Nun Attacks - Day 4 of the West Cork Literary Festival

"Your poems have no rhythm," said the small block of a woman to the American Fulbright scholar who had just read four of his best pieces to a packed audience. "Is it the way of modern poetry not to have rhythm?" she asked.

"I think you mean rhyme." said the scholar.

"I know perfectly well what I mean and you don't have it." Then turning to the director of the creative writing programme she demanded to know where all the brochures for the MA programme had gone. He told her that the other members of the audience had taken them.   "You didn't bring enough." she said and turned to leave.

"Let's go," whispered Margaret. Neither of us knew this woman but Margaret didn't want to draw her on us.  We were almost at the exit when I recognised the husband of a friend of mine. I stopped to talk to him. 

"I'm gasping for a cup of coffee," said a voice behind us, "can I join you?"  We turned around.  It was the woman from the reading. Caught by surprise I replied, "Of course."  As we walked slowly past the Protestant Church on the edge of Bantry square she told me her name was Hyacinth and that she was a retired nun living in Clonakilty.  We were almost at end of the square before I realised Margaret was gone.   

Hyacinth's feet had corns and so I suggested we go to Frog's Café as that was the nearest.  Once inside the café, Hyacinth found us a table for two by the window while I  queued up at the counter. Two brimming cups of latte later I joined her. 

"Did they give us any bit of a biscuit to go with our coffee?" she said peering around the cups.  I shrugged and said I wasn't given any.  Up she went to counter and charmed the staff into giving her a 'bit of a biscuit',  a Danish pastry. No charge.   

At 4.30 pm we left the café to climb the steep hill to Bantry Library to hear Eileen Battersby, book reviewer with the Irish Times, read from her first novel.  We were early enough to get front row seats but we opted for the second row as Hyacinth 'didn't want to be looking up her nose.'  Partway through the reading Hyacinth leaned into me and making no attempt to lower her voice said, "I don't care much for her book, do you?" 

After the reading, I fled the scene leaving Sister Hyacinth behind and dashed down the hill to the Maritime Hotel to listen to Eileen Battersby again; this time to hear her talk about her book reviews with the Times.  

After Eileen I ran down the corridor to join the queue for Colm Toibin's reading of his new novel at 8.30pm.  I texted my friend Mary who was driving down from Cork City to tell her of my whereabouts and that I would keep a seat for her.  Hyacinth appeared and joined me in the queue.  When the doors opened there was a rush for the seats but we managed to get three great seats in the front row right smack in front of where Colm would be sitting.    I put my bag on the third seat for Mary. 

Two fat men sat two seats down from Hyacinth. A Dublin man approached us and asked if he could have Mary's seat.  I told him no but gestured to the two free seats between Hyacinth and the fat men.  He took the one next to Hyacinth.    A minute later Ian Bailey walked up and asked if Mary's seat was free.  Again I said no but pointed to the last free seat between the Dublin man and the fat men.  He took it.

Whoever designed the seating plan did not account for adult bodies.   Hyacinth and myself being low sized women were fine but Ian Bailey is a large man and was forced to perch on the edge of his seat.  He could not lean back owing to the overlap of equally large male bodies on either side of him.  He got up and politely moved Mary's seat which was at the end of the row three inches further out.  I obliged by shuffling my seat three inches out too.  Bernadette moved a fraction but it made no difference: he was still forced to sit forward in his seat for the entire reading.  

I didn't know anything about Colm Toibin other than he wrote Brooklyn which became a movie.  I asked Hyacinth Colm's age.     "I don't know," she said, "but I'll ask Ian," and turning to her right she leaned across the Dublin man to ask the question.   Ian didn't know either but calculated he was about 65.           Ian then got up and disappeared for a few minutes.    The Dublin man took advantage of his absence to ask Hyacinth whether he was sitting next to someone famous. Hyacinth said he had been a suspect in a local murder back in 1996.   I urged Hyacinth to keep her voice down while frantically checking the room for Ian's whereabouts.

Right on time and to vigorous applause Colm Toibin took his seat on the stage.   Despite his dour photograph in the festival programme, Colm was funny, and kind to the young interviewer.  He read from two different sections of his book the story of which is based on a Greek legend involving murder and revenge and into which he interweaved several Irish myths.    

The questions were then open to the floor.  Only two were asked.  One of them being why didn't Colm draw on the god of Eros more fully and why he didn't describe the sex scenes in detail.  "Mother of God," exclaimed Hyacinth letting her eyes roll wildly all the way to the back of her head.   Colm seemed a little taken aback by the question but rallied saying that he had "in fact had found a book on ancient Greek homosexuality complete with very explicit illustrations but had to give up after page 16."

Colm then read the final three pages of his book.   The ghost of Arrestes's mother is lingering in the garden of the family home and she wants to speak to her son.         Colm freely admitted he borrowed heavily from Macbeth and Hamlet for this section by having the mother haunt Arrestes after he murdered her.  "Because you see," said Colm smiling down at us, "I don't know what someone does after they murder their mother.  Do they go have a meal? Do they have a bath?  Do they go talk to a friend? I mean, what do they do?  I looked at all the various writers: Ann Enright, James Joyce, John Bourne, even Jane Austen but nowhere could I find a writer that describes what someone does after they murder their mother." 

Colm paused, smiled again and said, "Thank you."   The audience exploded into applause. The interview was over.  I jumped up out of my seat and bolted for the exit. I spotted Mary making her way towards me from the back of the room.

"Where were you?" I cried.  Mary explained she had arrived late and was only allowed enter the room by the back door.  Hyacinth caught up with us and beaming a welcoming smile at Mary said, "So, where are we meeting tomorrow?" 

Note to self...

I read somewhere that running a marathon is a lonely experience.  I agree yet I cannot wait until I do my next.  I made several mistakes in the week leading up to the day of the marathon and on the day itself..  

The 18 week training programme  I followed required me to taper my training right up to the day of the marathon but once I had done the 20 mile run I decided I had done enough and I spent the last week resting and eating.  Big mistake; my muscles, from my knees right up through my hips, started to feel achy like I had already run the thing.  

If you have been running for the last five months it is what your body has come to expect.  If you suddenly stop, it seems your body doesn't to like it as it starts to adjust to your new lifestyle.

On the day of the actual marathon, I took Jaffa Cakes, jelly sweets and Lucozade all three things I don't usually touch.   I had read that you should not introduce new things to your lifestyle for two weeks beforehand and now I know whey.     My gut bloated out: your body is used to one system and introducing new foods or routines at the last minute really upsets it.  Like a new born baby, when it's upset you are the one who pays for your stupidity.

At the start line I'll stand at the back where I belong.  Tom and I stood near the start line behind the men bearing balloons with times written on them and took off at a pace far faster than I was used to and I paid for it with a stitch.     Unless you are a serious runner you don't belong there and it's inconsiderate to the serious runners.

What I take away from the experience is that although my legs started to seize up around mile 16 it never occurred to me to give up.  Where my body faltered my mind never did.  And that gives e confidence to take on other challenges. 

The day after the marathon, still on a very satisfied high, I registered for the Dublin City marathon in October.  And maybe the London and New York.

Joining the 1%

I ran my first full marathon last Sunday.  I had always wanted to do one but I was afraid. Afraid that I would hurt my body, afraid that I would not have the mental stamina to see it through and just intimidated by the thought of covering over 26 miles in one day.  Then last December while I was visiting my son, Tom in Galway, he told me he was going to do the Cork City marathon the following June: with the job market being so competitive, he needed something on his CV to help him stand out and only 1% of the world's population have ever completed a marathon.  I decided to do it too.  

There were three things I looked forward to about the marathon: 1. running through the Jack Lynch tunnel; 2. my name on the race number because only the full timers get to have their name printed on the number and I'm a sucker for seeing my name in print, and 3. finishing it.

Tom did his training outdoors, I did mine on a treadmill.  When it came time to do the longest run, 20 miles, I started at 8.30 am and finished at 1.40 pm. Every 100 minutes when the treadmill timed out, I stepped off to use the loo and get a drink of water. At the 2nd time out I walked briskly to the locker room to eat a banana and chewed it slowly until it was drinkable: all the better for the sugar to get into my veins. The 3rd time, I ate a peanut butter sandwich and chewed it just as slowly; it was disgusting.  

With that 20 miles under my belt I was confident.

The day before the marathon, Tom and I went to the City Hall to register and collect our numbers.  I checked for my number for my name but it wasn't on there. Tom didn't have one either. I thought maybe we had to peel something off.     I held it up to the light but couldn't see anything.   I asked the girl handing out the goodie bags. She looked at me sympathetically and said, "Sorry but the company that was supposed to do those didn't turn up." I was devastated.   Tom told me to get a grip and suggested we go look at the marathon route which was up on a large board.   Two men were already at the board scrutinising the route carefully.  As we waited behind them, a woman standing alongside us said, "I wouldn't mind but I'm actually the one running the thing and I couldn't care less." I asked her if she realised that our names were not on the race numbers.  She looked at me surprised and went rooting into her goody bag to check.  Her husband looked over his shoulder and told us to get a grip.  I grumbled under my breath that it was all very well for him but he wasn't actually running the race.    Tom pulled me up to the map board but I couldn't read it: I was too emotional.

That afternoon I drove to Farranfore, Co Kerry to see my friend Susie: we had tickets to see Graham Norton at the Listowel Writers Week that night.  I booked the tickets months ago and didn't realise until afterwards that the dates were back to back. 

Graham was great.  I was in bed for midnight and up the next morning at 5.30 thanks to a nest of starlings outside my window. It was a beautiful morning as I drove home: a rainbow, whole and complete, greeted me as I headed eastwards to Cork. I ate the peanut butter and banana sandwiches, thoughtfully provided for the night before by Susie, taking care to chew them slowly and thoroughly until they turned liquid before swallowing confident they would be well digested before race time.

I arrived home at 7.35 am.  Tom was up. I changed into my gear.  I felt as excited as Christmas morning. My husband, Neil took a photo of us pre marathon. At 8.00 am, Neil drove us as far as City Hall.  We walked briskly to Patrick's Street where the start and finish lines were.  That was my warm up.  Hundreds of people swarmed the area in front of Brown Thomas which was right next to the start line.   The competitors were stretching or jogging on the spot, their supporters chatted excitedly and took photographs while announcements were being made over loud speakers which I couldn't hear.  

The street leading up to the start line and beyond was lined on both sides with six foot high steel barriers giving the impression of a long cage.  At 8.45 am restless and cold, Tom and I entered the cage and stood a few yards behind the start line.    Tom did his warm ups. He planted one leg firmly on the ground and swung the other as far as he could out front and then back.  His kick was so high he was in danger of kicking himself in the head.  

Soon we were joined by the others; real hard-core lean, wiry men with not an ounce of fat between them in their thin singlets, tiny shorts and low digit race numbers. Only amateurs like us wore the official race top on the day of the race.  Then we saw men with yellow balloons tied to themselves with numbers like 3.00 and 4.30 written on in black ink.  "I think we're in the wrong place," I whispered to Tom, "maybe we should go to the back?" "Stay where you are," he said.   So we did and it was nice: we weren't so cold now that we were surrounded by bodies.

As I stood there, nervous as a new bride, I mentally updated one of my goals.  Not only did I want finish it but I wanted to do it within the course time; 6 hours. According to the race booklet the course closed at 3pm after which time the gardai would ask you to move to the pavement.  I didn't want that. That would be embarrassing.  It was bad enough to be middle aged and running in public but to be asked to move aside to allow the real world go about it's business would be mortifying. 

Suddenly we heard the countdown and we were off.  I ran at the same pace as the pack: I had no choice.  We were corralled into a tight space and it was run or be in someone's way.    After a few yards we spread out to the full width of Patrick Street; I kept up the pace.  The cold morning air crushed my lungs.  I panicked: I wasn't used to fresh air. I kept running. Turning left on to Grand Parade was beautiful : the whole street was open only to us.   Left again onto the South Mall and with the morning sun on our faces, it was glorious.

I kept up the pace and tried to breathe through my nose to calm my brain. My legs were fine but my mind and lungs were killing me. Tom was long gone. We turned left onto Parnell Place and left again onto Merchant's Quay.  I kept it up. We had now done a full loop.  Running past Patrick's Street on the left and the Bridge on the right, we continued on down the quay and taking a right at the Opera House we crossed over the bridge onto Carroll's Quay. Then I got a stitch. 

I pulled into the left and slowed down to walk off the pain.  When that passed, I started to run again but my breakfast started to come up.  I wailed internally, 'But I had that three hours ago!!' I slowed again to walking pace until the heaving passed.  According to the race booklet the tunnel would be closed at 11 am. It didn't say what would happen to the runners that got there late but I did not want to be one of them.  

I got to the tunnel at 10.15 am.  The north south bore was open just for us runners.  Oh the joy!   I ran into the gloom with my arms outstretched shouting, "I'm running through the tunnel."   Two men to my right laughed and advised me to "Take it easy: there's a 50 mile speed limit around here."

In Mahon, a race clock told me it was 10.50 am. That meant the half marathoners started five minutes ago.  I had hoped that when I got to the Marina, where the half merges with the full, I'd be able to lose myself among them but I was too late.  The Marina is a long, beautiful tree-shaded walk by the river but right then it was the loneliest place on earth and I felt like I had just missed the party.  

As I walked past the deserted and boarded up factories, including Gouldings Fertilisers where my Dad used to work, I 'hit the wall'.  Ahead was the 3rd relay changeover marked by a sea of sky blue t-shirts - the colour of the relay teams - and mile 16.  I assumed I was alone until I was joined by another runner called Aisling who said, "This is so lonely, I don't know if I can go on." I felt instantly better.  I noticed that my legs and mind had swapped roles: my legs were crumbling but my mind was telling me to 'keep moving and preferably at a faster pace than you're doing now.'

We chatted all the way up to the changeover. I told Aisling that when all this was over I was going to slice off my arse as it was bobbing up and down behind me like a wet pillow and slowing me down. She looked at me startled and plugging in her earphones said, "I'll keep going." I lumbered up into a slow jog behind her.  Past the changeover and to yet another quay, the bright sunshine now just made the buildings look flat and the shining road surface hurt my eyes. 

Rounding the corner of Sexton's pub, I tried to gear up the enthusiasm to run the Link.    Last year, I thought it was the coolest thing to run on the road I drive on every day to work.  Opposite the Elysian building at the start of the Link stood a blonde woman holding out a box.  She shouted something to me.  I couldn't hear her.  As I got closer I heard her say, "Jaffa Cakes." I wobbled over to her.  I couldn't get my swollen fingers to single out a biscuit.  Laughing she said, "Take two, or three!" I took two stuck together.  I let them rest on my tongue.  The delicious, divine and exquisite sweetness of the Jaffas perked up my mood and gave me the legs to run the glorious Link before turning up into Turner's Cross and sagging again. 

I knew they had changed the course this year to accommodate the churches but when a volunteer sent me down a lane way in Ballyphehane I was dubious.  "Down there?" I said, "are you sure?" She gestured wearily but firmly.  I probably wasn't the first to ask.  The lane, no more than eight feet wide, ran between a park and a housing estate.  I saw girl with a half marathon race number enter the park. She had given up.  It crossed my mind to follow her in and persuade her to keep going but I didn't. 

At the end of the lane, four volunteers sent me on to a long wide avenue with cars parked on both sides and residents sitting at their gateways clapping my progress.  I was the only one on the road. It was as bleak and deserted as High Noon.   Up ahead was a major junction.  A garda was standing there with one eye on me and frantically hurrying cars through.  As I drew level he stopped the traffic with two cars to go and gestured me through.  I loved that.

The Model Farm Road was deserted except for a long line of portaloos, the final relay runners waiting their turn and, no bananas.  Last year they had a long table dripping with bananas but I was too late.  I eyed the portaloos. Maybe I should go.  So I went. But once on the potty I couldn't get up again.  I used the door handle and sink to lever myself up.  The sink came out of the wall and landed in my lap.  Somehow I straightened up and fled the scene. 

At the turn into Inchigaggin Lane two volunteer ladies were holding plastic boxes.  "Sugar?" I enquired hopefully.  "Jellies," they replied and one of them placed two in my hand.  They were disgusting but I sucked them slowly until I came to the Lucozade tables which I knew was waiting ahead.     I detest sugary drinks but last year when I did the half marathon I tried one. The effect was electric: the sugar exploded in my mouth; pricked up my brain; sent bolts of energy through my veins and gave me the belief I could carry on.  I was expecting the same effect this year.  When I arrived at the tables I spat out the jelly, eagerly took one of the cups and gently drained the contents into my mouth.      There was no explosion, no hit to the brain just my gut gurgling nastily.

With my belly bloated I waddled around the corner on to the Carrigrohane Straight, surely the most boring, mundane road in the whole of Ireland and pure torture to put at the end of a marathon. 

Up ahead I saw Aisling chatting to a fellow woman runner wearing a Carrigaline AC top.  I shuffled painfully to catch up with them. 
 
"Where is mile 23?" asked Aisling. I looked around and immediately became dizzy. 
"I don't know," I said, "maybe we passed it?"
"Couldn't have, I've been looking out for them: they're what's keeping me going!"
We discussed our training preparation for the event each trying to outdo the other in how little we did.  Up ahead Aisling spotted a sign on a lamp post. "Is that mile 23?" 
"I can't see, it's slipped down behind the toilets."
We got closer. The sign said 'Toilets.'
We plodded on.  We approached the Kingsley Hotel.  We could see a sign on a lamp post in front of the hotel almost hidden by some trees.  It said 'Mile 24'

Aisling shouted, "Yes, that has made my day!" She turned to me and plugging in her earphones said, "I don't mean to be rude but I'm going to run on and I need to hear music to do it." I waved her on.

I got to Mardyke Walk and despite the exhortations of a lovely lady volunteer I simply could not get my legs to up the pace from walking resolutely to actually running.  At the end of the Mardyke Walk there is a bridge over the river Lee on which stood a volunteer handing out bottles of water.  I asked him if I was the last.   He laughed and said, "Ah, no. I'm sure you're grand."

I crossed the bridge and walked the leafy walk at the far side of the river.      In this same spot last year I was among a glut of runners and in the quietness of the glade I heard reassurances of,  "Nearly there lads, keep going." Now, they seemed to have re-opened the walk to the public as I met dog walkers and buggies coming the other way.  They must be closing the course. 

I emerged on to Bachelor's Walk and bright sunshine.  I saw two male volunteers leaning against a wall talking.   I asked them the time and when they told me it was 'a quarter to three' I realised I could still make the six hours.  I heaved my screaming, aching carcass into a running position and relying on the laws of gravity I proceeded to propel myself in a forward motion.  

On arriving at the bridge at the bottom of Shandon Street, I was directed to the right.  Crossing the bridge I assumed I would be sent left and down the quay towards Patrick's street but no, they gestured to me to run straight on down North Main Street.  I was confused: I was being sent away from the finish line. 

An official race photographer sitting on the bridge took a photo of me.  He didn't give me time to unstick my fringe from my forehead. 

North Main street is riddled with speed bumps made of cobble stones which are quaint but hazardous if you're a runner whose body no longer has the dexterity to manoeuvre itself from full pelt to gingerly picking its way over lumps.   I heard later that another runner had tripped on one of these speed bumps and cracked his head open.  Thanks to quick thinking pedestrians he was put into the recovery position and an ambulance was called.  But he didn't finish the race.  Which is the greater agony - having  your head split open or getting that far only to be stopped at the last hurdle?

A man shouted, "Keep going, you only have 500 yards."   Looking ahead I assumed we'd turn left on Castle Street which would take me quickly to Patrick Street but nooooooooo, I was told to go straight on to Washington Street which was still leading me away from the finish line. 

I don't know why but I always get emotional at the end of a race and sure enough the tears started to well up.  Later than usual mind you: last year they started on Bachelor's Walk and didn't stop until I got over the finish line.

At Washington Street mercifully, I was guided left and then, the best moment happened.  Up ahead, at the traffic lights on Finn's Corner, twenty pedestrians had started to cross the road when the garda managing that junction spotted me approaching.  Even though the pedestrians were half way across and would have make it, he stopped them and ordered them to go back.  That made me laugh.  Amazingly, the pedestrians obeyed him and, far from resenting the inconvenience, they applauded me as I passed.  I got all emotional again.  

I turned left onto Grand Parade and almost immediately veered right to take the corner onto Patrick's Street.  I stopped.  "Where's the fucking finish line," I roared.  Nobody answered.  I geared up again.    Past Waterstones on the left, Holland & Barrett on the right and finally, there it was in front of Penneys with a race time of 05 hours and 48 minutes.  I had twelve minutes to spare!  

Neil and Tom were sitting on the pavement in front of Brown Thomas waiting for me.   Tom came in at 04 hours and 20 minutes.  He could've gone home or gone somewhere close by for lunch but no, he waited for me so that we could share the moment.  

We are now in the 1% Club.

 

If I only had a dream...

I read the children's book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz over the weekend.  As with most books converted to film there is so much more in the book.  Dorothy on her hero's journey to return home discovers after all her adventures that she always had the power to go home.     The scarecrow demonstrates his wisdom long before he gets his brains from the wizard, the Tin Man is already kind and the lion, my favourite character in the film, was brave already. 

At my weekly guided meditation on Tuesday night, the tutor ended the session with the question, "What do I want?"  I nearly fell off my chair.  When I questioned her, she told me that by putting the question out to the universe the answer will come back; it could be the next day or in 18 months time.  I asked if the answer came back 18 months down the road how was I know that it was in answer to my question.  She admitted she didn't know but somehow it worked.

"What do I want?" is exactly what am I am asking myself these past several years.  It irritates me when on Facebook that cheery, unrealistic mantra, "Follow your dream" pops up.  It assumes a) you have a dream and b) you know what it is.  Is a person boring or lacking in spiritual depth if they don't have a dream?  It's a lucky person that knows exactly what they want because then they can at least take the first step.  As far as I can see most people are making it up as they go along. 

I've registered for the Cork City Marathon which takes place on Sunday June 4th.  Every year since 2012 I register for the half marathon but secretly want to go for the full but I'm scared.  This year my son, Tom announced before Christmas, in an effort to beef up his employment prospects, he was doing the marathon.  It was the shot in the arm I needed.  I signed up too.  We are following the Hal Higdon programme Novice 1 level.  Tom runs in the fresh air and rain whereas I do mine in the comfort of the gym with ready access to toilet, water and coffee.  The marathon is not a dream, it's more of a curiosity to see if I can do it.  

I was talking to a friend this morning about self help books and he remembers one he picked up in the library years ago which said in its introduction, '90% of the content of this book you know already.'   That's one very honest book.  In my brain, heart and mind I know that's true but I still wouldn't mind meeting my own Glinda, the good witch of the North and getting her opinion.  Sometimes it's easier to have no choice and just keep going until you meet a flying monkey or a talking scarecrow...

Open Heart Surgery in Aldi

Last Sunday I read The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer.  The book recommends keeping an open heart in all situations even when the situation seems to be going against you.  By staying open you will see the situation for what it is rather than viewing it through a distorted lens of someone who has been hurt in the past and is operating from a closed heart.  It made sense to me.

 

The following day while driving home from work I remembered I needed potatoes for a fish pie I planned to make for dinner and so I stopped at the Aldi shop in Ballyphehane.

Half way down one particular aisle where you can find anything from skiing underwear to bird feeders, I noticed two women discussing a rugby top.  One of the women was short with long black hair, the other was a tall blonde; both seemed to be aged in their forties. 

A few minutes later with my trolley full, I headed to the checkouts.  After I unloaded my stuff on the conveyor belt and popped a divider at the end, I noticed that the customer in front of me was the small dark haired lady I had seen earlier. Just then her friend squeezed in behind me and with her arms laden with two bottles of wine, three bottles of tonic water, two packets of biscuits and a rugby top she reached across the belt and attempted to pick up a divider from the slot.  With her arms full it wasn't easy and as she fumbled to wrest one free, the cashier asked her what she was doing. 

The woman quickly reassured him, "Oh, we are together but I want to pay for my stuff separately."

The cashier looked at me. I shrugged reminding myself of my new  mantra, 'Open heart, open mind.'

As the cashier checked through the bottles of wine he looked up at the woman and said, "You have ID to show you're old enough to buy this wine?"

She didn't answer.

When the cashier was finished the woman handed him her credit card. It didn't work.  She asked could she sign for it.  The cashier agreed but repeated that he still needed to see her ID. She produced her ID. The cashier was satisfied.  All was well. 

The woman then turned to me and said, "Sorry for delaying you."
I smiled back and said, "No problem."
The woman then scooped up the bottles and biscuits and went to leave.
I called her back, "You're forgetting your rugby top." 
The lady turned back to the till and looked at the rugby top. 

"Would you like a bag?" I said.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly take one of your bags!"
"It's OK, I've got loads."

The woman dumped everything back on the belt.  As she filled the bag, she explained, "I live in Australia you see, and bags over there are free.  In fact, I don't even know how you go about getting a bag in Ireland."
The cashier answered her, "There are under the counter, you have to pay."
I laughed.
The woman turned back to me, "You're laughing at me, aren't you?"
I laughed again.
The woman left. Her friend had already gone ahead.
As I pulled my trolley around to the front of the till the cashier whispered, "You are a nice person."
I whispered back, "I'm learning."
Walking across the car park, I saw the small lady with dark hair driving towards the entrance of the car park yet her friend was walking towards me holding my bag in the air.  She folded the bag several times into a hand-sized lump and stuffing it into one of my bags of shopping said, "I was only trying to buy my friend and her husband a bottle of wine and some things for her children." She paused and then patting me on the arm said, "Well, at least I made you laugh." And she walked away to catch up with her friend.

This open heart stuff is great: you get to meet such interesting people.

Gardening with Brighid

I'm just back from an amazing weekend spent in Galway with my friend, Brighid.  Brighid lives in an old Irish cottage which she has filled with gorgeous fabrics, symbolism and a fabulous collection of indoor plants.  Brighid adores all plants as they too are forms of life just like us manifested on this earth in a different form.  She rescued a limb from a 100 year old cactus plant that had belonged to her grandmother and coaxed it to grow on its own.  It is now over six foot tall. She even has an ivy that broke through from outside the house walls and comes through the kitchen ceiling.  It's as welcome as those in pots.  She waters all her plants regularly with rainwater she saves and not 'chlorine muck from the tap'. 

 

A magnificent geranium sits like an enormous spider in front of a pine dresser; its long, thin branches droop delicately over the edges of its throne almost reaching the floor.   The leaves are a hue of dark green, shimmering velvet edged in purple. The fabric like quality of the leaves are such that if sewn together would make a gown as magnificent as the one worn by Scarlett O'Hara when she visited Rhett Butler in gaol.  I assumed from its size that like the cactus it, too, was an antique plant.  I asked Brighid if I could take a cutting. 

 

 "You know," she said, "plants are like people: if you provide the right environment they will thrive and if you're very lucky the odd one might even flower." Given that I had confessed the night before to buying plants in twos and take at least nine cuttings from a friends' plants in the hope of at least one surviving, her reluctance was understandable. 

 

 Not wishing to spoil its shape I concentrated my search around the back but as it was surrounded by other plants in equally massive pots restricting my access all I could do was paw uselessly at its leaves trying to find the beginning of an offshoot.  Looking for the source of the Nile would've been easier.   Eventually I decided that since this plant was such a monster it wouldn't miss one of its many legs and I simply ripped one out.  However, its long elegant stems was so entangled up with the others it was like trying to unknot a child's hair.  I regretted starting the venture and shoved the gangly leg into the plastic carrier bag from last night's Chinese take-away.

 

That night it poured but we woke to a beautiful sunny morning. We had our breakfast sitting on the patio enjoying the sun trap.  Brighid's house is less than a 100 feet from the sea and I could smell the salt in the breeze as I sipped my coffee.    I noticed a large pink plastic pot filled with rain-water.  I was tempted to tip it out as I do at home: most of my plants die from being waterlogged but just then a car pulled into the driveway. "Ah, it's Ms Moldova," said Brighid.  Brighid hopped up from her chair and ran inside the house.  Ms Moldova got out of her car and as she crossed the yard towards us she stopped at the pink bucket and picking up one of the handles she spilled the contents into the drain beside it.  She beat me to it.  

 

Suddenly an anguished "No" howled from inside the house.  Ms Moldova and I froze.  Brighid appeared at the backdoor holding a large plastic bowl and cried, "What have you done with my rainwater.....?" 

 

After breakfast we went for a walk.  Brighid drove a short distance before parking the car on a Boreen lined with stone walls beyond which lay fields filled with cows, some horses and hordes of golden, healthy daffodils in their prime.   It brought to mind Cork's version of Wordsworth's famous poem and I shared it with Brighid.

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered over vale and hill

When all at once I heard a shout

"Get off me fucking daffodils."

 

We came across a row of horse chestnut trees, their fat, sticky buds ready to burst.  "They would look amazing opening up in my home," said Brighid.   Scanning the line of trees she spotted a fallen branch which miraculously had new buds on it.  She marched into the bramble patch several yards wide that stood between us and the buds.  I plunged right in after her.  I joined her at the fallen branch and enthusiastically helped rip several short branches handing the best ones to Brighid.  Armed with a bouquet of toffee coloured buds, Brighid re-traced her steps effortlessly crossing the bramble patch again to safety.      I was not so lucky.  At every step my feet sank into booby traps of criss-crossed branches; strings of bramble snaked around my legs and wouldn't let me pass without first snagging my jeans tearing, small holes into the fabric and leaving behind little thorns which I could feel but not see. 

 

When I finally broke free I ran to catch up with the waiting Brighid.  In slightly panicky tones I told her, "That was harder to get out of than it was going in."    She agreed smiling at me,  "That could be a metaphor for life." 

 

By the time we got back to the house it was mid-afternoon and time for me to go home.  There was one more plant I wanted; Brighid had a large aloe vera on the window sill of her kitchen with a healthy offshoot at the base; perfect for re rooting in a new home.   I read somewhere that aloe vera is one of five plants that are ideal for bedrooms as they readily absorb negative energy. 

 

"Could I have some of that?"  I asked Brighid.  She looked at the plant doubtfully. "Yes, but let me do it."

Brighid stood in front of the aloe vera, "This is Geraldine.  She's going to take very good care of you so don't worry.  She's going to put you on a window sill as soon as she gets home so that you get as much sunlight as possible."   She then plucked the offshoot from the mother plant and looked around for something to put it into. 

"Here," I said holding up the bag with the geranium cutting I had taken the previous day.

"Absolutely not," she said, "it needs something much more sacred than that," and walked past me into the dining area.  She opened several cupboards and pulled out a tall glass cup the kind in which you would serve an Irish Coffee.

I protested, "Brighid that's too good, a plastic bottle will do."

"Not at all," she said and holding it up to me continued, "look, it's got a Celtic symbol on it, that's a good sign."

Overwhelmed yet again by her generosity, I followed her to the sink and stood beside her as she filled the glass with water from the tap.  She filled it right to the top and then realised it was too much.  She tilted the glass sideways and shook it.   The infant plant shot out and landed in a frying pan that was soaking in the sink. 

Oh, how we laughed.

Brighid rescued it from the sudsy water and stuck it back in the glass. 

 

 I've named him Horace.  Horace survived the journey to Cork and sits on the sunniest windowsill I have.  

 

 

 

Bed Wetting and Divorce

I'm a great sleeper.  I never have dreams or if I do, I don't remember them.  I'm love going to bed; I love being in bed and my dream job would involve never getting out of bed.  I sleep under two quilts  and with two hot water bottles.  I treat the bottles like lovers: moving them around the bed to warm up my side of the bed and then shoving them aside to enjoy their warm spots.  And like all lovers I abuse them: filling them with water too hot from the kettle.  I paid for my abuse three nights ago when one of them sprung a leak.  I felt a vague sense of dampness around my feet but assumed I was imagining it and just nudged the bottle further down the bed.   Some minutes later there was no imagining it: the bed was definitely wet.  I responded by recoiling my feet from the damp patch hoping the problem would go away.  The bottle continued to leak and, as the damp patch spread, I continued to edge away.  My bed however, is only so big and I soon ran out of places to hide.    I had no choice but to get out of the bed and deal with the problem. I put two bath towels over the damp patch and snuggled back in.   Then the alarm went off:  time to get up for work.

Then the following night, I dreamt that my husband told me he had met someone new, Henrietta is her name, and he wanted to marry her.  I shrugged and said, "That's grand, work away."  He replied smiling, with one arm around Henrietta, "You don't understand, I want a divorce."  The shock woke me up and I was immediately overcome by feelings of loss and sorrow which I stayed with me for the morning.

Are these two disturbed nights a metaphor for my life?  Is this part of menopause?  When my husband woke up I asked him did he know anyone called Henrietta.  He looked surprised and said no.  I told him about my dream and he assured me sleepily, as he dragged himself to the bathroom, that he was not looking to end the marriage anytime soon. 

Later that day at work - during my lunch break of course - I googled dream interpretations.  Aside from the most obvious possible meaning - getting out of a bad relationship - one website, the Dream Dictionary suggested it was a sign 'to break bad habits and to shed old ways.'

What old ways? This well is dry.  I've done so much soul searching and read so many self help books these last twenty years I don't have any habits left to break.  I meditate every morning, do yoga and pilates twice a week and I'm almost vegetarian.  I gave up Facebook for Lent so that I could clear my mind of distraction and so increase my attention span.  I am so boring to be around I can't stand my own company.

Broken Computers and Shin Splints

I have ice packs on my shins, a hot water bottle on my back, a man-size woolly hat on my head and my neck is wrapped twice round in the softest wool scarf I have.  My best friend in summer and winter, an Aran wool cardigan is all that is keeping me from disintegrating into a puddle of self pity.

And it's all my own fault.  Two things. 

New Year's Eve my son, Tom and I registered for the Cork City Marathon.  I had been debating for months whether to do a full marathon - at my age.  I read about an English woman in Good Housekeeping magazine who ran her first marathon at age 68 and I wanted to know could I just do one - just to complete one?  Tom's reasons; in a competitive job market, he's hoping that listing a marathon on his CV will help him stand out. 

We're following the Hal Higdon marathon training programme level Novice 1: run three miles Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and do a long run at the weekend with a rest day before and after the long run.  As I was in Kerry over the weekend I put off my long run until  Monday.  I felt so good yesterday (Tuesday) that after dropping Joe off to school I headed for the Mardyke gym as usual.  After three miles on the treadmill, I felt a twinge in my shins and suddenly remembered I had to get the health insurance card for travelling in Europe - the E11 - for Joe for his school trip that Saturday. I should have looked into getting it weeks ago when told to by the school but I didn't bother.  When Neil asked me about it on Monday night, I told him it was probably too late.  He said, "Could you at least try?"  My conscience pricked I stopped the treadmill and headed for the locker room.  No shower, no cool down, no stretching.  I simply put on all the clothes I had with me and headed out into the lashing rain. 

It's a fair walk from the Mardyke to Abbey Court House on George's Quay. Abbey Court House is the place where I got the card for Conor when he went with his class to Paris in 6th class.  Entering the building, I was impressed by how bright and modern it looked.  I didn't remember it being this nice when I was there before. I took a ticket and was about to take a seat in the empty waiting room when a voice called from behind the counter.  The voice, a man, told me the office I needed was the HSE but they were kicked out of the building six years ago because they couldn't afford the rent. 
"Where are they now?" I asked.
"Gratton Street," he replied.  I looked at him blankly.  He pulled out a TV antennae from his desk drawer and extending it to its full length pointed to a hand drawn street map stuck to the wall beside us and showed me where I needed to go; behind the Court House which was almost all the way back from where I came.

Panting for a coffee and a warm place to dry out, I stepped back out into the rain and passing several cosy coffee shops I trudged towards Washington Street and the Court House.  On the steps of the Court House I saw Paul Byrne from TV3 news with two other men and a TV camera.  I could have asked him what he was waiting for but I didn't. I found Grattan Street easily enough and following the arrows, the HSE Office. What a dump.  Behind a sheet of thick glass sat a young woman surrounded by piles of boxes and files.  Hundreds of completed forms containing personal information about patients covered her desk which ran the width of the office.  I spotted copies of the form I needed to complete on my side of the glass wall and taking one I sat in one of the three waiting chairs and started to fill it in.  The form stated You must apply for this 10 days before you intend to travel.

The woman behind the glass wall called out in an east European accent, "My system is down.  Whatever you need I can't give it to you today."  

I stood up and approached her. The woman continued, "The last time my system went down like this, it was two weeks before I was up again.  When do you need this card?"

"Friday," I said. 

"Do you have his PPS number, proof of address and a form of ID for him on you?"

"No," I said and sat down again. 

I then remembered Joe's school which is a five minutes walk away had his passport and left to go there.  As I left I noted that the opening hours for that office was 9 - 11am.  It was now 10.20 am.  The school secretary gave me Joe's passport, his PPS number and a short letter to confirm his residency.  I got back to the HSE office for 10.45 am.  It was still that lady and miraculously, nobody waiting. I could hear crying children but that was coming from another room.

"Normally it takes two weeks to process these forms and without my computer it could be a month before you get the card." she said. 
I smiled weakly her. 

"But look, I will write you a temporary certificate but it will only last you a month,"  and leaning on the pile of forms stacked about a foot high to the left of her keyboard she wrote out the life saving form.  
"Which country is he going to?" she asked.
"Italy." I replied.
She smiled at me and said "He'll be OK: the Italians are nice. The French can be very awkward."

I hurried back to the school and handed the precious documents to the stunned secretary.  I smiled at her and said, "Thank God for broken computers."

I am grateful. Despite her awful working conditions, that woman was super helpful and gave me exactly what I needed when I needed it.   

I dashed home.  Still no shower: I was meeting my sister, Louise for lunch and was running late. I did change out of my cold sweat soaked gym clothes though; it always intrigues me how fresh sweat smells like raw meat.   

During lunch the rain stopped and the afternoon turned mild and sunny.  We walked the length of the Marina beyond Blackrock village and sat on a bench by the Atlantic Pond, soaking up the February sun.  It was just before 5.30pm as I headed to my Pilates class I first felt the pain in my shins.  During Pilates as I hung upside down reaching for my toes I felt a drowning sensation in my nose and my head felt like it wanted to explode.  Bugger, I've got a cold coming on. 

Straight after Pilates, I headed to my writing class and bought a large steaming hot tea on the way but still felt bone-cold even though I was wearing a wool cardigan and two coats.  I wrapped one of the coats around my legs and pushed the collar of my fleece up around my ears.  I know when I'm sick: my hearing shuts down, my teeth ache, my scalp hurts and I just can't get warm. It's best to just surrender to it.

So I am spending the day in bed.  Icing the shins last night helped ease the tenderness.  I had two effervescent orange tabs first thing this morning with water - nothing has ever tasted so good.  Then I drank a litre of warm water: I read somewhere that it helps when you're sick.  I then felt I earned a coffee but fell asleep.  When I woke at 3pm I ate a real orange. That's always an ordeal. I like fruit, I just don't like eating it. 

Moral of the story.  When you sweat you shower as soon as you can afterwards and change into a new set of dry clothes.  Eat fruit all the time and not just when you're sick.  Be gentle with your body; take nothing for granted.

And finally, help sometimes comes when you need it most, when you least expect it and even, when you least deserve it.