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...