwick, the blue plane v the green plane, the whys, wherefors, bag size and what shoes and jacket to bring were all put through the ringer. Finally, they got here. The big trip trasna an uisce for Nana and Grandad from Galway was undertaken. My folks never had the pleasure of flyin Ryanair. The brother reckoned they would arrive over with their accoutrement in a Lydon House bread wrapper, what with all the warnings of bag sizes and battle axes waiting to frisk you before boarding. Our three were thrilled to see their grandparents and keen to show off their school. As it was Y4’s turn for assembly and WWII being flavour of the month, Nana and Grandad learned buckets about the blitz, evacuations and rationing. Later, off to Oxford with us to blend in with all the other tourists. Into Christchurch, one of the many colleges in the University of Oxford and home to Christchurch Catherdral, Grandad treats us to the tickets. ‘Are ya still a student’ he says, loud as you like, the queue growing longer with Japanese men in cool runners. ‘My student card only works in Ireland’, shushing him along. Morto.  He gets to the counter and says to the cashier, ‘two OAPs and one student, good man yersel’. ‘Now, didn’t I tell ya, it pays to ask’ delighted with his one pound saving. We meander through into the dining hall where students and academic staff alike have their meals and deliberate all the ologies. The long tables are set up for lunch.  Custodians in bowler hats are strategically positioned to answer any touristy questions and make sure you don’t rob the cutlery. The hall is steeped in history. The many powerful brains responsible for all that schoolin’ are immortalised in portraits hanging from dark Jacobean panelling. Alice Lidell and the college surrounds  inspired the mathematics lecturer Charles Ludwidge Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) to write Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.  The White Rabbit in the book was apparently inspired by the dithery old professor who was always late for the college’s formal evening meal, in the famous dining hall. Story goes he would shimmy up the private stairs to the side of the head honchos top table, attempting his tardiness to go unnoticed and slide away again when finished.  This story was recounted by the lady behind me, she sounded like a just-the-facts-mam kinda person. Here, in this great hall Michelle Obama addressed academia, staff and students on the recent Presidential visit. And here, of course, was where much of Harry Potter was filmed. Now after all that, those historical facts and points of interest and much more, what does Grandad comment on?...the chairs. ‘Jaysus, their a fine chair, they don’t make them like that anymore’ pulling one out and sitting down. Yes there was an audible noise of it all flying over his head. He’s priceless. But they were fine chairs.

The following morning saw great excitement as the kids were marching in the Thame Carnival and, wait for it...Peter Andre was to make an appearance. Fierce excitement in the town. ‘What’s he famous for’, Grandad and Nana amongst others ask, ‘a six pack and being once married to a scary woman with big boobs’ was the answer given. Off we all went the girls with their butterfly wings, The Small Man, keepin an eye out for the buddies, itchin to get away from us, far too cool to march in any parade. Ya couldn’t see yerself what with all the Cath Kidson wellies and bags, designer sunglasses and pedigree dogs (for the dog show of course). Like a black hole, the Thame Women’s Guild Cake stand where the ladies-what-bake-and-lunch tried to outsell the other, drew Nana in. A dozen fairy cakes, a Victoria sponge and a jar of marmalade later, she immerged. The hog in a roll from the hog on the spit was tasty with the indigenous ale given the thumbs down from Grandad. I was inclined to agree, an acquired taste. Apart from my weak will to say no to the Youngest and having to queue for over an hour, in the rain, for one of those mini bungee jump/trampolining things, in order to avoid all out war, a good day was had by all at the fair. Despite endeavours to go incognito Peter Andre was spotted in a clown costume and a funky wig on the back of a parade truck, beltin’ a few bongos. Spi’ on me Pe’er! 

In anim Dia!

We are but a mere stone’s throw here in Thame from England’s seat of learning, Oxford.  A city comprising ancient buildings, steeped in history, predominantly turned inside out with their backs to the streets, snooker table lawns on the inside, quadrangle entry permitted only to those who have business there or a brain and a wallet big enough read there. I have been in and out of the city, many times, but never treated myself to a tour of the Bodleian Library. So, it came to pass that last week I went from being told by the Youngest that I had packed the lunchbox the wrong way (I have them ruined, no two ways about it) to myself akin to my 8 year old outside a sweetshop, nose pressed to the glass, as I wondered at Old and Middle English manuscripts some dating back to 800 AD. There is a fantastic exhibition on the history and origin of the Kings James Bible housed right beside the Bodleian http://www.manifoldgreatness.org/index.php/before/early-bibles/ . What a treat and if only I had done this before my exam on Renaissance literature. Go figure. Happy out, like a sucky calve, all by my own self,  I gazed at first editions of John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, John Milton’s Paradise Lost amongst other works all alluding in some shape or form to the bible. Even more interesting were the whisperings of other visitors, well up on historical and literary matters, to which I secretly earwigged. Fascinating. In next door to the Bodleian then, through the Divinity School, a large vaulted room wherein students hundreds of years ago were examined. No need for Polomints, Lucozade and a fist full of Bics in those times. The prof or examiner would sit on a large wooden throne at the top of the room (now in the Sheldonian Theatre). Opponents stood opposite each other and by the power of oration, in Latin of course, philosophy, astronomy, maths and logic were chewed up and spat out. Now it is used as a large dressing room, for those to robe-up before parading through to the Sheldonian to receive their degrees and doctorates.

Up the stairs to one of the Bodleian reading rooms the notice boards are darted with announcements of activities during Trinity and Encaenia, the terminology preserved like the buildings.  The welcoming smell of old leather bound, gold guilded volumes beckons us through the doors. Here lie books and manuscripts hundreds of years old, not for the normal five eighth to handle but for the librarian to accept the reader’s request, assign the reader to a desk and bring the manuscript to you. The University of Oxford’s motto is ‘Dominus illuminatio mea’, the Lord is my light, and truly, some light will have to be shed on how and where the millions of volumes will continue to be housed. They have already gone underground but I reckon they will have to look up to the light, in ‘cloud’. Oxford is just one of 14 locations around the UK, including a salt mine in Cheshire, where its books are domicile. Each year it receives one free copy of everything printed in the UK. Ditto with Trinity College Dublin. That’s a lora, lora books! Last count in the region of 10 to 11 million allegedly and rising. Mind boggling, but my word, for a book lover, such a treat.  

Tay 'n' Tunes

On any given Friday, of an afternoon, it could be King o’ the Fairies and lemon drizzle cake or Off to California and scones. Like Mission Impossible the texts are sent around as to a time and venue. I have christened the session ‘Tay n Tunes’. All with Irish connections, we play a bit of trad and have the craic. Now, sometimes there is more tay drank than tunes, other times the tunes flow. These are a group of friends, going back years, who have invited me into their nest and taken me under their wings and I am thankful. I know I am lucky, a great bunch of women who value friendship and know how not to take themselves too seriously. Unless it's the receipe for a particular rice dish which will never be shared by the whistler. And they can bake. The kettle is filled whilst instruments, tales and troubles are uncased. Sick children, troubled teenagers, anxious toddlers, taxing husbands, rattled relationships, pain in the arse bosses, work dilemmas, sibling rivalry, ailing parents, hormones, hairdos, aches and ailments, all or any of the above of what makes us, us. On a good day we have the sounds of two guitars, a fiddle, a whistle and a mandolin. And just as the instruments gel together to make a tune, so too do the airs of the varied personalities of a group of gals havin the chat and listening to each other’s trials and tribulations. I relish it every week, the chance to play all of my six chords. We all endeavour to practice during the week but more often than not we fail, except for one. Over a few pints one night she proclaimed to never having any of her wheels-of-life fall off. ‘Never even had a puncture’ I enquired. Apparently not.  ‘So are all your ducks in a row then?’ I persist, pondering her life balance, referring to the Holy Grail of part-time work, children, and stable marriage that many women, especially mothers, quest. I reckon nobody has all their ducks in a row and anyhow everyones ducks are different. If all those ducks were lined up they’d be proper bored anyway, right? We all do what works for us and if it aint working, then nathin like a few tunes, a brew and a laugh to put things in perspective. 

Tense tents

When, in all that’s decent and holy, is it a good idea to go off and buy a tent, when you are hungover.  A long leisurely brunch, followed by a lie down on the couch with the papers, that would be the right thing to do. No. Not for us. Off to Halfords with us to make a big purchase. We weren’t looking for a flowery petit quelque chose for a boho music/literary/foody/well-being/pretend-your-young-again festival. We needed one with space for us all, preferably sound proofed. So due consideration was required. Now bringing our little darlings into any shop is not a good idea. They undergo a swift personality change and develop new argumentative skills. ‘What are we going to do in a tent? Who’s going?’ The Small Man sighs and assumes the position, with his new sooooo-bored-with-my-parents face. ‘Camping’,  I reply and ‘just ourselves’. He looks like he will self-combust and if he doesn’t, I will, from remnant toxins and gone wrong with the want of a rasher sangwich. Halfords above all places. And on your life, don’t ask any of the alleged staff for help, ‘I’m sorry madam, I’m only trained to put the screws in, you’ll have to ask my colleague, he’s trained to take the screws out again’. Futile, you are on your own. Tent bought, a trial run in the back garden was in order. Sheets, flaps, zips, pegs, poles, ties, more zips, hooks, eyes, gadgets, instructions. I was worn out already and the yoke wasn’t even up yet, we’d only taken it out of the bag. Stretched out, this was a monster and it covered the whole postage stamp that is our garden. We persisted and triumphed. So at 1.30am three 11 year old boys and two 8 year old girls were still bringing the house down inside the big top. Himself went out, pillow under his oxter, killjoy to the kids merriment but alas we do have neighbours, and they are quiet, even when in their hot-tub. At 5am the children’s energy knows no bounds and they join the chirpy birds, full of the joys and rarein’ to go. So I intervene and send Himself packin. ‘We’re not tired...ye are tired....we’re not tired...I’m tellin ya, yer all tired!’. They zipped up and finally zipped it. The rain did Riverdance on our haven but we slept till 7.30am. Not bad. But as for those birds... 

Well-heeled hanker my heels

There’s nothing like a good aul knees up. The event of the year on the school’s social calendar is the fundraising ball. The theme was butterflies and we were thus requested to bring wings of some sort. No problem there, my bingo wings would do. So the black dress which I wore to the one and only black tie event we attended together, 3 years ago, was dug out of the back of the wardrobe.  Without a centimetre to spare a barring order on carbs was intended for the night. Bet into the frock and donning the ‘hold-it-all-in-knickers’ off I trotted to the black tie event, Himself in a tux. Now, I have to mention the shoes. New shoes at that, on their second outing, all set for the dance floor. Couldn’t wait to show them off. There were gasps , oohs and aaahs and ‘where did you get those fab shooes?? Can I see the soles?? Did you purchase in London?’. The ladies what lunch intrigued, burstin to find out where I had purchased. ‘Oh just something I picked up at home in Galway’, I nonchalantly replied, flying the flag for the West. The ‘cha’ and ‘deputy cha’ were busy buzzin around the room making sure all the committee ducks were in a row.  Allocated our seats the auction of various items to raise funds for the school dictated the ebb and flow of the evening in between courses and tut-tutting over the quality of the beef.  Bidding was allowed by men only, resulting in one peacock trying to outdo the other, flashing their tails. One of the supercilious peacocks at our table had his tail worn out. His bidding hand was up and down all night like a know-all up at the top of the class. One of the auction items included someone to come to your home to cook paella for 10 people. The vivacious Spanish lady offering said service was sat at our table, she kept the chat light and the craic good and revelled in stories of eating donkey in her part of Spain. Plenty of them, I thought, in the field at the back of our home place. The night whizzed by with plenty of wine, laughs and givin it loads on the dance floor. And the shoes stayed on, comfortably. 

I didn’t exactly flutter home like a Red Admiral and the following morning I wanted to climb back into my cocoon. The ceann was truly rattled. At the school the post mortem of the evening continued and I was informed by one lady that she went home at 12.00 on account of being told the same story 4 times by the same person. It could have been me. She said it wasn’t. ‘Well if you spent the night on the dance floor like the rest of us, they couldn’t catch you to re-tell their story’ I replied. She wasn’t impressed, same wan has a face on her like a burst bag a’ cement at the best of times.

A new dawn, a new day, a new shed.

Things have been motorin along here in Thame. The usual old hum drum of domestic servitude coupled with finalising a thesis and attempting to study for an exam has increased my points in the ‘don’t talk to me about tiredness’ debate. My brain could be heard eatin itself at times. It has been busy. Before we knew it the girls’ First Holy Communion was upon us, which we celebrated back at home.  The Small Man’s passport arrived only the morning before we flew back to Ireland. Not funny. I think Mr Postman questioned my mental health after the reaction he got when I signed for it.   The Communion was a themed event, a ‘Bring-a-Mug-Bring-a-Chair-Bring-a-Dessert’ gathering. We had a blast, organised chaos in our empty home.  Our two girls and their classmates, gorgeous in their innocence. Families and friends all catching up. The weekend ended with my final degree exam. Suffices to say there was cramming. I could have gone the Red Bull route and pulled an all-nighter but fearing heart palpitations and possible cardiac arrest from that stuff, tay, Lucozade and Polomints saw me through. Content with the break and knowing that after five years it is finished I feel a great sense of achievement. It is akin to running a marathon. At the start you can never envisage the end but  one foot in front of the other, you get there. I kinda miss it already. Sadistic, I know. I will have to find a replacement shed/allotment/garage. It was my space, my project, a reason to hide away and foster thoughts. Throughout the year, amidst the turmoil of the move and the absorption of the kids emotional highs and lows, it was a welcome constant and acknowledgement that I was apparently able to do something right. Allegedly. 

Blue and Yellow Makes Green

I must be the only thirtysomething (hangin in there) who’d never done it. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never tried it, you’ll love it’ veterans said. ‘Don’t do it at the weekend and you need to know exactly what you want’ was the advice. Well, that’s not me for a start. Not good with choices, a biteen indecisive at times. And it isn’t off the ground The Youngest licked it, turning into her ‘aul one. She has trouble deciding which cereal to have (just a choice of two, it’s not a hotel buffet breakfast after all). Bless her. As for clothes, just as well she has a uniform, that’s all I’ll say. Thus, I have avoided it like the plague, for many reasons. ‘You will come away feeling inadequate’ one of my inner voices said. ‘You will have no more excuses’ the other voice said and that one has a tofty condescending Oxfordshire cadence to it. But alas there was stuff to get and an executive decision was made, we’d give it a go. SatNav set to the great Blue and Yellow Mecca of Interiors...IKEA.

Off to Milton Keynes with the pair of us of a Monday morning. Himself blessing himself walkin through the doors. The anxiety building already. I don’t like big shops. I get discombobulated. Dundrum Shopping Centre made me dizzy the one and only time I was in it. As for Macys, it just vexed me and I came away hangin for a pint. If I had the reddies I’d get meself one of those personal shoppers. Now with IKEA it’s angst at a whole new level. Those Blue and Yellow people mess with your heads. That’s another motive for not setting foot in the place,  there is the chance that forever after one might feel a slight pressure to have all things in their place.  Anyone who has had the IKEA experience, and that was everyone except me, will know what I mean. Yip, those little rooms they have set up all nice and organised. They should just put up a few banners, in really big writing shouting ‘come on then, get a grip, you could do this to!’.

You may have seen it in some real life houses where people allegedly live. I certainly have over here. Everything aesthetically pleasing, atmospherically lit, cushioned, countered, shelved, shuttered and drawered to within an inch of itelf.  And not a sign of a faux leather couch in site. But what you don’t see in these all very ideal IKEA rooms are the piles that gather on the end of the kitchen counter, hall table or wherever.  Like a small tip for random things. The arbitrary items that escape from the handbag or the schoolbag or wherever...leaflets, bills, hair clips, lip gloss, a glove, glasses case, loose change, half eaten apple, packet polo mints, unsharpened pencils, more bills, used bus and cinema tickets. So the Blue and Yellow people who design these ergonomically exquisite spaces really think of everything. Ergo, no excuse for clutter, for bits and bobs. I am no longer an IKEA virgin. Regrettably, my predictions were correct, my inner voices spot on. It will take more than wicker baskets and a few shelves to organise my life. Now where did I put that half eaten apple? 

Boxed in

In our wisdom (not!) last August we packed up everything from our home in Galway to make this move.  I mean everything. There were even logs in the log basket. Much remained unopened, predominantly books. Boxes and boxes of them and at that I have given scores of them to local charity shops. But there are many, however, I cannot part with. Today, I again found myself with tape and boxes, shifting and lifting and moving. The removal truck now makes its way from Oxfordshire to Galway with our surplus to requirements. No room at the inn. The double bed where the children were conceived is gone back too. The Small Man relegated to a single bed.  I should have got them to take the Christmas tree as well (still in the back garden). I can now make my way to the tumble dryer in the garage without the bicycle pedals cutting the shins of me each time. The lady across the road from us lives in her garage. Always, her derriere high in the air, head in the freezer. I saw her face for the first time today when she complained about the removal truck. Perhaps she might fall in and keep her husband company.  No one really gives you any advice before you move. Hindsight is mighty. Makes you wonder about what we use, what we need, how much accoutrements we accumulate. I now think my objective in life should be to get rid of all my possessions over the coming years, buy a van and let the rest of the world go by (oh and invest in a Kindle). Life would be much simpler. No? I should adapt the minimalist Ryanair ‘Just the shirt on your back’ attitude, less stressful. Flying home last Thursday morning the nice lady checked my bag with her big cereal box. She grimaced, I grinned. She might have taken my shirt.   

I’ve come to love that Dublin Galway motorway but in one direction only. Like a child on Christmas Eve I bombed it home, bursting to see them all. ‘Are ya settled now?’ , this question I cannot answer. We used to live in Dublin and Co Kildare, for a good few years, before all the by-passes. Each Sunday evening our heads would hang low, heading back East in the aul Ford Fiesta. As I walked the prom Sunday morning, that gloomy feeling was back again but more intense. I used to relish approaching the ‘Departures’ sign in the airport. Not anymore. And I know I’m just across the water. I can come over and back with relative ease. Still, it’s a Galway thing. There are many who came to Galway to visit or work, and never left, including the man I married.  Chatting to a nice lady in college on Friday I discovered she lives in Dubai. I asked her, what brought her to Dubai, ‘Bloody husband’ she said. She asked me what brought me to England, ‘Bloody husband’ I retorted. Enough said.

Psychometricity

Now I don’t know about you but I’m sick to the back teeth of all of them blatherin on, on the radio, and the internet about the state of the nation and lack of leadership. We are, allegedly, a democracy although last week the goings on were far from democratic. For years we’ve been electing leaders but in recent times the process aint workin. Hypothetically of course, might it be possible to fit the right person to the right job and in this case the most important and difficult job in the country? Think outside the box (I know, I hate that aul jargon too!). Why not advertise for the job? ‘Taosieach wanted. Must have copious amounts of common sense. Should possess leadership qualities with a real commitment to learning and personal growth. Must be able to do sums. Preferably be creative. Experience not essential. On the job training will be provided. Salary negotiable for suitable candidate.’

The use of personality measures and ability tests for employee selection has expanded since the early 1990s. It is intimated by many psychologists that a person’s behaviour may be predicated with the benefit of a detailed account of that person’s psychological traits. Now, before the argument begins, for all those academics who say it can, there are as many who believe it cannot. Nonetheless, Costa and McCrae have made a nice packet out of their Big Five model, narrowing us all down to five traits (openness, conscientiousness, extroversion, agreeableness and neuroticism). Whether you believe it or not, it’s out there, in the ether. So if www.FindYourPrinceCharmingWhoLeavesTheToiletSeatDown.com uses psychometric personality testing to do a Lisdoonvarna on would-be couples, why don’t we, as a country, advertise for candidates and whittle them down using similar measures? However, leadership is hard to define. We need a worthy leader, with the capacity to lead, direct and inspire in a manner that has merit, integrity and esteem. Do all that but with a vision. And be sound as a pound as well. So, is there a relationship between leadership and personality and ability? It is intimated there is, with much emphasis on extraversion, conscientiousness, openness and intelligence. The link between empathy and leadership is less investigated than other traits but should not be discounted. Surely an empathic leader is what we’ve been missing, someone who can listen to what others say and have the ability to read accurately the reactions of others. This leadership business is a complicated matter and even if the potential candidates had the smarts to do the job could they learn the woolly empathic stuff?  Now ability (intelligence) is another kettle a’ fish. Ability tests, I would agree, are indeed contentious. Nevertheless, the right person would need the ability to assimilate and interpret large volumes of complex information. On the other hand these intelligence tests, it could be said, do not allow for divergent thinking and what we really need now is a creative open leader, surely.   So why don’t we give it a try. What have we got to lose. We’re crocked anyway. ‘Wanted. Worthy leader.’ You’d never know who might surface. 

Sound Out

I’m prone to living in my own head. Not good sometimes. This week I took a trip down literary memory lane. The catalyst was Soundings and those of an age will remember the Leaving Cert poetry book with the squiggly green cover. It’s back on the shelves by popular demand, as the fella says. A gift for Christmas, it livens the elegiac connections in the grey matter. My school copy is buried in the depths of the attic at home no doubt, covered in notes, doodles and love hearts. I also gave a copy to a dearest friend who celebrated a birthday last week. I wished I was there to reminisce with her as we both loved that textbook. Much of our enthusiasm is down to some great teachers who taught in the old alma mater,  The Mercy, Newtownsmyth. We all had our favourites, some of the stanzas, couldn’t make head nor tail of them. It had all the hits. The inspirational odes of the Romantic Brat Pack;  Shelley,  Keats and Wordsworth.  There was Kavanagh’s insightful ‘dance in Billy Brennan’s barn’.  I was blown away by Clarke and his lyrical ‘The Planter’s Daughter’  as ‘men who had seen her/Drank deep and were silent’. And, of course, the emblematic  ‘September 1913’ where Yeats’ poetic voice rings true today as the bankers and politicians who ruined the country ‘fumble in the greasy till/And add the halfpence to the pence’. 

The Small Man in our house likes to look at our copies of US, a book of photos taken in Ireland by ordinary people doing all sorts of things, on the same day in October 2005 and again in 2010. He can be quite contemplative, gets that from his aul lad. He says it reminds him of home.  They’re great books, uniquely Irish. But this thing of Irish identity is hard to pin down. I tell him he will always be Irish no matter where he lives. Moving away inevitably leads to questions of identity as you try to assimilate into your new surroundings, wherever that may be. But all the while you try to retain your uniqueness, stay the person you are, especially when you have children.  In Soundings, T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ got me thinking. His symbolic masterpiece deals with the self-doubts of modern man, ya know, urbanisation, isolation, lack of spirituality, social crisis, all those light-hearted knitting-of-the- brow themes.  So, for me, ‘There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet’  reminds me of those who have left home and landed in pastures new, cities strange with fresh faces, by choice or without choice. Don’t change too much. It’s hard work meeting new people. Sure, when in Rome and all of that but be true to yourself. Don’t misplace your essence. And pick up a copy of Soundings..not to analyse, compare or contrast. Just immerse yourself in some of the greats.  Plug in, tune out. 

January...hate tha!

If Carlsberg were doing most depressing months, it would probably be January. For many reasons, some of us even have a long list. The credit card doesn’t know what hit it, hot to the touch, the liver is in shock and as for the jeans...must be the tumble dryer surely, Himsel must have changed the setting. Back to those dreaded early mornings that feel like the middle of the night and as for homework, it should be banned. In all honesty though, I must admit, I kinda like getting back to some routine. It’s good for the aul noggin, allegedly. However, this time of year comes with one of those niggling annoying tasks that you just don’t want to think about. There it sits all forlorn in the tree stand, Billy-No-Mates on the patio, all by it ownself, looking in at me, aware of its redundancy. Yes..the Christmas tree. Ya see, in Galway it was lobbed with loving care behind the back of the shed down the end of the long garden. Before we left I counted 5 of them all brown and on their last legs. Just lying there, not bothering anyone, not an eyesore, between the shed and the bushes, just slowly decaying to mulch. On mature recollection there were 2 others which Galway Grandad kindly chopped up.  Each tree marked another year.  Here, in this new space where we are endeavouring to adapt there will be no pegging of said tree behind the shed. There is no behind the shed. We don’t have the approved brown bin to dispose of garden waste either. We don’t have a fireplace in which to burn it. Maybe we’ll stew it and eat it? But for the moment it shall stay there, until it is prioritised up the ‘to do’ list. It may be a while. Might even do for next year.

Meanwhile, down at the school the playground meeting area is alive with chat of how, where and who the holidays were spent with. Tarantino Woman told me, in Thame talk, she spent it with ‘her brotha-in-law’ as her ‘motha-in-law has downsizzzzed and isn’t hosting anymo’. Translated to Galway spake..the mother-in-law sold the big house and ya couldn’t swing a cat in her new gaff.  Indeed the vernacular here is peculiar to my ears betimes. Thankfully, they don’t all sprechen sie Posh. Nonetheless a trip around the local Waitrose does require one to reset one’s ears to genteel mode. The nice staff at the checkout always apologise for keeping you waiting, even when you haven’t been waiting and were first in the queue. Cracks me up each time. When asked ‘will you be needing any bogs today, madam’ they just look at me in a confused fashion when the answer is ‘no, you’re sound, thanks’.  I can hear the different intonations creeping into the kids’ voices. After a week at home they had lost it and the Galway accent was strong, but it’s skulking back in there again now that they are back at school and with their new friends. What can one do? Time to increase the frequency of trips to the West, I reckon. 

Snow you see it...snow you don’t!

What snow? There it was...gone. All that carnage and mayhem. Well...did ya get goin? Did ya get the water goin? Did ya get the heating goin? Did ya get the car goin? Did ya get a plumber? How did ya get the Christmas!! It came and it went, a strange one this year. Pressure was on this end to get out before the band of snow came our way and locked us in. So, we made an executive decision, wet washing in the machine, breakfast still on the counter, the place like a tip, rang the nice man in StenaLine and got an early ferry. All the while we watched the traffic reports and heard of trucks jack-knifing, 20 mile tailbacks on the motorways but when you drive it, against relentless snow with kids in the back, no windscreen water, zero visibility, toes frozen...in a word...stress.  I was brickin it. None of us wanted to spend Christmas here so we had our hearts set on getting that ferry. Determination or irresponsibility, call it what you will. I had visions of us as characters from a Cormac McCarthy novel, trailing the highways and byways, warding off other vagrants, car abandoned, belongings and children on our backs. There was no ‘are we there yet’ from the Three. ‘Will we get home to Ireland’ was more like it. I was never as glad to get out of the car in Holyhead. The ferry crossing a dream. From Dublin to Tipp we drove in the wee small hours on roads that can only be described as treacherous. Door to door, Thame to Clonmel, 17 hours. I think we were lucky compared to some poor divils. We could have been stuck in Armageddon in Heathrow or Dublin. Nanna and Grandad were waiting up with tea and sandwiches. Sure, what else would ya be doin of a Tuesday morning, 5am! The kids are seasoned travellers, used to being dragged around the place but that was tough going. They slept like babies. Christmas morning was great, Santa came and Nanna got drunk on ½ glass champagne at 8am in the morning. Must have been the bubbles.

Stephen’s Day packed up the wagon and headed Wesht. The big thaw was on. Wow! Everything green again. Glad to see the back of snow.  No water in the folks house in Galway but hooked up hose with neighbour and filled the tank. Meanwhile, trasna an uisce mór in New York, the Galway Nanna and Grandad were stranded, again, in...more snow.  Delayed on the way out in Dublin, delayed on the way back in NY. I didn’t envy them. We saw them for about 2 hours before we headed back. But, we’ll be back before they know it. We packed, again, and unpacked, again this end. On arrival here we gingerly turned the key, as we had not turned off the mains on departure, so eager to get going. I had visions of all our bits n bobs meeting us at the end of the road in a flood. But touching wood all was well. Nothing was afloat and no sign of leakage.

 I have learned many things this Christmas; freezing temperature of kerosene v diesel (we had green jelly in the tank), much about plumbing, how to drive in snow, the futility of rear wheeled drive in snow,  how we take water for granted, the warmth and joy of an open fire, waste of time makin pastry and mashed potatoes cause they’re never as good as His mother’s and most importantly we think we have control of things, but really we don’t...oh and the importance of thermal vests. So here’s to 2011. I was never a wan for resolutions, not starting now either.