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.