Holding Hands in the Countryside Part IV : Jesus Loves Me

With all my talk about dating, you'd think that I would have been inundated with Christmas presents from admirers, wouldn't you?  Well, dear reader, I regret to advise that I didn't get as much as a battered Christmas card, cheap perfume from LidlDaLDI, or even a bloody Toblerone.

But I don't want you to feel sorry for me.  I'm in great form, it's Christmas and good stuff is going down.  In the week when Bob Geldof 'liked' a blog post I wrote (sorry, I just had to throw that in there), an email alert from a dating website tells me that I am Jesus's 'favourite'.  Given that it is his birthday week, I wouldn't have thought he'd have time for a web trawl and to find me, a non-believer, among his many, many admirers.  I click on the link.  As expected, Jesus is a fine looking lad, but just, different than what I expected - paler, more clean shaven, a sharper dresser.  He's got a look about him that says 'eternal youth'.  But Jesus lives a continent away and I don't expect him to part seas, or to walk on water to see me.  So sorry Jesus, you may be loved by millions, but I ain't the gal for you.

I collect a parcel from a distribution centre.  Logistics Guy recognises my address and describes where I live with Sat-Nav precision and also, describes who lives in my house, or rather once live'd' in my house. Without really meaning to, I blurt out the current make up of my household and quick as a flash, he offers to take me out on a date.  Just like that.  My package contains a blood-red lipstick, a gift sent from a friend.  I wonder if Logistics Guy has scanned the package, seen the contents and summed me as a femme fatale.  Or perhaps, there's an offer on packages, a buy-one, get-a-date-free type scenario.  Either way, I decline his offer and leg it with my lippy.

By chance, I see Feckin' Fecker parked in the car park of a filling station and my heart skips a beat.  I don't know if he has seen me as I walk out of the shop.  I'm suddenly self conscious about how I look and what I'm wearing.  I hesitate as I leave.  I sit into my car, hoping that he will knock on the window of my car, just to say hello.  But there's no knock and I drive off, feeling slightly bruised. There's no Christmas text message either.  For closure, it would have been nice to get a 'Happy Christmas', but I think I know him well enough to know that he hasn't contacted me because he doesn't want to get my hopes up of us ever being an item. But FF, I get it, swear.

Although we speak regularly, I have no idea what Vital Statistics thinks of me.  He has the loveliest of smiles. I like the way he runs his hands through his hair when he is animated, although I'd much prefer him to run them through mine.  I demonstrate great restraint and do not share this sentiment (and you won't tell him, will you?).  Vital Statistics is an expert on risk assessment and seems to have applied the same methodology to himself and myself.  He can't predict our long term forecast due to the unknown outcome of predicted life happenings for him.  I understand his hesitancy, but reassure him that although I MAY be high maintenance, that I am low risk and being financially independent, a low cost option. 

I wonder if he's too polite to say that he's not that interested in me, so I ask him out straight.  He is puzzled by the question.  He replies, 'sure I'm here', which is true, he is indeed, here, sitting right across from me and there isn't a gun to his head.  But still I want more.  I consider presenting him with a questionnaire that produces facts and figures that could prompt him.   

For example, 
(A) 
On a scale of 1-10, where 1=Total Minger and 10= Hot Momma, how would you rate the woman sitting across the table?  

(B) 
Please create a pie-chart indicting percentages of how you consider your date, using the headings below
1. Bessie Mate
2. Would like to bring her breakfast in bed
3. Want to grow old with her
4. Thinking of blocking her number on my phone
5. Undecided

I think it's best that I embrace the advice of my two older male friends, who recently insisted on giving stone-cold-sober me a drunken pep talk on my loveless life and 'slow the fuck down'.  So I won't ask Vital Statistics any more probing questions.  I'll just remind him now and then that I'm a woman in demand, I mean, how many girls can say that Jesus winked at them?

Christmas Tunes and The Power of Love

 It’s 1984 and the Christmas no. 1 song is Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’, the song written by Bob Geldof and Midge Ure to raise awareness and funding for the people living, or dying, in the Ethiopian famine.  The great and the good in the British and Irish music scene belt out the tune and white Europeans slap themselves on the back for making a difference.

It’s years later, St Stephen’s Night and I’m in a night club, known locally as 'The Shed', one of 7,000 people.  It’s near the end of the night and the place is full of sweaty men.  Everyone seems pissed.  Arm in arm, they sway, roaring ‘Feed The Woooooo –R-R-L-DDD .....’ and it’s a world away from the starving black children with bloated bellies, vacant eyes, with flies on their beautiful faces that stared out from the TV.  The sweaty men buy chips on the way home and puke them up on the bus, the tune long forgotten. 

It’s 1984 again, New Year’s Day.  I’m in my second cousin Ailbhe’s house, the house where I first experienced a birthday cake made out of raspberry ripple ice-cream blocks, decorated with Smartie’s.  I’m there to play with Ailbhe, accompanying my Granny Russell, invited, in acknowledgment of our strong family ties.  There are other guests there too, in the other room.  I think they are all at least 100 years old.  Ailbhe’s older brothers discuss Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s song ‘The Power of Love’, when the video comes on TV.  I’m pretty sure that it’s MTUSA.  The brothers speak with confidence and enthusiasm about this song that isn’t really a Christmas song, but yet it is.  They are unaware that I am listening.  I don’t understand what they are saying, but it awakens a new curiosity in me.  I examine the singer Holly Johnson later, in the same way that I have already considered Boy George.

I’m driving and East 17's ‘Stay Now’ comes on the radio.  I’m transported back to Christmas Eve 1994 where i am standing in the clothes shop in Kingscourt where I have worked at weekends and holidays throughout college.  Now on my twelfth pairs of trousers to be altered that day, men come into the shop on their way to the pub, on their way home from the pub, or on their way to midnight mass, requesting bespoke alterations.  None of them seeing the lateness of the day, and the day that it was, as a reason why their trousers shouldn’t be stitched, while other customers needed serving.  As we sew, myself and the owner chat.  She tells me about her niece in England who is dating one of the guys from East 17.  I’ve seen them on TV, London hipsters.  Street.  Wide-boys from Lun-Dan, real life East Enders.  Parka jackets and baseball caps.  Oozing confidence.  Dressed in white. So frigging cool. I’ve seen photos of my bosses niece.  She looks so beautiful and sophisticated, not much older that me.  I can see why yer man fancies her.  I feel every inch of the chubby country girl that I am.  In hindsight now, I surprise myself that even after two years in art college, how my self-esteem then was so low.  I’m a dab hand at the hem-stitch all the same, I’ll give myself that.

The Cheesy-Song-Christmas-Amnesty allows me to hum along to the likes of Cliff Richard’s ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ and Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, while ‘A Space Man Came Travelling’ allows me to admit that Chris De Burgh isn’t all bad.

David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s version of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ was recorded in 1977, when I was 3 years old.  I’m not sure when this song first comes to my attention, but it must be years later.  I do not know who either of these men is as I have never once heard their names mentioned at home or seen their faces.  It is the song that catches my attention first - one of my favourites at school- but it is the Bowie/Crosbie duet that has me captivated and I decide that they must be famous.  Last night, my children hear this rendition on TV, and turn to watch the tune so familiar to them. They too recognise the other worldliness of this and we share a moment.

The pair ‘shush’ me when Picture This’s new tune ‘This Christmas’ comes on the radio now.  They are the band’s no 1&2 fans since I brought them to a free concert by the band in their home town of Athy the summer just gone.  It is their first proper outdoor gig.  In time, I hope they will look back and remember the fear in their throats and the exhilaration in their bellies from that day and all the stuff that music has the power to unleash.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyoTvgPn0rU

Holding Hands in the Countryside Part III

Before we actually meet, messages from The European draw me in.  He is eloquent and poetic and seems to have a good sense of me.   We meet in an expensive restaurant, of his choosing, for an early evening dinner date.  He has impeccable manners and helps me to take off my coat.  As he does so, I can feel his eyes linger on my back through the loose drape of my top.

He is handsome, tall, well- dressed and well-heeled, smart and funny.  His job is high tech and demanding and he explains it in a way that I can understand.  I’m fascinated with his upbringing and his family, his experiences in a country that rebuilt itself after war.   He tells me about his family vineyard and olive grove, that he hopes to retire to.  He attributes his beautiful skin to moisturising with olive oil.  In the bar later on, a guy with a guitar plays Crowded House songs and myself and The European try to out-do each other with memories that the tunes conjure up.  He is interested in me and what I do.  I point out all of the things about myself that make me a Love Liability, but The European just shrugs and announces that it’s ‘not a problem’. 

It’s after midnight when I leave.  I’ve had the loveliest of times.  But as he lingers in the car park, I resign myself to the fact that, despite my best efforts, there is no spark there for me and I know that we won’t meet again.  I’m disappointed.  I think of the Mrs Merton interview with Debbie Mc Gee. She asks 'what first, Debbie, attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?'. I wonder what it would take to channel my inner Debbie.

The following afternoon, one of those Saturdays where there is soccer and rugby on TV, I meet friends in a pub in a neighbouring town.  It’s packed with lads, in for the double header.  I barely get to sit down when Sport Star makes a bee line for me.  He’s drunk.  He takes my left hand, raises it and loudly asks ‘How can someone like you have no ring on your finger?’.  People have turned to look at me now and I feel my face redden.  Sports Star lingers and I try to change the subject, as he notices a stain on my shirt and rubs it gently, causing me to feel even more self-conscious.   I can see that he is a gentle soul, his features creased by years of alcohol abuse, but his good looks still there.  When he eventually leaves, my friends lament Sports Star’s wasted talent and I can’t but think about him later.

I’m at an event, when The Snapper approaches me.  I reach to greet him, with a peck on the cheek, but he plonks a kiss on my lips.  He tells me that he loves me.  We have had this conversation before and I give him all of the reasons again why we couldn’t be together.  He disses my lukewarm rationale.  Truth is, I don’t know why.   

All I know is that the human heart is as complex as be damned.

Debbie McGee on Mrs Merton

Caroline Aherne asks the classic question... From the new DVD.

YOUTUBE.COM

Dear Scumbag

Dear Scumbag, I’m sorry to resort to name calling.  It seems so juvenile.  Given that we have been so intimate in such a short space of time, you would think that I would at least know your name. 

You have a good idea of what I wear, my taste in jewellery, the make up of my family, what I keep in my fridge.  You will have seen that we had a double birthday celebration here recently, and a while ago, a bereavement.   Did you take the time to read the cards before you scattered them across my bedroom?  Did you look at my photgraphs?  Did you feel as much as a pang of guilt?  A rush of adrenaline maybe.  Or perhaps, indifference.  Do you know – you are the only person, apart from me, who knows where my children’s baby teeth are stored?  Does that make you feel special, Scumbag?  

You were only one of a handful of people that knew I wasn’t home that night – a very rare midweek get together, with my ‘MS & Me’ blogger friends, a glorious night away in a hotel.   How ironic that I cleaned the house that day before I left, thinking how nice it was to come home to a clean gaff. I came home the following day, on a high, with an award that the blogger team collectively received from the MS Society for ‘Volunteer of the Year’.  I knew straight away that you had visited.  I could see that a window box had been moved and was on a garden bench.  You will laugh when I tell you this Scumbag – my first thought was that someone had left me a gift and had put the window box on it to stop it blowing away.   I know, ha flippin’ ha.  The silent scream that I had walking around the house, wondering if you were still there.  Trying to establish what was taken amid the ransacked mess.  The children’s school bus arriving minutes later and the pair of them walking in on top of it.  No time to gather myself or hide what had happened.

A sleepless night in a friend’s house comforting a child, who wakes every time I move in the bed. ‘Lie facing me Mammy, rub my tummy’.  I wouldn’t have slept anyway, worrying that you and your friends might come back.  Nights of restlessness follow and I am prone to outbursts of tears at inappropriate times.  All the necessary tasks to follow up - forensics, insurance, glaziers - exhaust me. I launch an art exhibition three days later and panic at the thought of speaking in public, something I have done almost weekly for years. 

Have you any idea how distraught a little boy can be when he finds his farm set wrecked?  The boy who goes ballistic if I accidentally disturb one of his carefully arranged animals when I go into his room to open the curtains?  Did you admire his meticulousness before you ripped the fireplace apart in his room?  You should have heard him howl when he first seen what you did and again, on the evening he tidied it all up.  He cried and shouted obscenities at you that only a 9 year old could conjure up.  I told him that the nice Garda he met said that we were to forget about it.  He is taking that as Gospel and it helps.  The house is back in order now (It's amazing how well I can clean when I am pure thick), but there’s the daily reminder of a damaged window to look at in him room - You made a right job of that Scumbag.  Would I make you blush if I called you an old pro?

No doubt your greasy hands quickly passed my lovely jewellery to your friend, Scumbag 2, who like you, know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.  Do you ever think about the story behind your acquisitions Scumbag?  The special moment when someone gives a gift for life?  The person that did a decent days work to make a purchase?  It's not something you can appreciate really, is it?

You probably think I’m being over dramatic.  Of course, I am thankful that no one got hurt and that you have little to remember your visit to Poppy Cottage.  I’m not angry, I’m just tired and hopeful, dear Scumbag, that Karma will someday bite your greasy ass.  Happy Christmas, Lucina xx

JFK and a Mahogany Table

It’s just as well that my furniture restorer guy isn’t there when I see the mahogany table that he has restored for me. He has left it in a safe place for me, lovingly wrapped in a wool blanket. I remove the blanket and the efforts of his work are revealed. The table looks more beautiful than I ever remember it.  I lay my head on it, inhale the glorious smell of varnish and wood, hug this inanimate object and have a little sob.

As a child, my memories of this table are all from the underside and I can’t say that I ever remember sitting at it. The table was in the sitting room and not really used, maybe because the table leaves were always unsteady, as one of the support hinges was missing. The table was in our sitting room. Weekends and rainy afternoons were spent sitting under the table, making dens. The table was draped with heavy wool blankets, creating a dark, but not scary environment. The weight of the drapes dulled the sounds of The Duke of Hazzard on TV and smells of my mother’s baking in the kitchen. Caution was required when crawling out of the the den, as there was usually a scattering of Lego on the carpet.

Looking at it now, I wonder if my memory has deceived me about the number of children that could actually fit underneath this modest table, that really only seats four people. When I picture myself there, I’m on my own, with my baby doll, Susie. I’m wearing my wine velvet trousers and cream fair isle legwarmers, sitting crossed legged there, my long hair clipped back with purple hair slides. I like playing with the drawers underneath the table. The wood is thinner than the rest of the table.  Not varnished. The drawers make a hollow rattle as I slide them in and out. In one drawer is a newspaper, with a photograph of John F Kennedy, with his wife Jackie. As I remember it, it is a commemorative paper, in honour of his visit to Ireland in 1963. I can’t remember what they are doing in the photograph, but I can see, the vivid inks of blues and orange of the print and smell of must that says ‘old’. 

When I was involved in making a film, relating to a JFK conspiracy all of these years later, the image that first came to my mind is that yellowing newspaper.

At some stage, the table was relegated to under the stairs and stayed there until I brought it to Kildare about 14 years ago, for the apartment I had just moved into with my husband to be. My father wasn’t that happy that I was taking the table ‘out of Milltown’, but I reassured him that it would be loved.  When I moved into Poppy Cottage, the mahogany table seemed too small and again found itself relegated, this time to my shed, replaced by a glass and chrome piece. When my father asked about 'the antique', I did

my best to change the subject.

As my marriage fell apart, I discouraged visitors from coming here and the house that was often filled with people, was reserved for myself and my children.  Anything that resembled hospitality now seemed like hard work.  Furthermore, I couldn’t manage to man oeuvre the heavy glass table on my own and it didn’t take kindly to being shifted around.

Since my father died, I was bothered about the 'antique' and was keen to live up to my promise to take care of it. My brother pulled the table out of my shed during the summer. I was horrified at the state of it. Heavy equipment had been thrown on it over the years and the frame was warped.  A tin of bitumen, or something similar, somehow made its way into the shed and was poured all over the table. One of the legs had begun to rot. The JFK newspaper, long gone.

My furniture restorer, Brian, declared it a ‘very sick table’ and scheduled it in for repair in November. The cost of repair probably cost more than it is worth, but I don’t care. The damage incurred in my shed is gone, with no sign of either the bitumen, or indeed, the ink stains that were there since I was a child. The missing hinge was replaced. The drawers now sport fancy porcelain knobs, but I’m pleased that they still make that hollow wood sound when I slide them in and out.

My children have yet to see the newly restored table. I know that my boy will rub his hand over the smooth surface and have a good sniff of the varnish. My daughter will be charmed by the pattern on the porcelain knobs.

My mother will come to Poppy Cottage for Christmas Day this year, her first Christmas away from Kilmainhamwood in over 40 years. We will have dinner at the table and we will raise a glass to my Da. I’m looking forward to that.

But if truth were told, I’m more excited about draping blankets across it and crawling underneath.

POSTSCRIPT So much for my ideas of making a den : My children arrived home and spotted the potential of the table as a clip board for a lighting rig for making a video for their Youtube channel ... 

Holding Hands in the Countryside, Part II

I’ve conceded. Feckin’ Fecker isn’t going to contact me again. I’ve stopped checking my phone in case he has sent me a message, any message at all. I’m not quite ready to delete his number from my phone and I can’t say that I’ll never pimp at his handsome face on Facebook again, but I’m getting there. But I need to give myself a chance – After all, it has only been 18 days and 10 hours since I have seen him last (not that I’m keeping track or anything). Looking back, I can see that his assistance on bringing nice wine on our date, was his premeditated way of issuing me with an alcohol soaked P60.

The fallout from writing the feature about online dating in The Irish Examiner continues. Guys joke that they would be afraid to ask me out in case they appear in my writing and I neither neither confirm nor deny that possibility. I am accused by a keyboard warrior of being a ‘man hater’. Instead of ignoring him, I reply, trying to justify myself and barely sleep that night. I try to conjure up all of the positive feedback to the forefront of my mind, but the nasty comments have caused me to question everything that I do and who I am.

I distract myself thinking nicer thoughts. I can remember what The Creative was wearing and what he was doing the first time we met. It felt like meeting an old friend. I can talk to The Creative about anything and I fill him in on my dating adventures, amongst other things. He tells me that I’m ‘a babe’ and that I shouldn’t have any trouble meeting someone. When I am in his company, random strangers mistake us for a couple, although we barely speak. I ask him if he will come back in another life and marry me. He says that he will. He thinks I’m joking, but I’m not.

As I type, a message pops up on my phone. No, it’s not Feckin’ Fecker. Sure, I knew that before I read it. It’s from I’m Starving. I haven’t heard a dickey bird from him, since he let me down on our dinner date arrangement last August, other than a sheepish text the following week to say he was sorry, siting ‘Dutch Courage’.

I’m Starving wishes me ‘sweet dreams’ and I just don’t know what’s going on …

Holding Hands in the Countryside

It’s a while now since my piece on online dating was featured in The Irish Examiner. My initial chuffed-ness at getting published soon gave way to panic about what people would think of me. I remind myself that I am doing nothing wrong, that online dating is normal in today’s society and that it’s what all the singletons (and some of the not so singles) are doing these days.

I worry what my mother will think about her darling daughter writing about online dating. I needn’t have. She is pleased that I got published, thinks that I look lovely in the photos - real Irish mammy stuff. She has been speaking with my aunt, her sister. They are claiming my writing ability for the maternal side of my family, tracing it back to our blood line that includes Brendan Behan and Peadar Kearney, who wrote the National Anthem. My aunt tells me that she laughed so much, that, in her own words, ‘the tears ran down her legs’. Yes, there is a boldness in my family.

Commentators compare me to the character Carrie Bradshaw in ‘Sex and The City’, writing about her relationship dramas and cried out for more. Obviously there’s many difference between myself and Carrie. Carrie is a TV character, as are her dates. My prospective dates are real life people with feelings and I have a public profile that I need to protect. Anything I write about it will be a sanitised version of the truth. Anyway, being Irish and born Catholic, my version would be less about fornication and more ‘Holding Hands in the Country'. I covet Carrie’s wardrobe and watch her on TV, writing on a keypad, alone, steaming cuppa in hand, sitting at a window overlooking Manhattan. Meanwhile, I catch moments to write here and there, often late at night, begging the nocturnal nine year old to go to bed.

An unexpected consequence to getting the article published was that guys who read the article found me through social media and asked me out. Bright fellas who read broadsheet newspapers, including Playing Hard to Get. There’s messages to-ing and fro-ing from Playing Hard to Get, who is in touch every day, but says very little. He doesn’t make any effort to compliment or otherwise woo me. He tells me that he ’doesn’t give a fuck’ about my writing. He is dark, handsome and totally and utterly irresistible. After our date, Playing Hard to Get disappears without trace and doesn't contact me again, not even to say that he isn’t interested. I torture myself checking to see when he is online, knowing that he has read my messages. The last time I felt this hurt was in secondary school when the guy I fancied for years changed schools at short notice. I had no way of contacting him and felt like my teenaged heart was torn out, never to recover.

i decide to rename Playing Hard to Get as 'Feckin' Fecker'. I’ve broken my promise to Feckin’ Fecker that I wouldn’t write about him, but I feel that when he went AWOL, that the gloves were off.

The Banker has read the article too. I had chickened out of a date with him a few months ago. We decide to meet. He suggests somewhere close to where he lives. I get lost while driving and am in a flap by the time I get to the hotel where we are meeting. I expect him to be standing outside waiting on me, but he’s at the bar drinking and it looks like he has had a bit of Dutch Courage already. Turns out that this place is his local. After a pleasant lunch, I leave. He doesn’t walk me to the door. He’s ordered another pint. There's no kiss goodbye, like there was no kiss hello. He says that ‘next time’ we will meet closer to where I live, but we both know that there won’t be a second meeting. I realise that old fashioned chivalry is more important to me that I thought.

I chat to Super Sleuth online. After some time, he sends me a message saying that he knows that I have an illness. He feels that I have been dishonest in not telling him. Truth is, the fact that I have MS just didn’t come up in conversation. I feel so well these days that I don’t feel like I have an ‘illness’, but rather a ‘medical condition’. I feel at pains to tell him how fit, healthy and energetic I am and he says its fine. But in my heart, I wonder if it really a big deal for him, or other potential suitors, who with a quick Google search will know of my diagnosis. I curse the fact that I have MS, and the fact that I have been open about it, written about it and but also feel a sense of gloom that for some guy, it might just be a deal breaker.

The Elected Representative seems keen to meet, but doesn't confirm arrangements with me, leaving me unsure if I should make alternative plans. Eventually he texts me, inviting me to lunch. I text back saying, 'you are as interested in me as you are in potholes in Mayo'. 'I'm not from Mayo', he says. 'Exactly', sez I.

In the middle of it all, I meet ‘Maybe in Meath’, who is actually from Dublin. He is one of the nicest men I have ever met. Handsome, thoughtful, intuitive, kind, funny. Maybe in Meath soon becomes The Date. We have the loveliest of times. Maybe it's all too much too soon. In my heart though, the va-va-voom just isn’t there for me and we part company. He is so nice that he makes breaking up really easy for me. The gal who falls for The Date will be a lucky one indeed. In the meantime, I’ll keep looking.

PS Feckin' Fecker, if you accidentally read this, you still have my number

The Date

I was feeling a bit fragile in the run up to the August Bank Holiday weekend this year- My recently deceased father’s birthday and the Blessing of the Graves.  On the Saturday, as I leave to travel home for the weekend, I got an-out-of-the-blue text message from The Architect. 

‘Can we talk?’ 

I panic, assuming it’s an arts emergency, probably related to concrete foundations. 

‘Yes, what’s up?’

‘I think you're lovely’, beeps the reply.

I’m simultaneously relieved that the concrete has set and feel slightly queasy at the unexpected content of the message from someone I have known for a very long time.

A few more messages back and forth and he has asked me out on a date.  To a really nice restaurant with fabulous vegetarian food, that Bank Holiday Monday.  I’m in shock.  On mature reflection though, I think, ‘Why the hell not?’  We are two free agents; we get on well and can talk about the setting time for concrete, if nothing else.  I get excited at the idea of getting dressed up and going out somewhere, anywhere grown up, without two children in tow. 

I don’t hear from The Architect the following day, or on the Monday.  

I sit in by myself on the Bank Holiday Monday, half watching rubbish TV, nursing a very bruised ego.

The Architect sends me a sheepish message a few days later apologising, admitting that he had had ‘Dutch courage’ when he contacted me, and signs off saying, ‘I still think you're nice’.  And then nothing.

I dust myself off and hope that we don’t have an arts emergency anytime soon.

My luck doesn’t improve when I impulsively decide to try my hand at online dating.  Sure isn’t everyone at it?

Finance Guy seems keen until I try to confirm a specific time and location to meet him.  He phaffs around so much that I decide to do him a favour and call off the date.  I don’t hear from him again.

Lots of guys say an online ‘How’ya’, but don’t actually get beyond that.  I loose patience, and confidence, very quickly.

Just as I am about to give up hope with the online thing, I can see that someone, who looks half decent, is looking at my profile.  But he hasn’t actually contacted me.  I send him a message.  He tells me that he thinks I may be ‘too refined’ for him.  I relay this to my work colleagues later, who almost fall off their chairs laughing at the possibility of me being polished.  

We chat.  He is relieved to hear me curse (only for effect though, I’ll have you know).  Notions of my possible refinedness are soon dismissed.  We arrange to meet.  In Hollywood.  Sure, where else would you have a date? 

The idea of a meeting The Date gives me a pep in my step.  I have a strange urge that I haven’t felt in a long, long time.  Yes, a desire to clean my house.  Soon I am cleaning windows to beat the band. I also have the inclination to take out my sketch books and to start painting again too.

A few days before we meet, The Date falls and breaks a bone in his foot.  We postpone Hollywood and arrange a lunchtime date, somewhere convenient for a Dub with a ski boot and crutches.

In the middle of it all comes unforseen news.   My long standing American boyfriend, Brad Pitt has just announced that he single again.  I don’t know what that means for me/us long term.  I had such high hopes for Brad and I, him being so good with clatters of children and all.  My two would be a walk in the park for him.  But it may take Brad a while to extract himself from his missus, so for now I’ll focus on The Date.

The day that I am due to meet The Date is the day when Today FM Radio is encouraging their female listeners to wear their wedding dresses to work, as part of the station’s ‘Dare to Care’ fundraising project for the Irish Cancer Society.  I wonder if The Date would think I was jumping the gun if I wore mine to meet him.  I decide against. 

I’ll taking a half-day from work to meet him and I really wish I had paid more attention to those office-to-evening fashion features in the glossy magazines.  I text The Date that morning, saying that I am running late, such was the dilemma of what to wear.  He text me back saying that he was wearing a tracksuit.  I’m sitting at my office desk in my carefully accessorised baby pink Karen Millen silk dress and he is wearing flannel.  I think I might cry.  Over a piece of synthetic fabric.  Or in my mind, the message that his effort level was ‘ZERO’. 

He redeems himself, explaining, very reasonably, that the trackie bottoms are convenient for his appointment with his osteopath and that he would change his clothes before we meet.

And there he is, spruced up, sporting a protective boot that wouldn’t look out of place in Star Wars. The music in the pub is too loud.  The music in the restaurant that we go to is blaring too.  I wonder if all of the natives were deafened from shouting during the recent All Ireland final, or if it’s just me.  The waitress brings me a meaty pizza and doesn’t apologise that she got it wrong.   The Date’s Star Wars boot looks cumbersome and awkward, but he doesn’t complain.

The Date looks different in real life, more three dimensional.  Obviously.  And handsome.  We have nothing in common and everything in common.  He tells me that he likes my freckles.  I blush and suddenly feel self-aware, like I did as a child when an adult would bend down to me and ask me, in a kind voice, ‘Where did you get those big brown eyes?’ 

Four hours later and it’s gone in a flash.  I have to go. 

Later, I look in the mirror and observe that indeed, my face is scattered with little brown speckles, probably recently enhanced by a sunny weeks holiday in Wexford.  I stand there and watch this stranger in the mirror and realise that it’s been a long, long time since I really looked at myself. 

Another date?  

It would a shame to quit while I’m ahead, wouldn’t it ?

Frazzled Momma Prepares for Birthday Party

Frazzled working momma has one of her worryingly frequent 'moments' a month ago and thinks that a double 9th birthday party for twinnies at home, in October, is a good idea. FWM resorts to grass cutting with a post-christening hangover and to washing windows in the dark, because let's face it, they are the type of things 9 year old guests remember. She hopes they notice the freshly cleaned drains too and that the tomato sauce on the penne pasta is home made.

Thoughtful friend offers to drop his uber funky caravan into garden to up the party cool stakes.

FWM forgets that she promised to make birthday cake with children and settles for two slabs of chocolate something or other from LidlDaLDI.

She vows never to allow herself be distracted again, chatting to an old friend in Dealz, while the children stock up on SEVENTY FIVE FLIPPING EURO worth of shite, including cheap and nasty chocolate that will ruins any goodness acquired in the home made tomato sauce.

FWM wonders where the hell the magician is going to fit in the Hobbit House, with a capacity audience. She hopes that he isn't cutting a woman in half.

She spends the week dusting and cleaning and replacing real cobwebs with synthetic ones. The children are beyond excited, lie on the floor in the path of the woman with a mop, refuse to sleep before 11pm any night for a week and are like divils to FWM, who tries not to take it personally.

She concedes that she won't get all of the cleaning done after all and will, instead, draw the blinds on the bedroom windows (bloody bungalow) and shove stuff into drawers.

Have the kids revised for their 'really, really' important test in school tomorrow? Hell, no. Outfits sorted for Fancy Dress Day on Friday? As if ...... And of course there's no wine. She'll settle for a chocolate eyeball from a party bag, as she cries into her cold tea and types on her keyboard, avoiding floors to be washed so that children can trample wet grass into it tomorrow...

My Da and Anthony Foley

The date of my father’s death is October 19th 2015 and so, his first anniversary takes place this Wednesday.  But for me, my Dad died on a Monday, so today is his anniversary.  The day after the annual Kildare Readers Festival closes. I took a day’s leave from work today, partly because I'm tired after a marathon few days, but mostly because I don't fancy the déjà vu of being there at 11am for tea break as I was last year when I got the phone call from my brother Eoin.

The day before my father died, he watched Ireland's Rugby World Cup quarter-final against Argentina at the Millennium Stadium.  He would have been glued to the TV, with the Sunday newspapers spread across the table in front of him, providing a running commentary to my mother throughout the match.  

If he was still alive, he would have looked forward to Munster playing in the European Champions Cup match against Racing 92 yesterday.  The match was cancelled, as a mark of respect after the sudden death of Head Coach for Munster, Anthony Foley.  I only heard about his death this morning, aged 42, the same age as me.  Like many, I felt that collective sense of grief that someone really special was gone.  A true sports man and leader.  My father had little in common with Anthony Foley, except perhaps that they both put themselves under pressure and that they exited this world quickly and quietly.  

I have wondered how aware my father was in his final moments.  What could he hear? The lads hammering and the clink of machinery in the shed in the yard, Radio One wafting up the stairs in the kitchen, my mother calling to ask him to hurry up, the kerfuffle  that followed as family and paramedics arrived?  In my mind, the sound of the calming flow of the river across the road, the sound that he would have woken to and fallen asleep to, almost every day of his life, intensified and amplified to become his closing track.  This morning, watching a video online of Munster Fans singing ‘The Fields of Athenry’ in Paris as a tribute to Anthony Foley, I cried for the big Munster man, for the older men in the video, visibly upset wiping away their tears and also for my Da, who often sang that tune, and who, unlike his daughter, could hold a tune. 

While Anthony Foley was famous in his circles, my father was more of the infamous kind, being stubborn and opinionated.  I don’t know what he would have thought about all I have written about him on my blog since his death.  It's likely that he would have told me off, saying that there was ‘no need to be talking about those things’.  But if I explained the map of analytics showing the number of people who had read about him, and where in the world they are, he would have been amused.  ‘Be the hokey’, he'd say.  He then would have tried, badly, to explain Google analytics to his friends in the pub.  ‘They are reading about me in Russia and Australia, you know.  Jaysus’, shaking his head and laughing, secretly chuffed. 

Writing about my father has given me comfort in processing his death.  Others have told me that it has made them think about their own fathers, 'men of that generation', who won’t be around much longer, men that seem simple in their ways but are as complex as anyone else.  I chat with my uncle Ciaran  about how neither of us expected to really miss my father, a man who didn’t always have a lot to say to either of us.  Ciaran tells me that he sometimes walks around the farmyard, just to remember his brother.  It’s always the little things.  Today I miss being in his presence, him ignoring me while watching his beloved rugby.

. 

The Mutt With The Butt

Coming from a farming home, I was used to big, shaggy dogs, usually mongrels or dolly mixture collies.  Their purpose in life was in the first instance, to herd sheep.  But I always thought of them as pets.  At one stage, we had a pet lamb called Tubby, who thought he was a dog and no one ever felt the need to set him straight (I have written about Tubby in a previous blog post.  His bloody demise is the reason I became vegetarian).  I was never fond of Jack Russell terriers that occasionally stray onto the farm and found their nippy, wicked temperament hard to accept when I was used to gentle giants who loved me unconditionally.

After that, the only dealings I had with Jack Russell’s was in relation to my surname.  My brother Derek was christened ‘Jack’ in his early days in secondary school.  When I followed him a year later, I was sometimes called ‘Jacqueline’.  What a witty bunch my fellow students were.   Although it’s now over two decades since we finished school, I expect that my brother would still lift his head if he heard someone called out ‘Jack’ on the street.

In early September, a Jack Russell dog appeared at my back door.  I assumed he was a neighbour’s dog out wandering.  The following day, he was still there.   As my daughter pointed out ‘he has a sore butt’.  I was keen to get him home as soon as possible, took his photo, posted it on Facebook and tagged all of my neighbours.  I assumed a speedy response identifying the owner, but no one came forward.  Some days later, I brought him to the local vet to see if the mutt (by now named Charlie by my son) was micro chipped.  He wasn’t. 

At this stage, panic started to kick in.  Charlie had started to take over my house.  He had evicted my humongous Labrador Hudson from his comfortable bed.  I was surprised that Hudson allowed it, as he is so big that he could have easily smothered him if he sat on him.  Instead, Hudson looked at me forlornly, not able to hold back his hurt.  The only time that Hudson stood up for himself was mealtime.  There was no way a greedy Lab would share. 

Feeding time at the zoo really became an issue - Charlie also started to upset my two half wild cats, Spooky and Sparky, belting out the back door between my legs when I attempted to feed them.  On one occasion, he dived on one of the cats and grabbed her viciously by the neck, witnessed by my hysterical daughter.  Thankfully Sparky is also spunky and escaped.  After that attack, my daughter decided that she didn’t really like Charlie anymore and stopped walking him around on a lead.  In the meantime, Hudson became a sulky teenager and spent most of his time in my bedroom. 

The only time there was a ceasefire was when I brought them both for a walk.   I only walked so far to avoid my neighbour who began to complain about ‘YOUR Jack Russell’ potentially leading her dog astray.  I had explained to her that Charlie wasn’t mine, despite the fact I was now regularly pounding the tarmacadam with him on a lead. 

Regular telephone messages and emails to the local Animal Rescue centre were not returned (I’m not complaining – I know they are extremely busy).  Charlie’s butt wasn’t getting any better and his bum vapour was like agitated slurry (townies, you may need to Google this to understand).  The end of my tether was getting closer and I knew that I couldn’t keep Charlie beyond last weekend.  Trouble was, for all his faults, I was getting attached to the little critter.  I made one last post on Facebook to see if I could find a home for him, before I contacted the dog pound, which mostly likely, would lead to a death sentence for Charlie in the following week. 

In what seemed like a miracle, a friend of a friend contacted me almost immediately.  ‘Does he had a sore backside?’, she asked.  I could hear the ‘Hallelujah’ music coming on in my head.  It appears that Charlie (I won’t reveal his real name, to protect the stinky) is a bit of an escape artist whose family were looking for him. 

The following day, Charlie was collected, with a huge sigh of relief for all concerned.

Hudson’s delicate ego is recovering.  He is sprawled out in his basket as I type.  I treated him to a road trip to Clonakilty and a walk on the beach there (thanks Marie and Andrew) to reaffirm that he was the only mutt for me.  

The cats have regained their laid back ‘‘we don’t give a monkeys about you ‘tude’’.  The equilibrium has been restored in Poppy Cottage. 

Til the next drama ….

Desperate in Delvin

I bit the bullet.  I’m blaming my male cousins and brothers.  ‘Sure, you are still lovely Lucy.  Fellas would fancy you, especially now that you have learned how to plough a field’.  They give me tips for internet dating.  I’m horrified, ‘still lovely’.  They mean well, but I feel like an ageing horse, getting my teeth checked, to see if there is any life left in the old nag.  So before I declare myself fit for pasture, I did it.  I signed up for internet dating, on a whim, early one Sunday morning, after another weekend on my own with my mutt.   

But what to share? Oh gawd, the template is looking for a photograph.  Maybe I should upload a pic of my dog.  He’s better looking than me and it would show what an animal lover I am.  It’s times like this that a burka seems like an attractive form of dress.  I opt for a discreet photo, instagrammed to death. 

Then there is the small matter of my name.  With a name like Lucina, there isn’t much hiding.  Adding a simple ‘d’ could give me a disguise.  I opt for honesty. 

Then the much dreaded questionnaire - likes, dislikes, inspirations, the ‘tell us about you’ and ‘what you are looking for’.  I feel like giving up there and then and resigning myself to old age, with just me and my mutt.

A few credit card details later and I’m live.  Within minutes, I swear, minutes, guys send messages saying that they want to meet me.  All before 8.30am on a Sunday. I marvel at the wonder of technology.  I have almost planned my outfits and picked my restaurants.

The novelty doesn’t last long.  Desperate in Delvin*, 62 sends me a virtual wink and another.  And a few days later, another.

Kinky in Kinnegad, 72, sends me a message saying that he thinks I’m sexy.  I’d like to send him a virtual slap of a hangbag, but there isn’t such an icon.

Gorgeous in Galway, 31, is actually gorgeous and I wonder why the hell he is internet dating and more to the point, why he is looking at my profile.  I find it hard to believe that his intentions are honourable.

There’s lots of faceless men out there, like Unhappily Married in Urlingford, 38 who don’t upload photos and seen pushy about chatting, as if this opportunity is what I’ve waited all of my life for. 

The Teacher in Thurles, 37, also faceless, writes 'your lovely'. I reply, stating 'for a teacher, your spelling isn't the best'.  He doesn't know what I'm on about.  'You're', I prompt. We mutually agree to 'leave it'.

Ego in Ennis, 51, another of the faceless crew, insists that he has provided plenty of information about himself on his profile and that if I had read it properly, I would 'clearly see' that he would provide photos by email. Out of curiosity, I ask for pics, which he emails.  He has Donald Trump hair to match the inflated sense of himself presented in his profile.

Dapper in Dublin, 39, looks promising, but then says that we live too far away from each other for a date.  I try not to sound desperate and resist asking him to check the route on AA Routeplanner, like I already have.

Other fellas probably really should have taken a bit of advice on how to take selfies for the purposes of actually getting a date.  A lot of photos make them look like they came straight from Crimeline, with photos taken directly from their PC, showing double/treble chins off to their finest.  And do they not realise that I can see their socks and jocks on the radiator behind them?    

The questionnaires that the guys have completed start to bore me to death.  Who actually gives a monkey’s what their favourite meal is (but, FYI, a large proportion of men seem to prefer their mothers cooking, which is all well and good, but this isn’t a site for a replacement Irish Mammy)

Then there’s the guys who use way !!!!! too many !!!!! exclamation !!! marks !!!! to show what a fun !!!! guys they are !!!!  So, flipping !!!!!! hilarious !!!!

And don’t get me started on the guys WHO USE BLOCK CAPITALS.  It’s as hilarious as the exclamation marks, but IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU ARE SHOUTING AT ME.

Or the ones that use text speak.  No, I don’t want 2 talk 2 U LOL ‘K?

And then there’s the LOL’s and ‘LMAO’, when it’s-just-not-funny. 

There are lots of lovely, genuine guys out there in cyber love land.  Some send lovely messages and mostly I send nice messages back, wishing them well, but saying that I’m not interested.  Some send messages back saying that mine was the nicest rejection they ever received.  They don’t know that I have had years of experience turning down people, as gently as I can, for grant applications.

I won’t be renewing my membership when it expires this week.  I’ll dust myself off and regroup.  But in the meantime, Maybe in Meath, 45 isn’t looking half bad.

*Names have been changed to protect the deluded

The Blessing of the Graves

My father was always a man in a hurry.  He was in such a hurry at his 70th birthday celebrations in a restaurant last year, that he blew out the candles on his cake and had actually left the establishment while I was in the toilets with the children.  In his defense, with the squirty soap, hand dryer, and various contraptions to be examined, the toilet trip took longer than expected.  And there was an 'urgent' football match on TV at 2pm, so urgent that it was close to an emergency.  The family joked afterwards that we would spoon fed him in a chair for his 80th birthday.  But that wasn't to be, as John Russell departed this life 6 weeks after he blew out his candles.  No messing around.

Today is his birthday and I stood at his graveside over the weekend, at the annual Blessing of the Graves in Kingscourt.  Surreal indeed.

I've come to the conclusion that the ideal place for speed-catch-up with family, school friends, people you half-knew but didn't realise you how you knew them and neighbours is actually The Blessing of the Graves.  Don't knock it unless you have tried it.  And let's face it, the financial donation is cheaper than buying a round in the pub and there's less drunks.

There is a predictability to who will stand where, given the static positioning of the various family graves.  Family representation varies over the years.  New additions to the families appear and others take their rest under the soil.  Children play in the chippings and compost on the graves.  Older people rest in their fold up chairs.  There is mighty fashion to be seen and the grey headstones are outnumbered by floral arrangements.

As it happens, it's also a great place to meet people who read my blog (Who Knew ?? Like, seriously ? It's slightly mortifying, but also kinda lovely).  I meet someone who I only know through social media. We hug and I laugh that until now, I had no idea of what height she is, having only encountered her through postage stamps sized photographs on a screen.

All the fretting about being there had passed.  It oddly, feels nice.

The reality of the situation hit home when the priest, in his opening remarks acknowledges all of those who were standing beside a loved ones grave for the first time.  Thankfully he doesn't dwell on it, but I feel a pain in my heart for my lovely mother standing there.  She looks so vulnerable. Hopefully next year won't be so hard.  The first is the worst, or so they say.

I came across this photograph the other day. It's my parents, my brother Derek (with THAT haircut) and little me at the seaside in Port, Co Louth.  The sea is just over the horizon.  Can you smell it ?  I can hear it.  Whoosh .... It feels like I remember that actual day, but I wonder if that's possible as I am so young.  We went to Port every summer, so maybe it's collective memories remembered through that photograph?  The bumpy texture of the seer-sucker thin cotton dress is so familiar, as is the salt water in my mouth, as my father splashes water at me in the sea, the taste lingering long after the event.  The odd sensation of feeling rough sand sprinkled through the cool, slinky grass.  The safe feeling of the weathered palm of his farmer hand against my leg.  I keep the dress for years for a teddy.  Maybe that's why I remember?

I attended a dance performance by Theogene (Totto) Niwenshuti, a Rwandan dancer and scholar, in Maynooth University last week, as part of Kildare County Council's Dance and Movement Summer School.  Totto has survived genocide.  The audience, were led into the performance across scattered clothes, shoes and a number of people lying still on the floor.  They lay in the same direction, face down, as if they had been shot dead while running for their lives.  Individually and collectively, we sobbed quietly for massacred men, women and children and how helpless we all felt, at this scenario and the countless similar scenes worldwide.

Afterwards, an image of my fathers boots paired up the back hall way when I arrived home on the day he died, keeps coming to me.  I think about the absolute privilege that he had of dying peacefully in his own house, surrounded by family and the privilege we had in giving him a funeral that he would have approved of.

It's unlikely that my father's boots will be worn again.  My three brothers grew to be much taller than my father, so much so that my brother Eoin handed down his pair of size 8 tan leather confirmation brogues to him.  It was the source of much amusement at the time, but JR didn't take kindly to being slagged about that.  He would be raging that I told ye.  Sorry Da.  The memories keep you close.

The Kitchen is Closed

So, my foreign students went and left, as they do and I've figured out how to reset my Facebook settings from Spanish back to English.

So folks, but if any of you are looking for any class of hospitality in the coming weeks, don't bother coming to me.  I can direct you to a lovely hotel down the room.  If you insist on coming here, I can point you towards the kettle and the fridge.  I can't guarantee fresh milk, or biscuits, so it's best that you BYO.  (Naturally, there is a universal exception for wine).

I can't stand over the quality of my toilet facilities either.  It's been three action packed weeks of having two teenage boys here, on top of my own 8 year old one.  All I'll say is that, over the last three weeks, that I have reminded of a poster that my aunt Kathleen and uncle Ciaran had in their bathroom when I was a child, bearing a poignant poem that still has developed meaning over the years -  'If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat'.

If you would like early-morning homemade pancakes any time soon, can I suggest the Bay Tree in town?  Because I'm done.  At least until Back to School.  The same goes for packed, flipping, lunches.  I won't fret over a balanced diet, human hair, dog hair in food.  If I run out of mayonnaise or milk, we will do without.  (If you are balking at the idea of dog hair in food, just think of it as protein supplement - you heard the ads about keratin in hair, right?)

As for the Socks & Jocks.

Let's face it.  Laundering clothes and undergarments is a chore.

Your children's - You tolerate, only because you love them.  And to gather ammunition for later years. Who, may I ask, invented white, or pastel Socks & Jocks for little people? I'll tell you -  Someone who doesn't have little people, or who doesn't do laundry, that's who.

Guests Socks & Jocks.  Let's just say that there's a limit to what one will do in the name of international relations.

If anyone needs me, I'll be the one lying back on my own couch, slathered in fake tan, drinking wine at 8pm, because night time Josephine Le Taxi has turned off her sign until the end of August.  I may, or may not wear a bra.  I might be cutting my toe nails.  I might be reading, or writing a blog, like I am now, hooray ! (And just for the record, I'm fully clothed as I write this).

I may actually sit down for the full duration of a meal.  The meal may be cream crackers and jam, or some sort of flat carbohydrate with a paste from a jar.  It's unlikely that there will be a table cloth, or napkins.  There may not even be a plate.  My excuse for not shopping is that I need supplies to go down to allow me to 'see what's there' and to create a better view of the mould in the fridge.

There will be no extended queuing for my one-toilet-only Hobbit House, and if there happened to be, I'll ask my children to pee in the garden.  The bringing of electronic devices into the bathroom shall be strictly prohibited.

I may or may not wash the stack of dishes in the sink, or maybe ever, as an experiment on self-cleaning.

But if truth were told, the house seems quiet and I miss hearing The Spaniard belting out tunes from the shower.

Feeling European

It's the final days of having a Spanish and French student in Poppy Cottage, and the hobbit house will soon to return to a teenage-boy-less zone.

For most of the stay, I've had a rotten head cold, that thankfully no one else in the house has caught. A few days into the visit, I caught my thumb in a door, which was excruciatingly painful and made simple things like starting the car and preparing food difficult.  Had it been just myself and the children here, we probably would have lived on breakfast cereal.

I've already discussed feeding the students in a previous blog.  It's only in the last week that I realised though, how much they all love drinking the milk here.  Apparently the milk in both France and Spain isn't a patch on ours.  I can't buy enough of the stuff.

Getting two extra people up and out in the morning has been a little stressful.  Most mornings, I am standing at the back door jingling keys, with my eye on the clock and sweat on my brow.  All being well, I have dropped off my children for the morning and the students for the day and am sitting at my work desk with a cuppa by 9.20am.  My employer gets great value out of me as I pack a full days work into the morning, before dashing back for a 2pm pick up with the children.  I've used the two hour window before the students arrive home to prepare for 'Back to School'.  No lastminute.com here this year.  The Spaniard noticed that I 'shop a lot'.  I laugh.  If only it was for the fun stuff.

The weather, in case you haven't noticed, has been completely pants.  All of my recent slaving in the garden was undone, as the humidity encouraged jungle-like scenes to develop. On top of that, my lawnmower gave up the ghost.  Apparently it just needed a minor adjustment.  Mr Lawnmower Man didn't even charge me for fixing in, but had the machine for 10 days, while my 'football pitch', as the Spaniard called it, grew out of control.   I try to compensate for my overgrown sporting facilities, telling him that the luscious grass is what makes our milk taste so delicious.

The washing machine, in solidarity with the lawnmower, also packed in the other day.  Fan-bloody-tastic.  I was extremely thankful though that I, at least, hadn't given away my previously unused tumble drier, which has been working overtime in the last few weeks. It doesn't know what's hit it.

Speaking of washing, last week, my neighbour's student came to my house for dinner, before a 7pm disco.  There was a great sense of excitement in the house, the shower was on overdrive and there was no sparing on the deodorant.  The student stood before me with his socks.  'Will you wash these for me for tonight please?'.  'Tonight' was now 90 minutes away.  My Domestic Goddess had been maxed out for the day and I say no.  I offered to give him a pair of mine instead.  He's not impressed. I ask if he would like an individually wrapped Cadbury's chocolate mini roll.  He asks if I have something else with caramel.

I spent the first week of the stay fretting over an interview for a job, something that was advertised with an extremely short deadline.  I slapped in an application at the last minute and was notified of interview a few days later.  It's been YEARS since I went for an interview.  This one required a three minute presentation.  I thought about it and researched for a few days, all while getting used to the presence of teenagers in the house.  I wrote my (not half-bad, even if I say so myself) presentation, complete with a nice range of left-of-centre images, all timed to 3 minutes flat. Almost as soon as I had it complete, I decided not to attend for interview after all.  My heart wasn't in it and doing an interview for 'the experience' just wasn't my thing.  So, if any of you out there need a presentation on Arts Participation, I've got one going a beggin'.

In the middle of all of this, I've managed to get delicious slices of  'me-time', including a mad dash to the Galway Film Fleadh on a Saturday.  A manic five-hour round trip, I managed to see the premiere of 'Revolutions: A Roller Derby Story', directed by Laura Mc Gann, had catch ups and networked like you wouldn't believe.  A few snatched hours in Kildare Village, shopping for me, 'a little' and a luxuriously long lunch for one.  I happened across an Irish food promotion and has Presseco and cake for dessert. It's the little things, isn't it?

My dog is delighted with the rare scraps of meat in a usually veggie-only household.  My children love learning elaborate handshakes and the stamp of approval for their new branded sports gear.  'Just Do It' is the new catch phrase in the house.  Oddly, the setting on my Facebook page have changed to Spanish, all by themselves.  Having a good 'Wiffy' connection here has been has a big bonus for both boys.  

Then there was the unimaginable attack on Bastille Day in Nice.  I worried about discussing it with my students the following morning, as the true extent of it unfolded.  They took the news better than I expected.  Neither of them knew anyone involved and I guess that teenagers world's is quite insular. And maybe, there's an element of becoming desensitised by it all.  I worry that my own children will come to regard this sort of thing as 'normal'.  Nonetheless, I was glad that the students, led by the school principal, had an opportunity to discuss it together in school that day.  After the attack, the fallout of Brexit and the more recent coup in Turkey, I will fret until I know that both of my students catch their flights and get through airports safely.   I imagine that all Irish families who have had European students this summer will feel an enhanced connection, and solidarity with our European neighbours after what has happened,  during our watch.  It's hard to know what to say after that.

Channelling my Irish Mammy

It's a fortnight now, since our Spanish student arrived in Poppy Cottage for a three week language school in Athy College.  He was joined by a French student five days ago.  In the intervening period, it seems that the equilibrium has shifted many times in the house.  The only constants has been the rather miserable weather, the endless supply of laundry and me, standing in the kitchen preparing food.

There are three things that I ultimately wanted out of the students stay
1. That the students were happy
2. That they got on well with the children and that the children were also happy
3. That the students liked me ... and my cooking.  Because let's face it, it's all about the grub.  

Apart from the logistics of converting a dining room into a bedroom and juggling work and childcare during the students' stay, the initial thoughts of feeding two teenage boys created a big anxiety in me.  It's been a while since I've cooked for anyone other than my children in my Hobbit House.  It's been even longer since I've cooked meat.  And it's been over 25 years since I've eaten it.  It was highly unlikely that my teenagers would be vegetable loving vegetarians and they aren't.  The more animal flesh they can get their teeth around the better.

Overall, my cooking has gone down well, so far.  There has been a few blips. I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt when my Spanish student politely said that he 'more or less' liked my homemade apple pie.  'More or less?'  No extra marks for my light touch with pastry?  It appeared not.  (But if I am REALLY honest with myself, it could have done with an extra sprinkle of sugar).  My Spanish omelette had a similar response.  I thought that it looked good enough to be photographed for a magazine.  I guess it was a case of presenting sand to the Arabs and expecting them to be impressed.

This is my third time having foreign students and I have established universal food formulas that seem to work for both vegetarians (the children and me) and sometimes fickle students.  It's simple really - Any combination of carbohydrates (pasta, breads, potato), garlic, cheese, tomato and mayonnaise.  If I was looking for an easy life, we could have dined on variations of this for the duration, but in the interest of balance, I threw in a few extra dishes.  Homemade pancakes, early morning, or late at night always go down a treat.  They are like a big group hug, without anyone having to make unnecessary bodily contact.

Last night I made a Chicken Caesar Salad, with roast leg of chicken, while the veggies in the house had pasta.  A neighbour's Spanish student arrived half way through dinner.  'Can I have some dinner please, I'm hungry', he said.  I was amused as I knew he had just finished dinner with my neighbour. I remembered by friend Maria laughing about her son's 'hollow legs', that could store endless amounts of food.  'We are vegetarian you know Andrieu', I said, taking small talk. 'I know, Borja told me already' he smiled.  Hmmm ... They talked about me. I wondered if the context for the conversation was that I was a rubbish cook because I AM veggie, or if I am an excellent cook, DESPITE being veggie.  I was afraid to ask.

The students devoured their dinner, clearing their plates, then asking for some of the children's pasta dish leftovers.  The veggie bolognese got a similar thumbs up.  I dished up pancakes and chocolate spread for dessert.  They couldn't come from the kitchen quick enough.

My Spanish student put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss.  'My Irish Mother'.

My Irish Mammy heart felt like it might burst.