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!