Uncle John

My Uncle John a.k.a. Fr Louis O’Dwyer died at lunchtime today.

He grew up in London but was evacuated to Galway during World War II which gave him a mixed accent. Irish people thought he was English and in England people instantly thought he was Irish. To me he sounded like John Cleese. 

Ordained a priest in the Benedictine Order, he studied in Douai Abbey in Belgium before returning to England to teach philosophy in an all-boys boarding school in Cheltenham.  He played rugby for Belgium, earned two PhDs in philosophy with a keen interest in the German philosopher, Martin Heidegger and spoke 11 languages including Hebrew and Russian.  When I asked why Hebrew, he laughed and told me it helped him understand the bible better.

When I was getting married, we did not want a mass as part of the ceremony but met huge opposition from the conservative elements in both families.  Uncle John did everything he could to accommodate our wishes.  He said that the mass was not actually part of the marriage ceremony but despite his sweet manner and his considerable diplomatic skills they refused to be persuaded.  We caved and included the mass.  Uncle John however, got the last word.  As part of his speech in the church he said, “You Catholics in Ireland.  It’s like those people who want chips with everything, so it is with some Catholics and mass; you feel the occasion is incomplete without it.”   At the end of the church ceremony, Uncle John turned to our guests and announced, "And now they are married, let's give them a big clap."  I loved that part.  The conservative elements of the family didn't approve of that either.

On Valentine’s Day in 1994, my uncle in Cork died.  Uncle John officiated at the funeral.  This uncle and aunt holidayed every summer in West Cork and loved having visitors.  Uncle John told us all the story of how at the end of one such visit, my cousin, Kathleen Anne presented my aunt with a huge potted plant.  Kathleen Anne’s boyfriend, not wishing to leave out my uncle, dashed out to the porch and returned with a cactus.  We held our breath.  Uncle John continued, “And you know, to the world, Arthur was sometimes like a cactus; prickly and difficult to get to know.”  We laughed. 

One of his favourite stories from his time as Parish Priest in Cheltenham was when a retired Major rang him on the telephone.  “Padre,” said the Major, “what’s the drill?  Got to bury the wife. Dead you know.”

Uncle John loved all my jokes even the rude ones.  The last time I saw him was in May 2018.  My mother and I travelled over to Reading to join our English cousins in celebrating his birthday in a pub garden near his monastery.  Sitting under an oak tree beside a busy canal on an absolutely stunning summer’s day, I whispered to him my latest joke about an Irish couple adopting a German baby girl.  He loved it.

Mum told me he took his vow of poverty seriously and handed over his monthly teaching salary to the monastery.  He was always putting other people first and had the gift of making the vulnerable feel heard.  

Uncle John was easy to be with, he was always pleasant company.    All his nieces and nephews loved him even those that were completely disaffected by the church.  He took an interest in everybody which made it easy for people to relate to him.

I will miss him.

Lockdown - Day 19

I'm losing track of the days.  

When all this kicked off, I saw it as an opportunity to drink more water, to fast, to meditate more, do more yoga but that didn't happen.  I am still eating my way through three birthday cakes and there are now four tubs of ice-cream in the freezer.  

Last night, we watched the movie Mean Girls.  I assumed it was about girls being wholesale evil but it turned out to be funnier and kinder than that.  Kadie, new to North Shore High School, is being introduced to the dining hall politics.  There's the Plastics table - pretty girls but fake, the Sports Jocks, the Asian Nerds, the Cool Asians, the Geeks, and then there's the table that eat their emotions.  I nearly choked on my carrot cake with Phish Food ice-cream.  This morning, with the consent of my family, I threw out the last of the carrot cake.  Wasteful I know but as a dieting magazine once said, 'better wasted in the bin, than wasted in you'.

The upside of this new 2km rule is that it forces us to explore the area in which we live.    Yesterday morning, as Hubbie and I headed out for a walk, Son (22) told us to try the Mangala Wood.  It's a place I always avoided as it is wooded - I'm afraid of trees - and it's secluded, dark and muddy.  It's also full of drunk teenagers according to my mother who being part of Tidy Towns spends her Saturday mornings picking up their discarded beer cans.  With Hubbie beside me, I dared to explore.  I was pleasantly surprised.  The paths are paved with tarmacadam and wide enough for both cyclist and walker to stay two metres apart.  Street lamps have since been installed and there were plenty others out walking / jogging.  We bumped into my cousin Frank who was heading to the Maxol garage to get carrots and milk.  He usually cycles everywhere but he said it was too dangerous these days.  There are so few cars on the roads that drivers are driving faster than usual and as a result the rate of bicycle deaths have gone up.  

There's an App available to calculate 2km from your home; it's surprising how wide an area it actually is.  It includes my mother's house which is a good half hour walk and extends all the way out to Ballinlough.  It unfortunately, does not include the 'Fat Arse Mile', more recently renamed as the Greenway, between the Rochestown Road and Blackrock Castle.    

My hands are raw from washing and hand sanitiser and no amount of moisturiser seems to bring them back to normal.

With the hour going forward I was late for work.   My heart swelled with joy when I saw 43 new emails sitting in my inbox.  I'm pacing myself by taking more breaks and treating each query like a royal visitor.  

Son (22) gave me a bottle of Fire Tonic for my birthday.  You take a 15ml shot at a time.  It contains horseradish sauce, turmeric, apple cider vinegar and other vile substances. It smells like a rotting nappy but being sensitive to my son's feelings, I knocked back a shot glass of it after lunch on Saturday.  It's supposed to energise you but it sits in the back of your throat for ages.  I tried chasing it down with a cup of tea but it kept repeating on me all afternoon.   I didn't feel particularly energetic immediately but after yesterday's dose, I vacuumed the entire downstairs.  It's so long since I last used the hoover it took me a while to remember where we store it.  

All this sunshine lately as highlighted the dust in my kitchen and the cobwebs on the paper stars hanging from the sunroom ceiling.  With new found energy, I dusted the ceiling, swiped at the cobwebs dangling enticingly from the paper stars, gently cleaned the crystals fixed to the overhead lights in the kitchen and removed the layers of grease soaked dust from my two Van Goghs.   

Today's lunch will be baked beans on toast.  Back to basics.

The house is neat after yesterday's frenzied clean up.  I'm nearly out of Grace & Frankie, what will I do?!???!!!    Everything else seems to be about crime and violence which offends my sensitive aura.....

Time to put on more hand moisturiser.  

The trouble with the ironing board as my desk is that while it clarifies the brain, it's hard on the lower back.  Time to switch back to the kitchen table and alternate.
  

I'll get so used to this slower pace of life, I know I'll struggle to adjust to 'normal' life again. 

The Sunday papers quoted Blaise Pascal, 'I have discovered that all human evil comes from this, man's being unable to sit still in a room.'  That was my only take-away as there was very little in them otherwise; since life has come to a halt there is nothing to write about except the damn virus.  

The Irish Times on Saturday asked eight Irish writers for their recommendations on funny books.  Don Quixote came up four times and Just William and PJ Wodehouse five times each.  I like Just William and PJ Wodehouse but Don Quixote???   What about Stephen Fry's The Liar, Graham Norton's first autobiography, So Me and Billy Connolly's autobiography, Billy.   Roddy Doyle's The Snapper got a mention but the entire trilogy had me crying with laughter. Joseph O'Connor's, The Secret World of the Irish Male is genius especially his description of the Irish fans celebrating their victory over Italy in New York, during World Cup USA 1994.  Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt deserves a mention.  Admittedly in some parts it is unbearably sad, and beyond bewildering is his description of the uncharitable meanness of his neighbours.  However, the part with his brother Malachy and himself playing catch with one of their baby siblings in a pram, on a hill, and the reactions of the drinkers when the runaway pram comes bursting through the doors of their pub....   

Taste is personal of course but I remember a very hot July evening in London during rush hour and being jammed into a Piccadilly tube train heading home.    It was so cramped I couldn't stand up straight but I did manage to hold my copy of The Liar an inch from my nose.  I don't know what noises I was making but eventually an exasperated fellow commuter broke the golden rule of no eye contact when she said, "Please tell me what you're reading." I couldn't bring myself to speak but I managed to twist the book around so she could see the cover.    

Maybe I should try Don Quixote again...

Veganuary - Surviving January as a Vegan

New Year's Eve 2018, my son challenged the whole family to go vegan for January.  My husband is all about supporting our children's ideas and I'll try anything new to do with food.

New Year's Day, we're driving up from Farranfore when we stopped in a restaurant in Macroom for a bite to eat. I had never been in this particular restaurant before but it was packed with families so that had to be a good sign.     We asked for the menu.  Every single main course contained meat, chicken, beef, prawns even venison but nothing for us.  I asked for the vegetarian option.  Frozen vegetables warmed up in curry sauce on rice.  I nearly cried. We're going to starve.

2nd January - day two- I went back to work.  It was a dark, cold, dreary morning and it was raining. Of course, it was, it's January.    Thoughtfully, I left the car at home so my husband could use it and my son could drive himself to work.  I had intended to walk but because of the rain, I took the bus.  I got off at Grand Parade and walked the last 20 minutes.

The birds were singing which was lovely but the empty streets, the almost non-existent traffic, zero people and the near empty bus made me feel the whole world was still on holiday while I trudged thanklessly to work.

At 5pm, having used my last fiver in M&S on a vegan dinner - a three bean chilli stew - it was awful and left me thinking even at my worst I can cook better than this, I had no means of getting home.   I wanted to stop in Aldi and get the ingredients for Al Pomodoro sauce which being only garlic, onions, tinned tomatoes and sugar happily fell into the vegan category.      I was not actually hungry but the vile dish I had for lunch lay like a brick in my stomach and I felt the need to wrestle some control back over my life.

Hubbie arrived only slightly late.  I slid into the front seat covered in bags and empty plastic bottles. Hubbie  hastily scooped them up and flung them into the back seat.  There was a McDonalds bag on the floor, an old newspaper and a half empty sports drink bottle rolling under my feet.   The smell of damp, used rugby socks hung in the air and I could hear empty cider cans rolling and colliding with something hard in the boot; evidence of our son recently passing his driving test.   In an attempt to combat the odour, a tree shaped smelly thing dangled from the rear view mirror. 

Straining to show gratitude for the lift, I said, “Why didn’t you bring my car?”  

Hubbie looked at me startled and said,  “There’s a slight problem with your car.”

“What?”

“I burst the tyre.”

I resisted the urge to scream.   

I took a deep breath, "What happened?"

"I was on my way to meet you. Luckily I was early when it happened.  I was trying to get my phone to work when I hit the kerb and the tyre burst."

I sat in silent despair. Twenty-nine more days of this.

“Do we have shopping bags?” I asked.

"Ah, they're in the other car."

'Fucking great', I thought. I told him of my need to go to Aldi.

"We don’t have time to go to Aldi as I have to go to Quick Fix to fix the tyre on your car."

"Where is the car?"

"Next to the cemetery where I left it.  And I have to go to the dealers to check we are still under warranty."

Thwarted again.  

“I have to eat.” I said.

“Conor has cooked.  He went to the shops today and bought a load of stuff.”

My heart lifted. Something hot waited for me at home.  We arrived at Quick Fix to find it closed but the dealer rang to confirm we were still under warranty.

“I’ll drop you home,” said Hubbie.  

“I think that’s wise,” said I.

We drove home in silence.  

Relieved to be home again, I opened the front door and as I stepped inside, the little voice in my head said, 'Either you believe this stuff or you don't.   Take it easy, one breath at a time. If you believe it, then live it.'

I took a deep breath and became grateful: I was home.  I was dry and the situation was not that terrible: my dinner was waiting for me and Hubbie had my broken car in hand.

My son came bustling out of the kitchen waving a wooden spoon, “Sit down, I’ll serve it up.” 

Without taking off my coat, I sat at the kitchen table.  My son poured out what looked like white soup with vegetables and noodles into a pasta bowl. 

“What is it?

"It’s stir fry with noodles and coconut milk."

“Did you follow a recipe?” I asked with what I hoped conveyed a light note of curiosity.  

“No, I just played it by ear.”

With my son standing over me, I horsed into it.  It was satisfying and my mood improved on having something warm inside me.

Feeling closer to normal I put on the kettle for a cup of tea. 

My phone rang.  Hubbie had given the insurance company my number as a contact since his own phone was still lifeless.  The repair man was on his way.

“Will you drop me down?” asked Hubbie, “You don’t have to wait around.”

I poured my tea into a thermal mug and headed for the front door.

As I drove Hubbie down to the cemetery, the first inkling of guilt nudged my conscience.  I began to realise how his day was going for him.  He was on his holidays.  As a favour to me, he came to collect me from work.  The car failed.  He had to walk back home to get the other car. He came to collect me and met a bad tempered woman. He still had to organise the car to be fixed.  He didn’t complain once.  If he felt inconvenienced or unappreciated, he didn’t show it. 

I stayed with him while we waited for the repairman.  

The rest of January went better once we discovered the Happy Pear on YouTube, a website called Accidentally Vegan and that just because a product doesn't have the word 'vegan' stamped on it doesn't mean you can't eat it.      It was the longest, toughest month of my life.  

People shouldn't undertake radical life style changes during the longest, coldest, darkest month of the year.  We should be nicer to ourselves.  I was glad when it ended and glad that I did it.  I felt healthier and I believe the science that says a plant-based lifestyle is healthier but it's not for me.     

Vegans have a reputation for having no sense of humour but that's not true.  I saw a sign outside a car mechanic's shop telling the world, 'All our tyres are vegan.' 

The Day Douglas Burned

On the 25th August 2019, Hubbie and I celebrated 30 years of wedded bliss.  Son (22) presented us with a bottle of Bollinger champagne.   We let it chill in the fridge all week.

The following Saturday afternoon, Hubbie and I sat like two naughty teenagers huddled up on the couch under a duvet sipping the Bolly while watching an old favourite, The Big Chill on a DVD.     Son (20) walked into the living room and said, "Mum, Dad will you come outside, I have something to show you?"  As I struggled to find my feet, I thought, 'Ah bless, he remembered our anniversary.'

Son stood with his friend facing us six feet back from the open front door.     As Hubbie and I emerged blinking in the daylight, he gestured expansively with his right arm, "Look!"   We looked left.  A huge black cloud of smoke was rising up from Douglas village.  I went to say, "Did you do this?" but luckily Hubbie got there first, "What is it?"     Son smiled and said, "Tescos is on fire."  And then cocking his head to his right said, "Can you hear that popping noise?  I couldn't but I indulged him, "What is it?"  His friend answered, "All the cars are on fire and that's the sound of the tyres exploding."

It turned out that a woman driving her car - an Opel Zafira - through Douglas saw smoke coming from her engine and in her panic drove into the four storey car park.  Leaving her car on the 1st floor, she walked down to the information desk on the ground floor and asked for a fire extinguisher. 

In all, 61 cars were destroyed.  The floors above and below the burning cars buckled with the intense heat making the entire shopping centre structurally unsafe.    The fire damage is eye level to the Link flyover that passes within yards of it and over the following days, the entire facade had to be covered with plastic opaque sheeting to prevent curious drivers rubbernecking to see the ghostly skeletons of the 61 cars covered in grey-white ash.    The miracle is that even though it happened on a Saturday afternoon, no one was hurt.     The shopping centre has been closed ever since which meant that all the people who worked in it have lost their jobs.

My son (22) showed me a tweet this morning, 'I bet the woman who burnt down Tesco car park doesn't feel as bad now as the man who ate the bat.'

A bit cruel.  I once owned an Opel Zafira when I did the school run.  It caught fire three times but then I sold it.

28th March 2020

Today is my birthday.  So far the sun is shining and it looks like it's gearing up to be another beautiful day.  

Last night the government announced further restrictions. From midnight last night until Easter Sunday, we cannot travel further than 2kms from our homes.  My son (26) is now planning to return to Dublin today rather than on Tuesday.  He's hoping that given the suddenness of the announcement, the gardai will allow him through: he reckons by Tuesday their attitude will have hardened and he'll be trapped indefinitely. 

I'm hoping for a picnic in the back garden with a take-away from 12 Tables restaurant in Douglas - within 2kms - and a Curly Wurly cake from Cinnamon Cottage - outside 2kms.  I'll ring them when they open later this morning and check if they are still serving.

There's nothing to say, nothing to report.  I'm well.  We're all well in this house.  My extended family are well.  The world looks the same.  It's just the rules are changing.  Just when you think you're adjusting; the rules change again.

The boys will be getting up soon.  They'll come looking for me.  Then I'll have to get out of bed and from that moment on I will savour every second we are together.

It's a birthday I won't forget.

Lockdown - Day 14

My uncle, who is a priest in Reading is dying and we can't go see him.  My mother is afraid to even try: there are no flights and because she is 82 she's a high risk category.   Nobody on the Irish side will be able to attend his funeral.   He married myself and Hubbie 30 years ago last August and for a priest he has a great sense of humour.  He is the only priest Hubbie likes.  

I wake every morning at 6am regardless of the day of the week or the time of the year.  My bedroom faces north-east and these days the sun is streaming in. Oh, happy days: the year is moving along on and summer is on its way.  

Yesterday was beautiful.  I took my shower at lunchtime and dried my hair sitting on a wicker chair in the garden.  There wasn't much heat but it's so lovely to sit outside.  Son (20) did press ups on the grass alongside me and son (22) laid out on a towel to top up his ski tan.

My friend, Fiona in Singapore shared a post on Facebook about grieving.  The bones of which is that with the Virus and the world shutting down, we are experiencing a displacement of our routine and are in mourning for normalcy.  Well, that makes a lot of sense.  My eyes are red raw from brimming tears.  I'm gorging all around me.  I've stopped the cider and increased the ice cream instead.   According to the post, we want our old lives back and this stress I'm experiencing is non-acceptance. 

 

It is yet another glorious Spring day in Cork.  You would think with my family around me, sitting in my kitchen which I love, candles lit, hot water bottles galore and the beautiful weather I would be content but I'm not.  I'm grieving.  If I had any sense I would enjoy what is happening because who knows that tomorrow will bring.  

I know I won't get this time back again and if I was sensible I would enjoy the novelty of it all.  I would enjoy having the most important people to me around me all day.  

Today I will walk.  Today I will move.  Today I will slap on sunscreen and brave the sun.   

My eldest son came home last night.  It's two months since he was home last. It's good to see him.  He plans to work from home Friday and Monday.    The news from Dublin; he and three mates are competing in the 'Stillo Olympics' short for Stillorgan Olympics 2020.  There are 20 'events' - the 50 metre dash - they go to the park for that one, 'Prosecco Painting' and 'Blind Drawing'.  He promises to show us over the weekend.

I shared with him Fiona's article on grieving.  He said, "What about Neophiles?"   

"What are they?"

"They love all new things and crave constant change."  

"They must be rare," I told him, "I've never heard of them."

I wonder if on the spectrum of Buddhism are Neophiles at the opposite end: not only do they accept change, they demand more of it.  

Son (20) made brownies last night.  Gorgeous.  The entire tray vanished within an hour of emerging from the oven.  They go particularly well with ice-cream.

Hubbie is still working out of the middle room which gets no day-light whatsoever.  I don't know how he sticks it.  Every hour or so, he emerges like a hibernating bear to forage for snacks and tea.  Yesterday afternoon, he went food shopping for his mother, his aunt and us on three separate trips.  His mother specified Barry Collins Supervalu in Carrigaline. No Aldi for her.  He arrived home with a bag of shopping as per her 'list' and barked instructions at the rest of us, "not to touch it."

"But I need milk," I said.  

He said crossly, "I'm getting Ka's (his aunt) now and then I'll get our stuff."  

"Why can't you do all three of us at the same time?"

"Because then, I won't be able to separate the shopping and the money."  

"You put all your mother's stuff on the conveyor belt, put up a divider, tell the cashier what you're doing, pay for that, then put up Ka's stuff, pay for that and then do ours?"  

He blinked,  "You can do that?"  

There was a work meeting yesterday scheduled for 11 am.  I had the App set up on my laptop and was all set to go.  I could see the names, I clicked 'Join' on the calendar but could not penetrate.  I called Hubbie from his lair but we could not break through.  When the meeting ended, my boss rang me and talked me through it.  I felt such a dunce.  I had too many things open.  I closed everything down and then logged in again.  This time it worked.  I was in.  The connection was very poor.  I could see her and she could see me.  The shock of seeing me gave me a fright.   My kitchen looked nice.  My Van Gogh painting - worth 55 million Euros - on the wall behind me looked amazing.    Next time, I will shower, get dressed, comb my hair, I'll even wash my teeth but I'll quench the camera and aim for audio instead.  

The news last night showed 30 Irish doctors arriving into Dublin Airport to help with the virus.  What struck me was they were all women - those that were interviewed - how young then looked.  At the end of the bulletin was a heart breaking moment between one doctor and her mother who was clearly overjoyed at seeing her daughter home but could not come within two metres of her.  

Last night, at 8pm all four of us stood at our front door and clapped in support of the health care workers.   We couldn't see anyone else do it but we heard faint clapping in the distance. 

 

I need to get up and move now; the circulation has gone in my legs.

Lockdown - Day 13

25th March 2020.  Three months since Christmas day and I'm in a time warp - nothing has changed. 

I just remembered another piece of advice Brighid told me - yoga and dance. You can do both at home in fact, you should do yoga at home but dancing you can do that anywhere. You could be stuck in a broom cupboard and dance.  You don't even need music but it helps.  Speaking of broom cupboards, I went for a job interview in February - all those decades ago - and while I waited, the HR lady put me in an office where they stored all the pension files with a small table and chair.  Too keyed up to sit, I stayed standing and did the power pose as per Amy Cuddy - watch her Ted Talk. I didn't dance - I'm not that stupid - but I did do yoga poses.  I interlocked my hands and stretched my arms as high as I could over my head and sang Ave Maria as low as I dared to warm up the vocal cords.  I think it all helped because my voice flowed like melted butter and I got the job.  

Hubbie and I walked the half hour to my mother's last night to drop off a book she asked for and to check if she was ok for groceries.  We rarely walk together as his pace is slower than mine but given my stiffness I was grateful for his more gentle approach.   

I rang the door bell and then stepped back the obligatory two metres.  I saw Mum come to the door, peer through the glass and walk away again.  It occured to me that for the elderly answering the door at night when you're are not expecting anyone and you can't see them is not wise.  I rang the doorbell again and this time called out, 'Mum'.  She opened the door and delighted to see us, she urged us to come in but I did a Boris Johnson and said, "No."  She told us the line dancing at 3pm everyday was going great but some neighbours could only make it to their gate and watch.  "But then," she reasoned, "they never exercised ever and now they can't move at all."  

As we trudged home again, I was grateful that I was at least moving.  I must get proactive so today.   I shall dance.  I don't want to be that neighbour standing by and watching other people have all the fun.

Before we left, she handed me my birthday card.  It had a stamp on it.  I posted it on the way home.

Petrol prices are down.  Last week it was 1.47 Euros per litre, now it's 1.33 Euros.  If only we had somewhere to go.  

In fact, you would think we would be saving money but that's not the case.  Hubbie checked out our electricity on-line and announced, "It was going through the roof."  How?  The laundry, the incessant boiling of kettles, the heating but I blame the showers.  I read a quote somewhere, 'Unless you work down a coal mine, there is no need to bathe everyday.' 

I would argue however, a shower is more than a means to stay clean.  When I was a nanny in Boston, my boss, Chris would arrive home from work at around 6pm.  The first thing he would do on getting home would be to change out of his suit - always immaculate with dazzling yellow silk ties - hop into the shower and emerge minutes later barefoot wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  He would then get down on the floor and play with with Pete (3) and Steph (10 months).    At the time it puzzled me; he had a shower in the morning getting ready for work so why did he need another one in the evening?   Now, I think I understand.  A shower is a portal between two worlds.  In having his evening shower, Chris was shedding the grime of the corporate world of work and stepping into his true self, a loving husband and an amazing dad.

When I shower, it's a means to re-set myself back to zero again.  

When I did my first Vipassana retreat in the summer of 2018 in Drogheda, Ireland was going through a spectacular weather phenomenon; a heatwave.  There was a hosepipe ban in Dublin and in that whole eastern section of the country.  It was glorious.

Over the 10 days of the retreat, I encountered many of my demons but on day 9, I hit my biggest - self pity.  I wasn't about to quit the retreat but I felt low.   I slithered into my personal pit of despair and wallowed in the mud of disgust reminding myself that I am scum, wondering why, yet again, the world was so mean to me and how I deserved chocolate and ice-cream and cider and that I should pig out.  But none of my usual distractions were available to me: the dining room was closed. I couldn't even make the cup of tea.  

As I walked slowly around the perimeter of the football pitch - we're not allowed run as it would distract the others nor do yoga. Dancing was completely out.     Alone in my cloud of self-created misery, I wondered what I could do to make myself feel better.  Then I remembered, 'The bathrooms' I shouted gleefully inside my head, 'the bathrooms are always open.  I'll have a shower.' 

I skipped the 3pm meditation and sneaked into the my designated bathroom.  It's a boarding school the rest of the year and so the bathroom has four toilets, four sinks and four shower stalls.   I chose the last one to evade discovery.  The showers are one of those energy saving ones where you have to push a button every 30 seconds to get the water going.  I spent the best part of an hour relentlessly pushing that button.  I didn't care there was a drought,  'I'm going to drain Drogheda dry.'  Four bottles of shower gel hung in an iron basket from the shower head.  I used them all.  I became a glorious mess of blackberry and jasmine scented bubbles before moving onto almond milk and finishing with rose and apple.  I felt loved again. 

The following day, day 10 - the last day - we were allowed to talk.  I laughed and talked for Ireland.  One of many new best friends confided that a girl in her dormitory was labelled the insomniac.  I bumped into Ms Insomnia in the bathroom later that day.  I smiled brightly at her and and asked about her experience which we're not supposed to do: everybody's is different and there's a danger you'll get depressed if their experience is 'better' than yours.  I asked anyway.  She smiled carefully and said, "I'm glad I did it but if I were to do it again, I would go to a centre that is purpose built for such things?" 

"What difference would that make?" I said.

"Because then you would get your own room.  I had to share a dormitory with 11 others and I don't sleep well.  And, what's worse, my bed is on the other side of that wall." She gestured towards the shower stalls, "and yesterday, somebody who should have in the hall meditating, decided to have a shower for a whole HOUR when I was trying to sleep. I was so tempted to give her a piece of my mind but then I remembered I should have been in the hall too and so I didn't do anything, whoever she was."  Images of the shower scene from the movie, Psycho came to mind.  I tittered nervously.  Despite my new-found enlightenment, I declined to confess that her tormentor was me.

It's 9am, my son has joined me.  He switches on the radio; it's full of home-schooling adverts, advice on disinfection and how the economy is doomed.  

Another flower has just drooped in front of me. This time my son saw it too.  "That's spooky, Mum," he said.  Time to log on for work....

Lockdown - Day 12

I logged on at 8am to get a run on the day.  My son joined me at 9am.  He sneezed and burped in the first minute.  He complains that my typing sounds like pigs feet scattering across a tiled floor and that I should be more like him i.e. a lyrical quality, a musical flow to his pounding of the keys.  

I made Hubbie and myself a cup of tea first thing.  He'll get around to his eventually.  He likes his tea stone cold. It’s one of his many quirks.

Mid-morning, a work colleague rang me on my mobile.  As I rattled away excitedly, my son started the blender:  he was making a beetroot, blueberry and oat smoothie.  I roared at him in my indignation.  He pointed that I should move since I was on a mobile. 

Nerves are snapping.  Other than the One O’Clock news, I have stopped listening to what is going on in the world.  I’m constantly on the brink of tears.

Last night, I rang my oldest son just to check in on him.  He lives in a 5^th floor apartment in inner city Dublin with no balcony or garden.  The streets outside are populated by junkies.  My idea of hell.  His spirits are good though.  His two flatmates returned to Cork to work remotely and so he has the place to himself.  He and his girlfriend made a lemon drizzle cake at the weekend.  They doubled the icing on top and then splitting the cake lengthways, they managed to cram in additional butter cream icing between the two layers.  He’ll be home this weekend for my birthday although what we’ll do I don’t know.  We can’t book a restaurant and all the nice beaches/walks are closed. 

I have a hot water bottle under my arse and another stuck inside my dressing gown next to my chest.  It’s ruining my posture.   If I had a shower and did a bit of yoga as soon as I wake up it might improve my mood.  But I save the shower for my lunch time treat – it’s calorie-free - and I get to use the Body Shop gift my sons gave me for Christmas.  The theme is mango explosion and they’re gorgeous.  Speaking of explosion, my son (22) loves the shop, Lush and he regularly indulges in their bath bombs.  Vile things.  The smell is nauseating and his often contain glitter which destroys the bath tub.  He's the only one that takes a bath these days: it takes too long to fill.  What starts as hot water is luke-warm by the time the tub is full and so he subsidises with a few boiled kettles.

Hubbie suggested I use the ironing board as a standing desk.  It would definitely improve my posture and maybe my mood.

I think I have a head cold coming on.  I checked it against the symptoms for the Virus but they don't match so I won't lock myself into the bedroom just yet although the seclusion is tempting.  I really do need to get outside but I can't bring myself to do it.  Yesterday evening, I savaged a rampant sweet pea.  Who'd have thought that such a pretty name could be such an aggressive plant?

I’m a whore for the cider and I really must stop.  It’s a depressant.  Brigid, my guru friend living in Kerry face-timed me last night.  We’re in the middle of a monthly series of one-day workshops to run through to May.   I’m a participant; she can always count on me to have an opinion.  

The reason for Brigid’s call was to say that she plans to continue the workshops via an App called 'Zoom'.  I prefer being in a room: conversation via Skype/FaceTime just doesn’t flow as well.   As she talked, she took a casserole out of the oven - a whole roast chicken with parsnips and spuds in a buttery gravy.   She ate her delicious dinner while speaking her words of wisdom including drink being a depressant.  She might be right.   She also said it was important to boost/maintain my immune system especially at this time.     I love a decent dinner but after 30 years of cooking and almost zero gratitude or acknowledgment, I'm sick of it.  I'm impressed at the effort she goes to look after herself.    If it were me I'd be living off bowls of granola - I make mine from scratch - a gold star for me - and toast.  My son (22) introduced me to smashed avocado on toast when we went vegan for a month last year.  Initially I thought the idea of an avocado ‘smashed’ pretentious but now I absolutely love it. 

Hubbie just got the call from his mother.  She needs groceries and so does her sister who is 90+.    It’s a pity they don’t share a house; they would be company for each other.    

During my ‘break’ son (22) made me a coffee.  He personally ground the beans and made it in the aeropress he got for Christmas.  It was lethal.  I added milk which pained him: he’s such a purist.  He should train to be a barista given his reverence for the stuff.    He's learning Italian on-line.  When he masters five words he gets a trumpet fanfare.  He told me that I can download the App, Duo Lingo on my phone.

He also told me that the Happy Pear are doing a Cook-Along at 12 noon each day. I asked what the recipe was today.  He read out the ingredients.  I told him we had them all except the coriander and reminded him that it was almost identical to the Chickpea Stew I made at the weekend.  "You should have no problem following it so," said he.

One of my flowers drooped right before my very eyes.  My son said it was all 'my negative waves.'

Just then, my boss rang.  I was never so happy to hear from her.

Silver lining moment; son (20) asked his brother for a game of handball.  He said yes. 

Lockdown - Day 11

I don't work Mondays but I logged in anyway out of curiosity and answered a few emails before I could help myself.

The day was productive.  I finally did something I've been fantasizing about for years: I plaited several of the newly severed willow branches into eight foot 'trees' and set them in water to root.  If they do take root, I will plant them to replace the fence that is disintegrating because of my bored son's daily battering with a football.  

Son (22) went on a de-cluttering rampage.  He cleared out the entire contents of the airing cupboard and won't tell me where he put all the stuff.   Then he made me do my room.  Who knew he could be SO bossy?  I'm embarrassed to realise how much clothes I have and don't wear.  But I can't bring myself to get rid of anything.  It's the way I was reared - 'waste not, want not.'  Jane Fonda recently announced she was not going to buy anymore clothes to support of the environment.  I'll do the same.              Besides with all the eating/snacking/Taytos /Bulmers... I daren't throw anything out: I’m getting fatter.

I've re-organised my wardrobe to bring all the summer stuff to the front - I'm an optimist - and banished my work clothes to the rear - for now - who knows when I'll wear those tights again?

My husband is delighted: he's found tops he forgotten he had.  Today he is working from home and is wearing his fat man pants.

Then son (20) made a cake.  We're all hooked on the The Great British Bake Off.  He's lactose intolerant and can't eat most desserts but loves chocolate. He found a vegan recipe on-line and after he got me to show him how the beater works and what a sandwich tin looks like he locked me out of the kitchen.    Last night, as we watched the movie, The Big Chill, my son-the-baker formerly referred to as the fence-smasher served us tea and a slab of his divinely moist cake.   

Today my 'office' is like an Irish wake as my kitchen is filled with scented candles and all the flowers from mother's day. 

I'm nearly at the end of Grace & Frankie.  It's time to watch Derry Girls from the beginning again.

The weather is still holding up.  Another great day for drying but I'm all out of laundry and with all my new found clothes, it's a while before I'll be needing anything.  

Lockdown Day 10 - Mother's Day

The Chickpea Stew was a triumph. They even asked for seconds. 

After dark we went for a walk into Douglas. Every other Saturday night at 8pm would have the village heaving with people.  The taxi rank outside the Bamboo House take-away snaking up the old Carrigaline road, the smokers outside Barry’s pub, the bouncers in the doorway, the bookies, KC’s Chipper with its Disneyland style queues of bantering young men, people old and young alike jaywalking ignoring the pedestrian crossing, all absent. All four pubs and the bookies were closed.  The only places open were Apache Pizza and Subway.  The McDonalds drive-through was doing well but still quiet for a Saturday night.  The KFC drive-through was less busy. My son was tickled to see an Apache Pizza delivery van in their queue.

Earlier that evening, my younger left the house - he said to knock a ball about - but returned with two friends. They were in the house before we realised, they were there.  We didn't want to be rude and demand they leave so we insisted they use the hand sanitiser. They did before disappearing into the sunroom to play PlayStation. Half an hour later, I interrupted them to top up their hand sanitiser.  They were good humoured about it, but I was still annoyed at my son and noticed that one of the boys had dirty hands as if hadn’t washed them in a week.

The next morning, Mother’s Day and both sons woke me up with bunches of flowers, a cactus, a box of chocolates and a cup of coffee.

It was a perfect day. Soft spring sunshine, a gentle breeze and very few people around as I walked the half hour to my mother’s house with a potted pink hydrangea in a pink bag with pink ribbons for handles.  Douglas village was entirely deserted except for one lone man at the bus shelter.  Buses are still running although almost empty. Must be demoralising for the drivers.

I arrived at my mother’s front door. I deposited the hydrangea on her porch, rang the doorbell then took two large steps backwards.  Her face appeared at her bedroom window upstairs.  “Come in,” she said.

“I don’t know if I should,” I said.

Two minutes she flung open the front door and said, “Come in.”

“Back away from the door so.”  She retreated down the hall into the kitchen.  I followed.  She put on the kettle and over tea we stood at opposite ends of her kitchen table chatting.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it”, I said and we both ran to the front door.

Through the glass pane, I could see my brother’s head bending down and then retreating.  I flung open the door as  Mum - breaking all the rules - peered over my shoulder. My brother and his son stood six feet back smiling.  They gestured to the two bags they had left on the porch; one for Mother’s day and the other a belated gift for her birthday. 

Quandary.  We couldn’t all fit in the same room at the same time while maintaining a two-metre distance.  “How about the garden?” suggested my mother.  We filed through the house from front door to back walking three feet apart and then stood around in square formation chatting.  She has a lovely garden. She had cut the grass twice the day before - she's 82 -, her daffodils were out and the birds were singing. 

Mum was in very good spirits and didn’t feel isolated at all.  She told us how the day before my nephew Sean and his girlfriend, Aisling had called and left a bag of 'goodies' on the porch and conversed from the garden gate.   "And every afternoon," she continued, "at 3pm all the neighbours gather on the green and Jaimie’s dad plays music from a speaker and we do line dancing for half an hour.  It’s great fun and great exercise.  We stand around and chat afterwards, three feet apart, of course.”  She told us that she grateful she lives in a house and has a garden to escape to unlike those ‘poor people in Italy who live in apartments.’ She loves WhatsApp and Facebook.  

I walked home again.  One son had made soup from the vegetables that were starting to rot while the other pruned the last of the willow branches that were too thick for me. We then watched the Godfather.   I tried out my new meditation stool and lasted 30 minutes.  My hips and knees are fine, but I lose all sensation from the ankles down. I’m hoping by sitting on the stool and remaining distracted I can build up endurance.

As the Godfather ended and the sun began to set my son suggested a beer.  We sat around the kitchen table, drinking cider for the ‘grown up’s and beer for the boys and played a music quiz using Spotify and Alexa; 80's and earlier music for my husband and I and modern shite for them.

It was a lovely Mother’s day.