The Roman Cailíní

It’s all excitement this week. End of first term and it’s Y4’s turn for assembly. As they are learning about all things Roman, the women in our house have to go donned as Roman soldiers. So, no pressure, I had to make a costume. This is a challenge. I am not creative. I can’t do fancy fairy cakes or make Christmas decorations. Our house, growing up, didn’t have a plethora of pipe cleaners, coloured crepe paper and glitter. The inside of a toilet roll or cornflake box at a stretch, maybe. Who, in all fairness, ever had pipe-cleaners at the ready? None of the houses on our row, that’s for sure. More often than not we couldn’t even find a scissors, don’t mind paper glue.  The most I can stretch to at birthday parties are RiceCrispie buns and even at that the crispie to chocolate ratio is like a dodgy concrete mix, more stones than cement. But I have to say, Mary-Make-n-do-Fitzgerald would be propa proud of my endeavours to make a Roman soldier costume from one of the many cardboard boxes stacked in the garage. I didn’t even need a grown up to help me. There isn’t a shred of tinfoil or string left in the kitchen after my capers. The McCarthy crest was sourced, complete with Latin motto (had to get down with the local lingo of them Roman boys) and ensconced on their armour.  Hence my Roman Cailíní were fortis, ferox et celer as they marched around the school hall with their legion, prepared for battle. Just as well I went to some effort as many others had pulled out all the stops.

After assembly we are like coiled springs. A mix of anticipation and agitation. It’s tangible. Our first trip home to the auld sod is imminent. ‘Are we going on the blue plane or the green plane to Ireland’ asks the Middle one. It’s always the blue plane which necessitates packing belongings for a family of 5 for a week into A4 sized envelopes. I hate tha! It’s the strangest feeling.  I should be excited but the exhilaration of going home is tainted with knowing we have to come back. There will be more goodbyes. We are returning as visitors to our homes. I question whether I have any emotional fuel left in the tank. Nonetheless I cannot wait to see everyone.  The kids will meet their Irish school friends and exchange tales of who is playing with who and their favourites on XFactor.  I look forward to walking down Quay Street, maybe go for a pint in Naughtons. You don’t hear ‘how’s things!’ or ‘how ya gittin on!’ in Thame. It will be nice to tune into the Galway accent and top up the kids Irish twang as the English one creeps in.  I miss the sea so off to the Prom and after kicking the wall I may be found at the top of the tower in Blackrock filling my lungs with Atlantic air. I might even sleep in the shelter for the night. ‘Well...are ye settled yet’ will be difficult to answer. It’s early days. An Irish lady I have got to know ovah, has been living here 20 years. Still finds it hard coming back following trips home to Ireland. That’s comforting.  The Youngest wonders about the smell of people’s homes and thinks that the house in Galway will have lost our smell. She’s right, each home has its own aroma. She hopes her clothes come back from Clonmel and Galway with a smell of the Nanas’ houses. I’ve no doubt they will. 

Sums it all up

My head was all a spin last week with numbers, NAMA numbers, all 50 billion of them. Don’t get me started. I don’t have the energy for a rant. There is no leadership. There is no accountability. There is no empathy. How could there be, from politicians living in a bubble. Hell will freeze over before any of them will raise their hand and say ‘sorry, we got it all wrong’. Told ya not to get me started. I’m in a tizzy this week with more numbers. My head feels like a snow globe, when I lie down all the digits float into the space surrounding my would be brain. It’s numeracy here, not maths, not even sums as it was in my day. It was easy then, plus, minus, equals, divide by, carry one over and off ya go. Here, in primary school, they do things differently and all I’m hearing between sobs and frustrated pulling of hair is ‘that’s not the way Miss used to do it in Ireland’. Now The Middle has decided she doesn’t like sums anymore even though she’s a dinger at them. She sets herself high standards. I know it will click. I will have to dig deep for the patience and tenacity required. The mathematical language is dissimilar. There’s talk of chunking and arrays and woe betide ya if you mention ‘carry over’. We are not to teach our children maths the way we were taught, teacher told us at a ‘Multiplication for Mums and Dads’ evening. Sure what else would you be doing of a Tuesday night. The response in our day, at the kitchen table doing homework, (while the dreaded stew with the sneaky parsnips boiled on the range) to a cry for assistance with maths was ‘I don’t know anything about equations, ask your brother’. And the rows continue over the lack of decent pencils and no toppers.

So there’s those maths. Then, there are my own stats. I have to master a fancy Excel package, all by my own self, for a research project. Here’s where Himself comes in.  I have him driven demented. Chi-squares, Spearman’s rho correlations do not float my boat; I got on fine without them up until now, thank you very much. Discombobulated is the only way to describe my demeanour at this present moment. The trajectory for the book-window-outside wheelie bin has already been worked out and I didn’t need any maths for that. It will just take maximum force and velocity.

Regardless of all things numerical the kids have found their groove in school and out, with the calendar full of social engagements and activities. The bell rings regularly for them to come out and play and now the problem is trying to get homework done before they go out. I’m not complaining. Some of the mums are trying their damdest to coerce me to join the PTA. One of them informs me of the executive committee’s (remember this is a primary school) modus operandi  ‘we work ratha well togetha...as deputy cha and cha, she’s strotegy and I’m spin..do join us..we need oll the help we con get’. Whatever you’re having yourself, but I’m washing my hair for any of those meetings. I don’t mind making the tea, stacking chairs, cleaning up or supervising children but not the PTA. Fireworks display, book fairs, cake sales, movie nights in local theatre are all marked in the calendar. The school’s hard working fundraising committee know how to skilfully extract all that hard earned City cash from the Land Rover glasses-on-the-forehead crew with a fab black tie do apparently organised for early next year. I’ll have to dust off the gúna déas nua and heels for that one. Nathin like a bit of turkey and ham followed by copious pints, heels off and ‘hands..touchin hands...Sweet Caroline..oh oh oh’, a good old social. I’ll be looking forward to that one. 

No flowers please. RIP 'G' plates

As the weeks roll into each other there are tears and laughter, joy and sorrow, trasna an uisce. This weekend was tinged with sadness. We had a loss, a removal. No flowers please. A sad day for me, laced with nostalgia. Yes...the time had come to remove the ‘G’ reg from my jammer. I had moral support from Nana and Grandad who were over to visit. The house was filled with anticipation and excitement to see them. Grandad Jeep always likes jobs, so drill in hand, he carried out the dirty deed. I wanted to beat my chest and don a black mantilla for the rest of the day. Had I a mantelpiece it might take centre stage, akin to an urn. This was the only car I’ve had with G plates and funnily enough it meant alot, like a badge. I will truly be coming back as a visitor with my new yellow reg. ‘That’s the start of it now’ were the responses from the West. With the plethora of hoops one has to jump through to register an import over here, emotions of sadness were coupled with a sense of achievement.  There are forms for everything in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate. There were C of C’s, MOTs and off to the man behind the hatch at the DVLA. I think they should change the agency name to the DDTDWAFC (Don’t Darken This Door With A Foreign Car). The Department for Stupid Questions came up with these on a Monday morning after a feed of porter I would think, ‘Why did you live in Ireland?’, well it just so happens I was born there and I’m Irish, that’s why. Another, ‘How long will you be living in the UK?’, well, you tell me sunshine, if you have a crystal ball there on your desk give us a gander will ya? But nonetheless, another bureaucratic box ticked.

Thus the Galway plates take pride of place in The Small Man’s bedroom. The times they are a changin. The long and whining road of adolescence approaches, far too quickly. Spots, rancid feet and the wearing of an attitude, are coming down the tracks. He had his first disco recently. Trinny and Tranny weren’t needed to decide on his attire for the night, the only criteria I gave him was no soccer jersey or tracksuit bottoms. So, all sharp in shirt and jeans he looked tall and handsome with the hair all Justin Beberish, waxed within an inch of itself. If his Grandad saw him there’d be talk of ‘cutting gibbles hangin down in your eyes’. Like the ballroom of romance all the boys were on one side, all the girls on the other. We arrived to collect him early and had a peak at them dancing. I wanted to get stuck in but that wouldn’t have been good for his street cred. Well able to throw shapes, he thankfully hasn’t inherited his father’s non-dancing gene. Red faces and the sweat pourin off them the boys and girls spill out. ‘I’m going clubbin when I’m older’ he said. The thoughts of it put the fear of God in me. ‘Did they play Bruce?’ ‘No mum’ ‘Any U2’ ‘Ah, no mum, they’re pants’ and the friend said ‘they only played Pendulum once’. Who are they when they’re at home? I am now officially old. The Small Man goes into spasms if he hears Christy Moore or Radiohead. Shockin. I’ll learn him yet. ‘So, did you say thanks to the birthday girl for a fun night?’, I enquire ‘God no, that’d mean I had to talk to her’ was the response. The times they will change I fear, but not for a good while, I hope. 

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!