Shtone mad

The Queen had her annus horribilis,  Himself had a weekus horribilis. We all did. His kidney stones were giving him jip. When you receive a call from your beloved’s colleague to say he has taken poorly and been rushed into hospital by bluelight taxi, (but don’t panic)...it’s not good. The mind goes into overdrive and we all know the mind’s a powerful thing. Flat to the mat down the M40 to find the hospital. Phone goes on the blink leaving me incommunicado. Then the SatNav gives me the two fingers and decides to pack it in, just to add to the mix. I cannot find the hospital and feel like the Connemara man...which way in here is owit! I don’t know who is collecting the kids. It’s very hard to cry and drive at the same time. The words of my hero Samuel Beckett spring to mind ‘Ever tried. Ever  failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’. So, no matter, A&E was found.

It can be awkward the first time you meet your other half’s boss, what to say, give the right impression and all of that. But I challenge anyone to advise on the correct etiquette for the following situation. Himself pegged out on A&E gurney clutching puke tray, issued hospital backless gown, stocking feet stickin out underneath blue blanket, he as pale as a ghost speaking fluent incoherent on morphine, stripped of all dignity. He looked like death warmed up. ‘Nice to meet you’ says his conscientious boss as he hands me a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of water, ‘he might need these later’. As with all things medical the where and when of pain was repeated to numerous doctors. Discharged nonchalantly by the first hospital it was home to bed where things went from bad to worse. High fever and more torture, he was like someone going cold turkey. The doctor was called and off to urology with us but to the wrong hospital, we discovered there are a few in Oxford.  I did have one particular Ally McBeal moment when the confused nurse asked me when he had the kidney transplant, having been sent to the wrong building. In my head I leapt across the counter and attempted strangulation. She proved ever so helpful when I insisted on a wheelchair. 

Himself reckons he saw the future on morphine. ‘So when are the rest of them due’ I ask him. It would appear that Lackagh Concrete doesn’t hold a candle with the amount of stones in his kidneys. The main boulder has been whisked away to CSI Oxford for forensic analysis. I wanted to make cufflinks out of it. I ring the mother-in-law to enquire of family history. ‘Oh, his father had those, he was in for nearly a week with them’ she says. That’s reassuring. Allegedly, the pain is on a par with labour pain. But what’s this? Men having something over our labour pain. Jaysus, we couldn’t be havin that now, ladies! Although, seeing the suffering he went through, I’m inclined to believe it (but we’ll keep that to ourselves). 

The thoughtfulness of bosses and colleagues in his job was unreal. The kindness and support from the teachers, staff and mums here was amazing and we not a wet week in the place. One lady in particular took the kids, dropped over a bottle of wine and frozen dinner to the house, then cooked me a bite late in the evening when I went to pick them up having been at the hospital. And she with her own troubles, sat and listened. I owe her a few scoops as we missed Arfur’s birthday last Wednesday. So like Lanigan’s Ball, he stepped out and stepped in again, but thankfully he is out again. But watch this space, they have to get the kango hammer at the remaining gravel so he may be in again.  

Disco Diva Towed Off

People over here, are amongst other things, house proud and price conscious. Honourable attributes, some would say. I witnessed a lady hoovering her garage; life is too short for such futile endeavours. The bare minimum is all that’s needed and if the clothes don’t get taken in off the line for two weeks, I’ll get to them...eventually. There are far too many other things to do like jogging your muscle memory.  My leg muscles had a trip down memory lane recently on a jaunt to the local roller disco. Awful craic and both hips intact after the escapade. The last time I donned a pair of roller skates was over 25 years ago when my legs were much skinnier, my arse smaller, my eyeshadow bluer. Those of us of an age will remember it well...The Savoy on Eglington Street! Drainpipe denims (bet into them), leg warmers, batwing jumpers, stuffed bras, large belts, big plastic bangles, roller skates, disco tunes, Lilt, Space Invaders and pool, all the eighties boxes ticked. A great spot if you were meeting friends or ‘goin with’ anyone. This time around I needed assistance closing the ‘quads’, erstwhile known as bootskates. ‘They used to have laces in my day’ I said to the young fella as I grappled with the straps. ‘Mum are you sure you want to do this, we’ll be alright on our own. You can just have a cup of coffee and watch!’ my two women afraid of their lives I would make a donkey of meself. ‘I’ll have you know I won the roller disco, twice’, they were proudly informed. My legs never forgot and I took to the floor like a duck to water. Had they belted out a bit of Boney M, ABBA, Big Country or Kajagoogoo I was there, back in time.  The two eventually got the hang of it but later that evening getting up and down from the couch proved difficult, their little derrieres got a beaten. ‘Mum’s a dinger on the skates Dad’, I have gained kudos in the cool mum category. We’re going back for more next week.

English may be the order of the day all round but with accents certain things are lost in translation. ‘If yer talkin in class you get towed off [told off]. Does the teacher not just give out to ya?’ the Youngest says. Their peers hear thirty three as ‘turty tree’ no matter what way they contort their little tongues between their teeth. One lad in the Small Man’s class thinks his English is really good considering we have only been in the country for over a month. Bless his cotton socks. My crew can’t understand why our salt is their solt and morning is moaning. The philology of English suggests influences from many different idioms. However, Irish people speak English with different syntax, at times.  I was told by someone that our accent is more lyrical and kinder to the ear than theirs. Every now and then I miss the Irish accent and even though never fluent at Gaeilge the kids weren’t bad at the cúpla focal. I miss hearing that too but that’s easily sorted with a few Irish books. Perhaps it is the beginning of a strengthening of identity, it’s inevitable.  Having said that, two hours of Christy and Luke Kelly in peak Friday afternoon traffic to Birmingham threatened to rattle my love of the ballad. I’m old school. I don’t have a gadget for the iPhone in the car and they were the only passengers in the car door.  It was either that or white noise on the radio. Still can’t tune it in right but I did find two new buttons on the dash after four years of owning the car. I’m such a mná.

Lost in Translation

Was waiting at a pedestrian crossing the other day, canvas shopping bag on my shoulder. It reads ‘This bag is for the messages’ written in large print, with a list of necessities on the other side, ‘sliced pan, pound of butter, cream buns, tay bags, slices of hang’, you know, the staples of any Irish household (see www.hairybaby.com). A group of young wans coming home from school were comin up beside me, bit giddy in themselves. One of them proceeded to read the large print. She was totally addled, may as well have been Greek. So when the fear dearg turned glás I crossed with a spring in my step and a slight smirk on my face, like I had a secret.

Scratchy pants and yellow patent wellies

Scratchy, hairy, grey pants with the crease down the front that’d cut ya. Black brogues. Pressed polo shirts. Hair up (our Small Man’s is borderline put-up-able). Book bag, shoe bag, kit bag, indoor shoes, outdoor shoes. Hang sangiches and crunchy apples. But it’s all very confusing. In their last school they had two bags; a school bag and gear bag for PE on a Friday. Not here. They have a bag for everything. ‘Where’ll I put me lunch box?’ the Middle asks. Good question. I think she’ll have to eat it before she goes to school to avoid carrying another bag.  Oh yes, it’s that time of year again. All-Ireland hurling final time and the holidays are over. It means back to school. This was a happy house, Tipp victorious. Himself as white as a sheet listening to the wireless via the phone. I don’t think the neighbours appreciated the flag hangin out the car window. At the school the playground is a sea of mums and dads and buggies. The bike shed an assembly line of scooters. First day and the place is hoppin, like Central Park of a Saturday night. Himself and I gone wrong with nerves. The kids wound up like springs with anxiety and excitement. A brood of plaits and ponytails escort the girls to their classroom. The Small Man shuffles to his prefab, inconspicuously.

The house is quiet and I am slightly at a loss. Off to Oxford for a few bits. Availing of the free WiFi in a local coffee shop it’s obvious before they open their gobs the pair beside me are American. She has her towns mixed up for a start with the yellow patent wellies on her, thinks it’s Glastonbury. Both have come to Oxford to expand their vocabulary, me thinks, cause like every like second like word and whatever and stuff is like, d’ya know what I mean like. Reminds me of Joseph O’Connor’s piece for Radio 1.

I watch the clock until 3pm and walk down to meet them. The two women have all the news, like which teacher has a cousin twice removed living in Cork and such a wan’s granny is from Belfast. That’s girls for ya. Our Small Man is not a happy camper. He misses his buddies at home, his loyal companions with their own banter, jokes and chat about matches. The Galway sense of humour is unique. It doesn’t exist in these here parts. No-one prepares you as a parent for the pain in your heart when one of your children is just unhappy, especially when they are nearly as tall as yourself. There is no parenting instruction manual and if there was all this would be in the small print, in the terms and conditions. That invisible cord attached tugs at your emotions, good and bad.  In the words of Bruce Springsteen it’s ‘one step up and two steps back’. We question the move, the whys and ‘to what end’ of it all. But, as the week progressed much has improved and he is back to his cheeky, enthusiastic self. All are settling in, as well as could be expected. We have to take the rough with the smooth, there is no way around this part of our journey but through.

The girls have been invited to tea, after school. Here’s the thing, tea is dinner. But if their dinner is tea, then when do they have their dinner? Surely not at lunchtime. God no. What about supper then? Bit like the school bags, I’m addled. ‘What if I don’t like the dinner’ the Youngest is worried ‘Just eat what’s put in front of ya!’ they are warned. Tea goes well, fun was had, no one lost an eye but not a whole lot was eaten. But if I invite their friends to tea it’s tay they’ll get!

Bootie shakin seanos in Notting Hill

Got the babysitter again. The kids didn’t frighten her too much. Always a good thing. The pair of us headed into downtown Thame, check out the local hostelries. Found a local pub that smells and looks like an old B&B in the inside. Carpeted, with flowery wallpaper and lino in the ladies. Perfect. Reminded us of one we used to frequent when we lived just off The Curragh of Kildare. Them were the days. Pints on a Sunday afternoon, pre-children. Met a man who informed us that WB Yeats used to live in Thame, same man knew one of the Fureys (as in ..& Davey Arthur). We supped and put the world to right, as you do.


The auntie nuns are coming to visit from Chiswick. ‘What’ll we do with them for the day’ Himself says, ‘Better get a nice packet of biscuits, instead of those nursing home ones in the press’. These are no ordinary nuns, fluent in two or three languages and have many a story to tell about Uganda, Dubai and London. They are good company and love the chat. The Notting Hill Carnival is mentioned so that’s our plan for the next day. So we take the train to Marleybone. There is an announcement that there will be no delays. I thought that’s the way trains were supposed to run, on time, without delays. Go figure. ‘How many more trains’ the three are shattered already, the Tube no longer a novelty.

Notting Hill Carnival is a celebration off all things Caribbean, the streets of Kensington alive with the sounds and smells of reggae and jerk chicken. The kids sit on the footpath getting stuck into a 99. ‘Mum, will ya stop’ the Middle pleads. ‘Stop what’, ‘Stop dancin’. I’m given it socks to the tunes, like a mix of Caribbean bootie shakin and seanos. ‘I’m not dancing, I’m just movin to the music’. ‘Ya, exactly’ she says, ‘please stop’. Yes, I have reached that stage in my life where it is my duty and honour to embarrass my children in public. They ain’t seen nothin yet!

Surgeons and pyjamas

I am melancholy. It must be the rain, reminds me of home. The anxiety and anticipation around starting a new school is beginning to build. The summer holidays are lingering. It has been intense with bells on. I can hear my friends at home ‘I wish to Jaysus they were back at school, they’re killin each other’. That’s not said here but implied, it would never be said that way. I was invited to a coffee morning. I make scones, they are well received. The form isn’t great, there’s only so much talk of holidays and property I can stomach. When I hear ‘my huzzzbind and I got stuck in Egypt during that dreadful ash thingy’, I pine for home, for Galway banter. But for all that bullshit, there are normal, down to earth women I can relate to. Those with the funkiest expensive houses, the coolest clothes and the high achieving alpha male husbands I have found to be the rudest, devoid of a sense of humour. It’s all aesthetic. I am outside the cliques. I do not fit into any of them nor do I want to. Nevertheless, I am not excluded.


The children have made friends and the doorbell rings with new playmates calling for them. This is an awakening. It’s the way I grew up. We went out in the morning and came back when we were hungry. In Galway all their ‘play dates’ were pre-arranged and Mum-taxi-services drove them everywhere. They are occupied and content and it’s X Factor time again, kills that awkward hour on a Saturday evening. As September draws near and the evenings darken, it means back to the books for me also. I too am filled with anticipation but in a perverse sadistic way I am looking forward to it. Keeps the cogs working cause those same cogs have to get me a job soon.

The Small Man is hounding me for new football boots. SatNav set, off we go up the M40 to Bicester Retail Village one of those discount places. The Youngest pipes up from the back ‘I want to be one of those people who do operations when I grow up...their costume looks comfy, a bit like pyjamas’. I nearly crash the car I’m laughing so much. Don’t mind career guidance or psychometric testing, just base your future career plans on a uniform looking like pyjamas. We arrive and for a moment I think I am at the Dublin Horseshow (never been but it’s how I envisage it). I have never seen so many Land Rovers, BMW X5 and Volvo jeeps all in the one place. They have a uniform i.e. jeep – check, Mulberry across-the-shoulder brown leather bag – check, long flowey cardigan – check, skinny jeans – check, long hair pref brunette – check, teenage daughter with braces in tow, iphone stuck to the side of her head – check. This place has all the hits, Dolce & Gabana, Missoni (I couldn’t bring myself to even darken its door for fear of the damage I might do!), Fendi, Gucci, Agent Provocateur (for all your fancy knickers) and the rest. I come away with the football boots, a table cloth and two mugs...last of the big spenders.

Six degrees.....and Pimms at the Mayor's gaff.

‘Please don’t frighten the babysitter, we need a social life’ I warn our three. ‘What’s a social life’ the Youngest asks ‘Ye have one, we don’t’ I said. Turns out, between the jigs and the reels, and meetings in the park with the Mums-are-us, the wife of the Mayor went to school with a sister of our next door neighbour in Galway. And, one of the other ladies' brother lives in the nearest village at home. Go figure. Ye just don’t know who yer talkin to. So, we are invited to dine at the Mayor’s gaff. 'What'll ya do if it's fish tonight', I ask Himself, 'Why d'ya think I'm havin a quick sandwich now' he responds, all worked out. What does one wear? I don’t have a summer and winter capsule wardrobe, it’s all the one, cause there’s only one season in Galway.

‘In or out’, Himself asks gesturing to the shirt. ‘Which shoes?’ I respond, we have no full length mirror. Off we go, new hairdo and bottle of white under our oxters. Introductions were made to the other couples followed by Pimms under a fairy lit parasol on comfy seats. No picnic benches or white plastic furniture here. The back garden appears as an extension of the kitchen, fresh out of an interior magazine. You know, all modern and shiny and white with an island bigger than our kitchen, perfect for all that entertaining. The crockery matched and we are assigned to our seats. The couples are used to each other, the banter flies over and back. We watch our p’s and q’s. Can’t let the side down. I’ll refrain from breaking into Nancy Spain for a while, although something tells me we are not in such company.


The hosts are most pleasant, the food delicious, surprisingly home made. Maybe the caterers had double booked. It’s all sooo middle class, all very polite. I don’t know where I fit in but know that I am different. I don’t have to worry about finding a decent cleaner or replacing the 23 windows in my Victorian townhouse. ‘So will you be joining the other ladies of leisure’ I am asked by one of the alpha males. ‘No, I’m just a poor student’. Anyway I don’t like tennis. We walk home, and I walk the babysitter home, so convenient. Himself has the G&T made, a nightcap. ‘Well....what’ya make of all that?!’ he says. ‘I don’t know’, says I ‘but me ears are burnin’.