I Believe in the Easter Bunny

I was patting myself on the back for being organised for my Easter Sunday Hunt this year, while also adopting a new what-will-get-done-will-get-done attitude.  As a result, I decided against cleaning under the beds and washing the windows.  I resigned myself to the fact that my garden was overrun with dandelions, reminding myself that a ‘weed is just a flower in the wrong place’ and that there was only so much grass mowing I would get around to.

The main tasks got done though.  An almighty stash of chocolate, sweets and goodies for a clatter of children were purchased in dribs and drabs to ease the financial outlay.  My glamorous assistant, My Girl wrote out the list of invitees and counted out the number of attendees, if everyone invited came to the Hunt.  88 children, not including adults.  I only have one toilet.  And a Hobbit House.  And rain was forecast.  I breathed a sigh of relief when the ‘regrets’ came through and the expected number of guests halved. 

I brought my Mam from Co Meath so she could see what it was I was doing and to meet my ‘Athy friends’.  Easter could have been a lonely time for her.  Her sister Aine always came for dinner in my parents’ house on Easter Sunday, my Dad and herself sniping at each other over the roast, Mam keeping the peace in the middle and somehow, each of them enjoying the day.  Wherever their spirits are now, I’m sure they looked down on my Mam on the day, Queen Bee in the middle of the madness.

The night before, I was wrecked tired and knew I had to be up at the crack of dawn to do the last few bits of preparation.  Mam, as Guest of Honour, was promoted to my bed and I slept in with My Boy.  My Girl, with her friend on a sleepover, shared the bunks.   It was a proper Walton Family set up.  ‘G’night Jim Bob’.

But My Boy was having none of it.  It was Christmas Eve déjà vu, when he had a wibble over another hairy lad, Santa creeping around the house, but this time, it's the feckin’ Easter Bunny.  Thing is, I have never mentioned the Easter Bunny in the house and never ‘encouraged’ notions about him/it.  

Despite this, earlier that evening, My Girl had wondered aloud about what the Easter Bunny might bring.  I discouraged her, saying that the Easter Bunny would surely know how many sweets we had in the house and would pass us by (yes, Dear Reader, I had 100% forgotten to buy anything worthy of the EB).  She put on her strong-sense-of-injustice face and said ‘The Easter Bunny wouldn’t be THAT mean.  Most of what YOU bought is for OTHER children’.  Darn it.  Fair point, if you believe in the Bunny.  I could see by her face that she did.  I left the children in the care of their Nana and scoured the town looking for cheap, but fabulous eggs for my pair and the sleep-over-friend.  The only decent eggs left were e18.  I wasn’t feeling that generous.  I scrapped up a random selection of bits, buried them in a bag and headed for home.

Back to My Boy.  It was obvious that he too 100% believes in the rabbit.  As soon as the lights went off, the tears started, in the belief that soon after his eyelids closed, that a furry animal would be breathing over his head.  Two glasses of water, four trips to the toilet, multiple hugs, back massages and random stories later, My Boy was becoming more distraught.  The rest of the house meanwhile, was filled with peaceful sleeping sounds.  I too was getting distraught as I craved sleep.  I thought about spilling the beans on the Tooth Fairy/Santa/the Bunny there and then, but of course I didn't.  In the end, I told him that the Easter Bunny only wanted to make children happy and that the Bunny had made a deal with parents who knew their children would get upset with his visit - He had given the goodies to the parents for distribution instead.  For the first time in two hours, My Boy appeared calm.  ‘Really Mam?’ ‘Yes, really son’.  ‘Show me’.  I pulled a bag out of chocolate out of the cupboard and he helped me to display them on the table. Within minutes, we were both fast asleep.

On Easter Sunday morning, the children arose to see what treasures had been left for them.  The Boy marveled at the miniature golden eggs, wondering if they could be eaten, or if they were metal.  It was as if he was seeing them for the first time.  He told the girls that ‘The Easter Bunny is magic’. I look at him and see, that despite our discussion the night before, that he really believes too, or perhaps, has chosen to believe. 

There wasn’t much time to think about our overnight visitor after that.  By 11.00am, 40 children and their grown ups had descended on Poppy Cottage and are hard to contain.  By 11.05am, they scatter to every nook of the garden.  By 11.20am, the clothes line of popcorn packets was empty, the candy canes whipped from the fences, the marshmallow sticks, plucked from the ground.  The various tins dotted around the garden, emptied of their wares and the sherbet string jellies, no longer dangling from the trees.  Even the rain had disappeared.  The kettle was boiled and reboiled.  The smell of coffee wafted.  Cups washed and rewashed.  The trays of homemade cookies and cupcakes brought by friends wolfed down, with the croissants and pastries.  The recently scrubbed kitchen floor and bathroom floor now scattered with cut grass. No matter, clean dirt.  By 1pm, the visitors have said their goodbyes, heading off to family dinners and other celebrations; I make a Loaves and Fishes dinner for my mother, brother and family and we do a post mortem on proceedings.

My little, falling down Hobbit House is a testimony that it doesn’t matter what the bricks and mortar look like, just what you create with them.

A Game of Two Halves: The IFTA's and Croker

Mr Private has the privilege of spending Friday evening with me wrapped in a towel, smothered in fake tan and walking around like John Wayne until the lotion dried - A sight that my new squeeze could probably have done without seeing, now, or ever.  I break it to him on Thursday, that not alone am I working on Saturday morning, I will be abandoning him that evening, as I, quite frankly, got a better offer -  a much coveted, last minute, ticket for the Irish Film and Television Awards (IFTA’s).  He won’t be home alone though, as a carload of Kerry men are due to arrive, in advance of the Dublin V Kerry Football League Final the following day. 

Saturday morning, I have booked a hair and eyebrow appointment before I go to work.  I arrive at my meeting with a group of teenagers with ringlets a la Shirley Temple and eyebrows on fire.  I feel as self-conscious as the 15-year-olds look.  We discuss that we have to discuss and I vamoose, my curls starting to flop already. 

Mr Private encourages me to place a bet on the main race in The Grand National.  I go for the horse trained by Lucinda Russell, my nemesis of sorts, as my forename acquires that sneaky ‘D’ as least 3 times a week. I'm disappointed that I won't get to watch the race with Mr P, but my posh do awaits.

I get dressed for the IFTA’s in Mr Private’s house.  He’s standing at the bottom of his stairs when I saunter down in my guna nua, feeling like I’m off to my Debs, Pretty in Pink, with blushing cheeks to match as he takes my photograph and tells me that he is proud of me.  

I am accompanied to the IFTA’s by some of my best film buddies, two giants of men, in tuxedos.  They'd pass as my bodyguards, if I was a some one.  We walk up the red carpeted steps of the Mansion House in the glorious sunshine, as crowds of people and an army of photographers gather, to catch a glimpse of the Beautiful People.  The IFTA’s are MC’ed by Deirdre O’Kane and the show is super.   The Kildare interest in the IFTA’s are ‘Gridlock’, nominated for Best Short Film and Caoilfhionn Dunne, nominated for Best Actress in ‘In View’.  Neither win in their category, but the nominations are a huge boost for film promotion in the county and something that gives me great personal satisfaction.   Mr Private texts me and tells me that I have won e75 on the Grand National.  My scientific approach to gambling has paid off, go Lucinda.  Cinderella eventually leaves the ball and returns to a house full of mountain men, burning the midnight oil.

There are negotiations on the best route to Croke Park.  I direct Mr Private via my familiar haunts when I lived in Dublin.  Kilmainham, along the walls of the Phoenix Park, turning left up Infirmary Road, right onto the North Circular Road, past my old flat and O’Devaney Gardens where I worked.   No 63 NCR, my half way house for strays from Meath, en route to the airport, a concert, the Mater Hospital or looking for a flat.  The boys from O’Devaney that I tried to teach art to, but failed, mostly because their greater need was for a hot meal and a warm bed.  I think of A.C. one of my past pupils there, then a violent 16 year old.   A tall, handsome lad, who had bowel problems because no one ever bothered to toilet train him.  He couldn’t read or write either, but carved his initials everywhere.  Curious as to what had become of A.C. since those days, I Googled his name recently and found that he was doing a long stretch in Mountjoy Prison for Grievous Bodily Harm, that latent anger manifesting itself.

The Kerry men follow us up the NCR towards Phibsborough.  They phone Mr Private on the way, annoyed that there are no parking spaces available.  I regret suggesting the route and wishes that they had made their own way there.  Mr Private has lost the cool.  F’ing and blinding about Dublin and Ireland, comparing here to other European cities.  I feel like suggesting that Mr Private buys himself a one-way ticket out of ‘this shit hole’.  I retort saying, ‘The only thing wrong with the parking spaces that I suggested is that cars were already in them’.  The two-car entourage meander across the North Side and into a multi storey car park off Abbey Street.  Mr Private very nearly hits his very nice car off the very large, very yellow pillar.  He’s cursing again.  ‘It’s a pity the pillar wasn’t a bit bigger’, I quip and burst out laughing.  He's laughing now too. 

Kerry Man 1, Mr Private Junior is mumbling about a ‘better route’.  Kerry Man 2, the diplomat, says that he could see why I suggested that way.  Kerry Man 3 is smiling, keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets.   I’m relieved that we are not all sitting together in Croker.

Although we are freezing cold at the match, Mr Private has thawed out on me.  He’s tells me that he’s happy I’m there.  I’m glad that he is there too – our seats are so high in the Cusack Stand that I’m feeling dizzy and I need someone to cling onto.  Anto on my other side doesn’t look like he would take kindly to a non-Dub clutching his beefcake arm, although he is ‘bleedin’ poxy freezin’ too, wearing bleedin’ poxy shorts.  I wish he would stop roaring in my ear.  You would swear that ‘DeeeeannnnoooOOOO' was the only player on the pitch.

 

We are surrounded by a sea of uber-confident Dubs and the Kerry team needs all of the support they can muster, even from me.  The match is nail-biting til the end and Kerry get a well deserved win, by one point, 1-16 to 0-20.  I’m under pressure to get home, so we don’t get to say goodbye to the Kerry men.  Hopefully they will remember me for the Domestic Goddess breakfast I prepared for them and not our tour of Dublin City.

I text Mr Private and tell him that I am writing about cranky Kerry men and car parks.  He texts back saying ‘Will you mention how things have changed since Meath were last in a final?’  

Hit me where it hurts Mr Private, hit me where it hurts. 

Waiting

In the early days of my diagnosis with Multiple Sclerosis in 2011, everything about my neurology appointments in Beaumont Hospital caused me anxiety – from getting lost en-route and then kicking myself for driving through the city, instead of the motorway, out of fear of accidentally driving into the Dublin Port Tunnel and orientating myself within the hospital, to the cost of the car-parking.

Now, the MRI and follow up appointments are just another date in the diary.  Until the day arrives.  It’s here.  I’m early.  Without thought, I make my way to Clinic B.  Neurology and the Fracture Clinic share a registration desk.  It seems like an odd match, brains and broken bones.  Still, it’s a people-watchers dream.  The logistics of it all is like an awkward choreography, as patients hobble, or are wheeled about with various strappings and supports, making their way to somewhere else.   Despite the busyness of the place, there is a comforting sense of calm.  The linoleum on the floor is remarkably shiny and the space is bright and airy.

There is a lot to focus on, to distract myself about why I’m here.  I’m experiencing a period of really good health and the appointment almost seems unnecessary.  I don’t have time for this and I don’t have time to be sick.

I am called before my scheduled time.  I abandon the blog post that I had started to tap into my phone.  I am greeted by a neurologist whom I haven’t met previously.  No student doctors shadowing this time.  Like all of the neurology team that I have encountered to date, this woman is warm and friendly, compassionate.  She is thorough in her physical examination of me, testing my strength and reflexes.  It feels like I am as strong as I ever was.  She is concerned that I haven’t had any recent blood tests and I feel silly saying that I forgotten to organise these in advance of our meeting - it is in my best interest after all.  An award for ‘Patient Taking Charge’, I will not win.  The neurologist talks me tells through the results of my recent MRI scan.  No new significant lesions, but some minor ones.  ‘How minor is minor’?, I ask.  She excuses herself and says that she will speak with the senior neurologist.

The minutes seem long now.  My head spins.  ‘Is there something she doesn’t want to tell me? News that she would prefer her senior delivered'?  I think of My Lovely Friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer very recently.  She’s the same age as me, also with a young family and largely managing on her own.   She’s a stunner.  The type of girl who turned the heads of the handsome guys in college.  I recall our phone call when she tells me her news and the plans for the next few months.  Chemotherapy, surgery and radiation.  She tells me that she has bought a wig.  I can’t remember what I said to her, but I know that I cursed a lot.  I think about her children and I think of mine.  The uncomfortable 'what if'? questions they ask that I'd prefer not answer.  I worry about how we will cope if I could no longer work to financially support them.  I have thoughts of people I know with advanced MS and what an unforgiving disease this can be.  I wonder if I could still feel feminine if I looked, moved, or sounded differently.  I think about My Lovely Friend’s upcoming surgery and how invasive it will be on her womanliness.  A strong willed lady, she has a plan, will roll her sleeves up and get through this.  I wish I lived closer, so I could offer her more practical support.

The neurologist returns and the news is good.  Really good.  The minor lesions on my scan are old, in the sense that they were visible on last year’s scan.  There are no new lesions.  Those that are there have shrunk.  The drugs are doing what they are intended to do, although it's not the case for other people.  It's as good as it can be.   I can feel the relief in my body as she completes the paperwork and refers me to haematology for blood tests.  My needle aversion hasn’t lessened and I need to lie down.  The blood flows easily.  The sun shines.  Today is a good day.

Holding Hands in the Country Side: Mother's Day

I wake on Mother’s Day, in true Irish Mammy style – wrecked with guilt.  I am missing out on a family mass and gathering of my mother's clan.  I know that she would have liked me there, but the 9.30am service in Co Louth would require a 7am start, on the morning after the clocks had moved forward.  Besides, it is Mr Private’s birthday.  It would have been unfair to ask him to make the trek - This particular baptism of fire is a step too far for any Birthday Boy.  

It was also my first Mother’s Day without my children, as it wasn’t ‘my weekend’.   I was fine about it until the actual day and woke feeling a terrible a pang, missing the little critters terribly.  

In the build up to Mr Private’s birthday, I get myself in a heap about a gift for him.  He’s been very generous to me, so I want to get him something special.  Option A is to buy something expensive.  Option B, something thoughtful.  I decide on Option B, something I make, inspired by an earlier conversation we had.  I know that he will appreciate the effort.  Besides, Option A brings me out in a sweat – Let’s face it, men are hard to buy for at the best of times.  When you don’t know someone that well, it’s trickier.  I'm still in the process of finding out important stuff, like what kind of chocolate he likes (no nuts, but yes to rock salt).  I consider going through his wardrobe to get ideas for a gift of clothes, but I’m afraid of being caught in the act by him and appearing like a Bunny Boiler.  Yes, the handmade is easier in a sense, albeit 10 hours of work late at night.  Before I present it, the familiar feeling of self-doubt creeps in – there was no gift receipt with this one.

My son was with me when I buy a birthday card for Mr Private days previously.  I don’t think he notices me browsing, as I am also buying a Mother’s Day card for my Mam, but he does.  My children know about Mr Private, but haven’t met him.  My boy directs me to the cards intended for male ‘friends’ – you know the ones - insipid watercolour paintings of golfers, or a sail boat.  He says, ‘these would be good Mam, because he is JUST your friend’.   I agree.  I purchase the blandest blue checkered ‘On Your Birthday’ card in the shop and the child looks satisfied.

For Mr Private’s birthday, he wants to go to see Kerry V Cavan in Breffni Park, in Cavan Town.  He had flagged this before we discovered that the clash of dates.  I joke that there is nowhere else that a Meath woman want to be on Mother’s Day?  The only thing comfortable about this encounter is the green and gold strip of the Kerry team, mirroring the colours of the Royal County.  For the first time ever, I shout for Cavan, as the underdog and Mr Private, for his home county of Kerry.  Throughout the match, memories of GAA matches with my father run through my mind.  Hill 16, amid a sea of Dubs.  Brian Stafford, cool as anything stepping back to take a free.  David Beggy, running like lightening.  Big lumps of men like Joe Cassells and Liam Hayes.  Tanks of lads like Mick Lyons.  ‘The physical Meath team’, as Pat Spillane called them.  What would Da have thought of me standing here today?  'Be the hokey'.  I watch children now, in their county colours, too wee to be able to see the match properly, only interested in going to the tuck shop, and yet becoming alert every time the crowd cheers. 

Like the family wedding I attended with Mr Private, it probably seems ‘too soon’ to introduce him to my mother.  But I had a longing to see her on Mother’s Day, so we make a detour to home farm on our return journey.  He slags me about really being from Cavan, given the proximity to the border, but as everyone knows, borders are more important, the closer you get to them.  I tell him if I was a Cavan woman, that I wouldn't have splashed out on a e3 bet with him, on which team would win.

Mr Private changes his mind about not wanting birthday cake when he sees my mother’s rather impressive home baking, complete with an impromptu candle.  On our route back to Kildare, I point out house after house where my relations live, where I went to school and I tell stories about people who influenced my life, special teachers who helped shape the person that I have become. 

I pick my children up at 8pm.  They have Mother’s Day cards for me that they made at their child minders on Thursday and manage to keep a secret until then.  I’m impressed as much by the secret-keeping as I am with the hand crafted cards.  When I had dropped off my children’s weekend bags at their school the previous Friday afternoon, I had spotted another card in my daughter’s hand, but she hid it from me.  I remind her now, asking if she made me a card at school.  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, the penny drops.  The card isn’t for me at all, it’s for her father’s girlfriend.  I want to kick myself.  She over explains that she had already made one for me and I reassure her, telling her that she is a sweet girl and what a kind thought that was.  More pangs of guilt for things being as they are for my precious babies.

Their body clocks are confused with the change of time, but I let them stay up late for extra special Mother’s Day cuddles on the couch.  My Mam texts me later and gives Mr Private the seal of approval.  Feck, I may hold onto him so, for another while anyway. Oh, and he loved his birthday present, genuinely.  Good result all around (apart from the GAA match, which ended in a draw).

Holding Hands in the Countryside: The Wedding

Quite a number of individuals who could collectively be called CCWLLL (Citizens Concerned With Lucina’s Love Life) have made contact with me, asking how ‘the wedding went’. For those of you who didn’t read my blog-before-the-previous-one, I wrote about a family wedding reception that I attended with Mr Private, my first time to meet any of his family.  The jist of the blog was that I hoped my very un-me flowery dress would act as camouflage and that I would disappear into floral wallpaper that one would expect to find in a hotel.

My trip to the wedding involved 4, yes, 4, train changes.  There were no problems with missed connections and the traipsing between trains wasn’t as bad as it sounded.  I sat beside a lovely woman on the train destined for Cork.  She was stuck on a crossword clue in the Farmer’s Journal magazine.  She was surprised that I was familiar with the Journal.  I told her that my mother still bought it even after my father died.  Before long, we had exchanged stories about all things country, including road frontage, in-laws, marriage break-ups, grandchildren and wills.  I confined in her about how nervous I was about the wedding and she does her best to reassure me, like a surrogate Irish Mammy, before I left her to board my fourth train for the day. 

It was amusing to consider my journey, from the 7am commuter train to Dublin, packed with The Suits, doing an hour’s work before they hit the city, to the increasingly gradual slow-down of pace, over a number of hours, the  closer I came to Kerry.   It seemed like everyone was in holiday spirit, but it was mid-term after all.  I felt a pang of guilt that I wasn’t with my own children on their mid-term.  I put my ‘selfish bitch’ thoughts on the shelf for future perusal. 

My pre-booked taxi driver knew my work counterpart in Kerry and I was happy to speak to him about Kildare’s 1916 programme – a grasp at something familiar.  The unfamiliar view of misty mountains from the hotel was calming and beautiful all the same.  The guna felt deas when I put it on and the make-do hair and make-up was decent enough.   Meanwhile, Mr Private sent some photos that confirmed that the bride had indeed said ‘I do’ and was on his way.  

The saxophone player’s tunes wafted across the hotel reception and loud enough to drown any inner scream of ‘what the hell am I doing here’, while I sipped a cup of coffee that I couldn’t taste. Mr Private arrives and I’m aware that I’ve never seen him in a suit before.  He is looking dapper and as radiant as the beautiful bride.  He’s smiling at me and the trip seems worthwhile now.

Time is short and the bell rings to call us for the meal.  I feel a cold sweat develop as I realise that I have yet to meet the bride and groom and that I have no idea who I will sit with for dinner, while Mr Private sits at the top table.  He has it all sorted and it’s all good.  After the meal, I meet various relations and Mr Private introduces me as his ‘girlfriend’.  They smile and nod, but otherwise don’t bat an eyelid.  I expect an interrogation, but it doesn’t come.  Maybe it’s a down-South thing, or perhaps they just aren’t as nosey as my family (myself included), who would put any new suitor through a Quick Fire Round of questions on first sight.  The younger relations though, belie this, with the teenagers blushing, without making eye contact, mortified that Mr Private is holding my hand while the younger ones look at me, their eyes on sticks, the unknown creature in the flowery dress with the thick Meath accent.  I’m introduced to Mr Private’s male friends, with warm, soft handshakes.  It’s my turn to blush now, wondering what, if anything, he has told them about me.

Mr Private brings me out to dance and he’s beaming.  Is he as mindful as I am that we have never danced together before?  Thankfully, he doesn’t copy my dance moves, as that is a sack able offence. He sits down to chat to his friends, while one of the cousins pulls me back out on the dance floor, to the circle of girls.

I feel like I belong.

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Our First Tiff

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Myself and Mr Private had our first tiff, although it was far from a door-slamming/raised voices/finger pointing affair.

I, and eleven others were invited to speak at 'Strictly Speaking', a fund-raising event by Athy Toastmasters, where we were each given two random topics to speak about for 2-3 minutes.  The contestants were to be scored in 'Strictly Come Dancing' style, by a panel of four judges.  As the event got closer, I got more and more nervous.  I really wanted a bit of support, especially after one of the event organisers, Maggie, sends an email encouraging us to bring friends and family.  None of my family live locally and most of my friends in Athy have young children, with all of the logistics of childcare, so I didn't ask any of them to come along. Of course, I would know lots of people there, but it's not the same as having someone special, clapping that bit louder for you.

I thought that Mr Private was elsewhere that weekend, but when I found out that he would be 'around' after all, I sent him a text message the night before and asked him to come along.  He sent back a vague text not committing to anything.

The following morning, the 'Day Of', I text him again.  His reply was a firm 'no', with an excuse, equivalent to 'I'm washing my hair'.  My text in return said 'fine', but of course I wasn't fine.  If I was standing in front of him, he would have gathered that I was raging and disappointed, in equal measures.  Maybe if I had put a string of emojis with angry and sad faces in the message, he would have better understood. That's the thing about text messages though, it can be difficult to read 'tone'.

I recalled how out of place I felt at Mr Private's family wedding a few weeks previously, hoping my flowery dress would camouflage me into the background. 'You fecker', I thought to myself, 'I did that for you'.  Aside from that, I thought that he would been curious to see a whole other side of me, the Public Lucina.  I was out of sorts all afternoon, upset, with the nerves building in my belly, but busying myself with children and Saturday chores.

Mr Private sent me another message, asking how I was.  I text back saying that I was still 'fine', but that 'I am tired of going to events on my own'.  He asked me to call him, but I said I was busy, and I was. Truth is, though, there would have been tears, and I felt a bit silly about that.

In the meantime, a fellow contestant in the Strictly Speaking, the lovely Trish, called me to see if I wanted a lift to the event, she being as nervous as I, bless her wee socks.

As I got ready for the evening, I called Mr Private.  He told me that he was just out of the shower, getting ready to come with me.  Words tumbled out of his mouth, saying how sorry he was, that he didn't realise that the night was such a big deal to me.  I explained that I was now going with someone and I didn't want to let her down.  Mr Private stayed home and watched rubbish TV. The nerves eased after I did my first speech and we had a great night.  Throughout the night, Mr Private sent me lovely messages encouraging me along.

The following week, we meet for lunch and Mr Private listens to what I have to say, I mean, actually listens. He gets it.  I like him all the more now.   We are officially doing 'fine'.

Holding Hands in the Countryside : A Wisteria Wedding

It may seen a little 'soon', but Mr Private likes me enough to invite me to a family wedding, an important one that requires him to be on duty all day and sit at the top table, while I'll arrive, mid proceedings and wing it amid a sea of guests who already know each other. I haven't met any of his family yet, but sure, there's nothing like getting stuck in, right?

It seems like a great idea a week ago, but as the day drew close, a sick feeling that started in my belly has crept up my throat, the fear of being exposed, a la, The Emperor's New Clothes.

I'm on my way there now, via a complicated train route, that involves no less than 3 changeovers. That in inself is enough to stress me out.

Then there was the matter of the guna. As is typical of other shopping expeditions for clothes, I gave myself an hour to find something, in my old reliable, Buy Design ,still a relatively hidden gem in Crookstown, Co Kildare. Almost everything I admired on the hangers, I didn't like on myself. As Larry Gogan might say on the 2FM Just A Minute Quiz, 'they didn't suit ya'.

Then I broke the rules for the gal who 'doesn't do floral' and tried on a dress weighed down with a wisteria pattern. I smiled. 'Wisteria Drive' was the address for the "Desperate House wives' TV show. Scientific evidence that this was the frock for me.

I brought my mother shopping yesterday and made the fatal error of looking in the wedding worthy ensemble rails. The floral option seemed less and less of a good idea. But given that all of the acqutraments were already in place, I thought best to stick with Plan A.

I'm hoping that the hotel is one of those decorated with layers if textured pattern, so my guna will camouflage me into the background. Right now, 'wallflower' is sounding like an attractive option, provided at Mr Private can find me.

Wish me luck peeps