Lockdown - Day 49

Yesterday was a quiet one.  After the hyperactivity of Tuesday, yesterday I hit the wall around 4pm right after I spoke to my mother.  She was in very good spirits but could not find lettuce seeds.  She walked to Kiernan's Garden Centre to find them closed.  They do deliver orders but they must be over 30 Euros.  She went into Dunnes but the queue to get in was over a 100 yards long.  She asked the security man if she really had to wait.  He replied, "Not if you're over 70, go on away in."  She was delighted but protested that she didn't look over 70.    After the phone call, I went to go lie down and slipped into the most divine two hour nap. Despite, the rest I woke in foul humour. Hubbie had made dinner; pork steak and rice which was really tasty.  We were out of ice-cream.  He did an emergency dash to the Centra on the Rochestown Road.  He also bought a family pack of toilet paper; we had finally run low on the stuff.  I've come to the end of Grace & Frankie and cannot find the 7th series so I watched the Crown from the beginning again.  Son (22) introduced me to a Japanese crime series called Giri/Haja.  Although worried that crime might disturb my fragile peace, I watched the first episode with him and really enjoyed it.  I slept badly last night.  I will go easy today.  

Scarface

A knife wielding man assaulted me yesterday and left a hole in my face.

He was a surgeon and left three stitches. 

The bastard.  

That's the fourth procedure I've had on my face in two years for skin cancer. All four are clustered in a two inch area immediately around my left eye.  "Why couldn't they be on my ass?"  I asked the surgeon on one of my six monthly visits.  He replied that, "That Irish women get them on the face and Irish men get them on their backs."  How unfair is that?  On my back he can slash me from shoulder to shoulder and I wouldn't care about scarring.  

My procedure was scheduled for 9.30 am yesterday morning.  Son (22) dropped me at the gate of the South Infirmary and I headed into Admissions.  The hospital has completely re-arranged the ground floor to create a one way flow system with yellow markings on the floor and disinfectant dispensers on almost every wall.  I come here every six months for my check-ups and have never seen the hospital so quiet.  

The Admissions lady chatted to me through a plastic screen with a mask covering her face.  I kept her there for a good half hour.  Maybe I was doing what I could to put off the dreaded moment but it was also just delicious to talk to a friendly female.  She told me her three grown-up children live in Dublin, Glasgow and London, she has a three year old grandchild but she lives in Glasgow and it's hard not being able to visit.  

I was then left to walk my way straight onto a ward.  Nobody stopped me.  I sat on a bed and waited.  Carmel, a staff nurse came along and started asking me questions about my health. 

"Do you smoke?" 

"No." 

"Drink?"

"Yes."  

"Average drinks per week?"

"Before the Lockdown, a can of Bulmers every other week. At the moment, a can every second night."

Carmel said that sounded about right.  While she was asking these questions, three different nurses came up to her and offered to take over.  It was so quiet on the ward, they seemed to be looking for things to do.     One of the nurses at the nurses station in the middle of the ward looked about 70+ confirming the news item that the HSE were encouraging retired staff to return to work.  

"I need you to do an urine sample," said Carmel.  

"Why?"

"In case you're pregnant." 

"Carmel," I said, "I was born in 1963.   There is no possible, earthly chance I'm pregnant.  Anyway it's surgery on my face, what can urine tell you?"

Carmel shrugged and said, "I don't know but sure I'll leave the bottle here in case you change your mind."

That took us up to 11 0'clock.  She left me and I settled on the bed to read a book.  At 12 noon, Carmel came back to check on me.  I told her I was fine but asked would I be waiting much longer.  

"You shouldn't be too long," said Carmel. "There are people booked in before you but with the new restrictions we have to stagger the admissions."

"So why did the doctor make my appointment for 9.30 am?" I said, "Why didn't he just give me a later time?"

Carmel replied, "Why don't you ask him yourself when you get up to theatre?"

We both laughed.

The surgeon had warned me when he saw me last Wednesday that he might have to do a skin graft.  He explained that because the growth is so close to my eye, there was a risk that during the healing process, the wound would contract and pull my lower eyelid down keeping my eye permanently open.  I asked whether he could just let it heal without a skin graft.  He explained that the purpose of the skin graft is to give greater control on how the wound heals and thus reduce the risk of eye dragging.    

Either way, I saw my options as bleak.   With my almost uniform covering of freckles, my skin colour is muddy and with my tendency to flush deep red when I exert myself, a patch of bone white skin taken from behind my ear and smacked on to my cheek would make me a marked woman.  Twelve months ago, prior to a follow up appointment in the Wound Management Clinic, I got talking to a lovely gentleman from West Cork.  He was in his 80s and I couldn't help noticing the golf ball sized white patch he had in the middle of his right cheek; it looked like a slice of mozzarella cheese floating in a sea of ketchup.  I couldn't drag my eyes from it.  The man eventually mentioned it which gave me the opportunity to ask about it.  He told me he had an accident while pruning a hedgerow behind his house.  A piece of wire pierced his cheek and bore right through into his mouth leaving a wound so severe it required surgery and a skin graft.  He was stoic about it saying, "Sure, I'm old, I have grand-children and I live in West Cork.  I have everything I could possibly need so what do I care about a bit of skin on my face?"   I admired his attitude but I've seen him around the city since and his white spot stands out from several yards away.  I don't think I could be as brave.     

At 12.30, I was given directions for the theatre.   The surgeon told me he would open me and see what way the skin was lying and, "If it's telling me, it will heal a certain way without pulling your eyelid, we'll try it without a graft."  

The surgeon is crafty.  He does the whole procedure while standing behind my head; that way I can't punch him.  The first time I had this done was May two years ago.  I didn't know what to expect but I assumed he would give me anaesthetic to block the pain.  I was wide awake but the overhead lamps are so bright, he put some sort of cloth over my eyes.  I didn't see the needle coming but when he inserted it, he hit the cheekbone.  The pain was so great that in my panic, I thought he bypassed the anaesthetic and was hacking into my face with a box cutter.  I couldn't bring myself to scream but this unnatural lowing sound came out of my mouth filling the room with horrible sounds.  The nurse quickly grabbed my hand.  Tears flowed down my cheek mixing with the blood.  

When it was all over, I left the hospital feeling violated.  Outside the hospital gate, I took a selfie on my phone to inspect the damage done to my face.   I was all bruises and bandages.  Seconds after I took the photograph, Facebook popped up a suggestion that I post it.  In my confusion, I thought Facebook posted the photograph automatically.  I vowed never again.   

Two weeks later, the bastard's secretary rang me.  The biopsy showed Basel Cell Carcinoma.  I needed to come back in.  I refused.  The surgeon then rang me.  He told me he needed to take out the surrounding tissue because it is better to be 99% cancer free than 95%. I told him I was happy with 95%.  He eventually talked me into going back. The second time, he was a fraction more gentle.

This time he inserted the needle in four places.  Two for the actual incision and two for the area in front of my ear where he now told me he planned to take the skin from.   That was some good news as it meant a closer match.    The needle is small but evil.   No matter that I have done this three times before and I brace myself for what is coming, I can't stop the tears.   The devil himself would struggle to come up with something just as mean and nasty.    

The anaesthetic is effective but even with it, I can hear him cutting and it sounds like taut wires snapping.  I shared this with the surgeon and he agreed.  To be a surgeon you would want a heart made of steel to cut people for a living.  

With my celtic skin and history, I can't afford to play fast and loose with sun protection anymore. No more sunglasses from Penneys for less than a fiver anymore.    Slapping on factor 50 sunscreen every morning will become my routine, as well as wearing a wide-brimmed hat and real sunglasses.  Hubbie suggested I get aviator style glasses like Bono's.   I'll look ridiculous but then my collection of four scars doesn't look so good either.   

Tuesdays With Maria

Every Tuesday morning before work, Maria and I meet for coffee in Elements coffee shop on the ground floor of the Kane Building, in my opinion the ugliest building in Ireland.  It's saving grace is that they have a wall of windows that face due East and so, in the morning, the entire coffee shop is flooded with sunshine.    

Maria and I first met through work nine years ago.  We are the same shape and size, small and dark.    That's where the similarity ends.  Maria is deeply empathic, she cares about everyone, she knows everyone and yet is an introvert.  Quiet people puzzle me. I don’t trust people who don’t talk, their silence makes me suspicious and I feel they’re judging me.  So, in the early days, it would be fair to say I did not foresee us becoming friends.  We sit at desks five feet apart screened off by a divider.  I don’t see her but I hear her.  Being an extrovert, I love dealing with people but I have almost zero patience with bleeding hearts.  Maria however, has vast reservoirs of patience, she is innately kind and is driven to help everyone who crosses her path. 

Somehow the universe saw fit to throw us together.  On Tuesday mornings, we meet and brace ourselves for the slings and arrows that lay ahead.  I trust Maria completely. She is the most non-judgemental person I know. I rant and she listens.  Sometimes she lets off steam and I wonder why she’s making such a fuss. 

Maria is a perfect people person.  In her quiet non-intrusive way, she effortlessly remembers peoples' names, their birthdays and the names and anniversaries of their children too.    Most days she is writing a card to someone because it’s the anniversary of a milestone in their life. Walking to the carpark together at the end of the day is like a cocktail party with Maria only without the cocktail and the dress; she greets everyone by name, and they all know her by name too.   

In Elements, the staff don’t smile much.  Maria always greets the barista with a smile, “Good Morning Jordan,” and then turning to me, she told me that Jordan was from Manchester but his Mam's from Cork and he was dragged back here a few years ago.  Jordan struggles to respond in kind and says, “Ah Cork isn’t too bad.”   After Jordan was promoted to the deli counter, he was replaced by a woman who seemed equally dour.  This woman double stamps my loyalty card whenever I’m with Maria. When I noticed this, Maria laughed and said, “Amanda always double stamps mine too, don’t you Amanda?”   I remarked that Amanda was a lovely name.  Amanda gave me a 3^rd stamp before handing my card back. 

Over the years, Maria’s kindness towards others has rubbed off on me.  I have changed my telephone manner from confrontation, ridicule and disbelief to giving people the benefit of the doubt as she does.  Sometimes, listening to her talking to people who take advantage of her gentleness makes my blood boil.   Yet, it’s Maria’s desk that is covered in Thank You notes from grateful customers she has helped and nearly every gift – a bottle of wine or box of chocolates - that passes into our office has her name on it. 

As is the way with courageous people, I’ve learned from Maria that it is not always the bravest that roar.    One particular customer of mine, who I shall call Johnny, used to sign up and then almost immediately cancel his order.  He did this several times over the years.  The first time I spoke to him, he told me he was trying to sign up, but something was blocking him.  I checked his account.  I saw that he owed money from a previous order and told him that this was holding him up.

  

“No, I don’t,” he said.

“Yes, you do,” I said, “you owe it from last year.”

“But I cancelled.”

“You mustn’t have done it properly; you are still on record as being here.”

“But I always cancel.”

“Well, you didn’t do it this time.”

“But you should have known I'd cancel.  I cancel every year.” 

That irritated me:  it was my first time dealing with him and with several thousand customers, why would any reasonable person think I would remember his account.

And then in a business-like tone, he said, “Anyway, the Council will pay for me.”

“No, they won’t," I said, "you’re repeating.”

“I cancelled," he argued, "so I can’t be repeating. They will pay.”

Rather than let this pointless conversation continue, I ended the call and decided to check with Delores, my contact in the Council. Delores is tougher than the FBI.  

Delores sighed in resignation when I mentioned Johnny’s name, “Yeah go on, invoice us.”

“You’ll pay?!?”

“I don’t have the strength to be dealing with the likes of him,” and she hung up.

To get it over with, I processed the invoice immediately and put it in the post.   An hour later Johnny rang again.  He sounded triumphant.  “I cancelled last year,” he said.

“It’s ok, Johnny,” I said, “I invoiced the Council for you.”

“What did you do that for?” He sounded shocked.

“You told me to.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did," but then confused by his certainty, I started to doubt myself. 

“So,” he said gloating, “you can cancel that.”

“Johnny,” I said, “I am going to end this call now,” and despite his protests, I carefully restored the phone into its cradle.  Then picking the phone up again, I slammed it into the desk.  Springs and bits of plastic went flying through the air.  Some of them hit me in the face. I went to smash it again but Carmel, who sits behind me, wrapped her arms around my body and held me like a strait jacket.   

“Ger,” she said, “it’s only a job.”

I burst into tears.

Ann came running over, and surveying the damage said, “Let’s go for a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want tea,” I blubbered through the tears, “I want to kill someone.”

Ann ushered me from the office.  I couldn’t face anyone with my red eyes, so we sat on a bench while I let her talk me down.  After ten minutes of listening to Ann’s soothing reassurances, I reluctantly agreed to go back. I then remembered the flying plastic.  I wailed, “And I broke the phone.”  Ann said, “Don’t worry about that, we’ll get another.”  As we trudged back up the stairs, I dreaded the devastation that awaited me.      Expecting to see the corpse of my phone scattered several feet around my desk, there was nothing.  The phone looked whole and complete. I picked up the receiver and carefully inspected it.   Not even a scratch.    I then ran my hands over the surface of the desk. Not even a dent.  Ann was surprised too and said, “The phone is ok.”

Carmel smiled and said, "You didn't break the phone."

I protested, “Yes I did, I saw bits flying?!”

"So did I," said Ann.

“Yes, you did,” said Carmel, “but you hit a pen.  Look….”  She then pulled out the wastepaper basket from underneath my desk.  All three of us peered in.  Sure enough, lying at the bottom were the shattered remains of a plastic pen. Carmel explained that when I slammed the receiver down, I smashed it into the pen and the poor pen got caught in the crosshairs of my rage.   

The following year, Maria and I were in the basement of the Kane Building for the registration of new customers.  My mobile rang.  It was my manager, “Just to give you the heads up,” she said, “Johnny’s back and he’s on his way down to ye.”  My sphincter loosened and I farted with fear.  Panic flooded my body.  Two minutes later, my mobile rang again.  This time it was Helen who vets the customers at the door, “There’s a problem with this person’s registration, apparently he owes money and he’s coming to see you.”      I went into meltdown mode. “Maria," I said, "I can’t do this,” and I ran.   I hid behind the nearest pillar and fought to control my breathing.   The minutes passed. Expecting raised voices and hearing none, I dared to peek out.   I saw Maria sitting at the desk speaking to a man in his fifties with thinning hair, gold rimmed glasses, dark brown corduroy pants, a yellow shirt and a woollen sleeveless pullover.  It was my first time seeing the infamous Johnny.  I couldn’t hear what was being said but his whiny voice was unmistakable.  Maria remained seated and spoke to Johnny calmly.  If she was nervous, she didn’t show it.  After several more minutes, Johnny left.  Once I was sure he actually left the building, I crept back to my seat.

“Sorry about that.” I said in a whisper, “What’s his story?”

Maria told me Johnny could not register because he owes money. 

“But he said he cancelled.”

“Not properly,” said Maria, “and he does owe it.  He said he’s getting the grant again but what he owes, the grant doesn’t cover.  I told him that he has to pay his part first before he can register.”

“And he accepted that!?”

“Yes.”  

I looked at my friend in awe.  How did she do it?  From my observation post behind the pillar, all she did was listen.   Maria’s reputation is such that if anyone could find a way to help another she would, and in her sincerity people trust her.  Maria told Johnny kindly but firmly that his road had run out; the buck stops here.  

Then I remembered his grant.  With glee, I rang Delores.  When she answered the phone, I sang, “Guess who’s back?!?”

Delores sang back, “Guess who doesn’t care?!”

“He told us he’s getting a grant.”

“Yeah, but not from us,” laughed Delores.    Delores told me that when they saw Johnny coming through the system for the fifth time, she and her colleagues went as one to their boss and pleaded with him to do something.  This year, Johnny was told that he had to make his grant application through SUSI, the brand-new centralised grant-processing body in Dublin.  At that time, dealing with SUSI was like to trying to penetrate the Kremlin.   When I told Maria, she shook her head and said, “He won’t get it from them: they won’t put up with his caper.   “Oh, I don’t know, Maria,” I said, “he’ll wear them down like he does everyone else.” 

Maria was right; we never did see Johnny again.  Although aware of Johnny's history, Maria did not let that influence how she spoke to him that day.  The ogre, I had created in my mind, stood chastened and humble before the gentle Maria who refused to let his manner press any buttons, who did not see him as pest and did not attempt to fob him off as had all others who dealt with him before.  Maria saw a human being and treated him as an adult who takes responsibility for his decisions. Maria listened and because she did it humanely and respectfully without a hint of annoyance, he listened too.  She got through to him where others failed.  

Unlike me, Maria can keep a secret.  With my butterfly attention span I retain nothing in my head unless it directly affects me.  One particular Tuesday morning, it occurred to me that Orla, who also works in our building and sometimes joins us for coffee, was absent. 

“Where’s Orla?” I said.

“She’s sick,” said Maria.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Sinuses.”   Sinuses is something I've never experienced, and I promptly moved onto another topic.  
                 

Three Tuesdays later, I noticed I hadn’t seen Orla in some time.  I asked Maria.

“She’s sick,” said Maria.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Sinuses.”

“Still?!? For three weeks, she must be really bad.”

Another three Tuesdays went by.  I asked Maria again. 

“Where’s Orla?”

“She’s sick.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Sinuses.”

“Sinuses!?! For six weeks…...?!!  I paused.  Then the penny dropped, “Orla’s pregnant!”

A shimmer of panic crossed Maria’s brow.  I pressed her for an answer, “She is, isn’t she?”

Maria shrugged and said, “All I know is that she’s sick and it’s sinuses.”

“Come on,” I begged, “I won’t tell anyone.”   Maria wouldn’t be drawn. I stopped tormenting her. 

Six weeks later, Maria told me that she had some news; Orla was pregnant.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said. 

“She wanted to keep it a secret,” said Maria.

I was annoyed but impressed by her loyalty.    Maria’s defence of her friend’s wish for privacy was like a garden gate trying to withstand the tsunami of curiosity, taunting and speculation.

When Orla came back to work, I told her about Maria’s discretion.  Orla laughed and said, “She’s a good friend.”

On Thursday, 12^th March, Maria treated me to a breakfast in Sicilian Delights on Glasheen Road to celebrate my new job.   We didn’t know it then but that was our last working day together since the Lockdown began.    Of course, Maria knew the name of the owner, Paulo, who cooked our omelettes, that he’s from Sicily and has two small children.  I told Paulo I had been in Sicily during Italia ‘90.  He seemed underwhelmed.  Our conversation that morning mainly concerned Maria’s father who was very ill, and I urged her to find some way of taking leave without losing pay.     It’s uncanny that the universe should step in and, like most of the country at the moment, Maria was able to work from home and look after her parents.    

Last week, Maria’s father passed away.  My first instinct on hearing the news was to jump into the car and drive to her house but I knew that she would find this distressing, so I tried ringing her instead.     Later that day, a colleague and friend of Maria’s suggested that we all send her a photo of a lit candle at 6pm to show our solidarity.  Maria received loads of these photos and was deeply touched by the gesture.  

Maria rang me the day after the funeral.  She sounded relieved and happy.  She told me the funeral went better than expected.   Because her father died of natural causes, the family could wake him at home as he wanted but because of Covid-19 only immediate family were allowed attend.  I told Maria that in normal times, because of her alone, hundreds of people would have turned up to pay their respects.  She laughed and said actually having it private was lovely.  Exhausted after weeks of not being allowed to see her father, worried about him being in a nursing home with the daily news bulletins of the high death rates, she was grateful for the time just being with family

She told me that as the hearse left the house to go to the burial ground, all their neighbours came out and stood by their gates to wave him off.  That gesture moved her and when they returned home three hours later, she was amused to see the neighbours still standing at their gates chatting to each other.  The neighbours welcomed Maria and her family home again. She said, “We hadn’t seen some of them in years and it was lovely that this opened us up again.”

On Maria’s days off, I miss her quiet, soothing presence.  Even if we don’t talk, which is rare, knowing that she is there calms me.  My contribution to her well-being is when the well of her empathy has been dipped into once too often.  I can hear it in her voice.  That’s my cue to glide seductively around the divider, serenade her in a French accent while running my hands all over my fabulous body.  It makes her laugh.

Today is my 7^th Tuesday without Maria.  I miss our weekly ritual.  We do coffee remotely but it's not the same.   Nothing is anymore.

Lockdown - Day 42 - Week 7

This Lockdown has gone from tolerable to alarming: Trump refuses to give any more press briefings, Kim Jung-un is missing and son (20) wants a dog. Over the years, he has wistfully expressed this wish and yesterday we humoured him as he showed us photographs of the kind of dog we should get. Son has the tenacity of Jack Russell, once he has the bone of an idea between his teeth, he does not let go.

We had a dog back in 2009, a white West Highland Terrier. I was lonely. At the time, Hubbie was working in Dublin, the boys were in secondary school and I only worked half days. I longed for a friendly presence trotting through the house and then the universe answered. An email popped up at work advertising Westie pups for sale. I googled to see what they looked like and arranged to meet the seller in Blarney that evening.  From the boot of her car I picked Simba from cardboard box of five delightful, wriggling balls of wool.  Hubbie wasn’t happy about it but he indulged me.

Simba was a delight. I had him toilet trained in a week, he was everything you could want in a dog; loving, attentive and he didn’t bark. But then my work situation changed. My part-time six-month contract ended and I was offered a full-time 12-month contract. I was thrilled to be kept on but it meant working full days which not only presented me with childcare problems but also meant being out of the house from 8am to 6pm. When I got home at six, I would rush to open the back door to release Simba into the garden. The poor, loyal, obedient darling would rush out, cock his leg and stand rigid as a statue for several minutes until he emptied a day's worth of pee.  It was cruel. 

Simba took matters into his own hands. He ran away. He burrowed a hole under the fence and took off.  My neighbour told me that the family living two doors down took him in. They stole our dog but I was ok with that.

And now Son (20) wants one again. We’ve said no. I put it to him, “What happens when you moves out, who will look after it then?” Son says he’ll take it with him. Again we told him that wasn't practical as he would be working full-time, and like all tenants his age, he’ll be sharing and there are very few landlords who allow pets.     What’s worse is that he wants a 'manly' dog. No Jack Russell or Westie for him, he wants a Finland or a labradoodle. The pictures he has shown us are terrifying; this Finland thing looks like a cross between a bear and a cow. 

When we lived in Singapore, we shared a garden with an English couple next door, Linda and Keith. We got on very well but Linda missed her grown up children back in England and since she didn’t work, she had a lot of free time. The end of our road, Tanjong Rhu, was still a wasteland and on it lived a pack of wild dogs. Linda and Keith took one in; a huge rust-coloured gangly mix of a dog - there was definitely a great Dane in there somewhere.   This huge, untrained, unpredictable animal was now sharing the communal garden with our  children who were still under the age of six .  Concerned as we were, we said nothing.   As it turned out we didn’t have to. The following Sunday we were out all day and so were Keith and Linda. When we got home Linda’s half of the garden was covered in wet rugs, they had pulled out their sofa and Linda herself was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor on a Sunday evening. When I politely inquired what was going on, Linda told me that while they were out, the neighbours complained that the dog howled the entire time. In his anguish he went berserk knocking the chip pan full of cold fat off the stove and ran in several frantic circles leaving a trail of chip fat soaked paw prints on every possible surface.  They got rid of the dog.    Massively relieved the dog was gone, I felt sorry for the poor animal that was abandoned once before, then rescued on a whim only to be promptly dumped again.  There won’t be a dog in this house again. None of us have the appetite for it. 

I miss Trump. He was the only reason I turned on the news.  He is pure entertainment and became the highlight of my day. What do I have to look forward to now? 

I made the Happy Pear winter vegetable soup. Carrots potatoes garlic kale. I used celeriac for the first time. We didn’t know what it looked like and had to google it. It's one ugly vegetable.  It reminds Son (22) of the screaming baby plants in Harry Potter. I had everything except parsnips. Lovely soup, I didn’t completely blend it, I left some parts chunky. Homemade soups are just instant goodness.  You can almost feel the nutrients racing through your veins and your brain perking up. 

I also made caramel squares. They were not as successful as the soup. I had the TV on and was watching John Creedon explain place names while doing the caramel phase and boiled the mixture too long.  It should be caramelly, the coconut dominates.  Still, the family like them and there a chunk of sweetness in these difficult times.   

Sunday evening is Zoom night with my family. After last week’s jokes Louise ordered us to come up with clean ones. They were woeful. Louise suggested a quiz and had thoughtfully drawn up some questions. I’m not competitive but I love quizzes and I got all mine right. That seemed to bring out the mean streak in others: Catherine accused me of looking up google. Lucky for her, she’s in Dublin or I’d reached for her neck. The first round involved the wives of Henry the VIII and the children of Queen Victoria. I asked, “Why are they all British royalty.” Louise admitted she used an English website for her questions. The 2nd round were the capital cities. It became a free for all. I blame the drink. Stephen was asked the capital of Nigeria. As he scratched his head, Catherine and I moved in for the kill; we screamed, “I know.” Stephen finally conceded he didn’t know. It turned out Catherine and I didn’t know either. We both chorused ‘Lagos’ but we were wrong. Son (22) came into the room and asked us to keep it down. Louise moved onto round, ‘Who said this?’ The quotes were so obscure that none of us knew. That’s the trouble with quizzes; there’s fine line between too hard and people switch off and two easy it becomes a brawl. It didn’t end well. Son (22) does quizzes with his friends a few nights a week. They take turns at being the quiz master and all you can hear from his room are hoots of laughter.

I volunteered him for next Sunday. The family eagerly agreed but they’re in for a rude shock. He's a tough taskmaster; he won't put up with our petty rivalry and he makes up his own questions like, ‘What is the Irish for strawberry?’ and ‘What band contain the names of, ‘Sharon, Jim and……….. We won't have a clue.  But then who does.  Bring back Trump.  He makes everyone else look sane. 

The Great Pause

Lockdown – Day 43

I needed to cut my fringe, but did not want to do it myself. After 40 years you would think I’d have mastered it by now.  No matter how careful I am, how good the light or sharp the scissors, the fringe curls up on the first wash and looks like ski slope.  As for my roots, Ihave a box of home dye but I’m putting that off for as long as possible, especially after my last experience.  I was in Lanzarote, February 2018, for my mother's 80th birthday with my mother, brother Tommy and two sisters Louise and Catherine.  Our apartment came with a roof garden and a 180 degree view of the sea.   Every morning, I would take my cup of coffee. and head up the spiral staircase to the roof garden and lie out on a sunbed until noon.  My family would eventually join me, and we would laze around like slumbering pigs with towels over our heads – all of us bar Catherine have skin cancer.  I didn't have time to touch up my hair before the holidays sor I had brought the box of home dye with me.  After my shower the first morning, I put in the dye.  The instructions said to leave in for 25 minutes.  With an old towel around my shoulders, I headed up to the roof.    After 25 minutes, I couldn't bring myself to get up and thought. 'Ah sure I’m holiday I’ll leave it in for the hour.'  It was two hours before I rinsed it out.  My hair turned a shiny blonde green, it hung lifeless and as straight as a poker and was so brittle it broke off in my hands. 

On that same holiday, I was chatting to my brother Tommy on the beach.  He has five children and it is rare to have a conversation with him without one of his children hanging off him.  Being my older brother and a school teacher, he was giving me unsolicited advice on how to be nice to people when it occurred to me he held never held a grudge.  After 50+ years of knowing him it surprised that I had not noticed this before and I said it to him.  He laughed and said, “Why would I?  What’s the point?  Life is too short.”       

This has nothing to do with my hair but a few months later, I was in England visiting my Aunt Kathleen.  I was with my mother and we all took the train from London to Reading to visit my Uncle John.  On the train ride down, I told Aunt Kathleen about my recent discovery on the topic of anxiety.  She agreed and said anxiety comes in many forms.  I told her of my conversation with Tommy the previous February; he is a worrier but doesn’t hold grudges.  I don’t see myself as anxious but I do hold grudges.      We got to the pub.  It was a spectacularly beautiful day in May – it happened to be the same day as the Prince Harry-Meghan Markle wedding, and everyone seemed to inside watching it on TV.  The pub is next to a canal which has a road bridge crossing it.  When a barge appeared, the road would close and then the bridge section of the road would swivel 180 degrees and the barge would come through.  Once the barge had safely passed the road bridge would swivel back into place.  Victorian engineering.  I went into the book to try and secure a table for 16 but was told that lunch reservations was fully booked.   However, the day was so beautiful, who wanted to sit inside when there tons of empty picnics out in the garden.  My aunts and I surveyed the garden and with the help of the bar staff we pulled three tables together under the shade of a massive oak tree.

We were at least an hour early.  Mum was gasping for a cup of tea.  I needed one too and needing something to do, I went back into the pub to organise the tea.  Coming back outside I saw that my brother Tommy had just arrived.  He had his back to me and putting my finger to my lips to signal silence from the two women, I snuck up behind him to give him a fright.  Despite the signal, Mum couldn't contain herself and blurted out, “Tommy, Geraldine says you never hold a grudge.”  Tommy and I froze. Tommy looked confused.    I made my presence known.

Back to my hair.  I’m wearing a hairband to sweep my fringe off my forehead.  Petty, I know but my eyes are sensitive.  Once my hair starts irritating my eyes, they start to weep and my mood plummets.  The only answer is to get to the hairdressers for a fringe cut.  It’s free at my regular hairdresser or a fiver elsewhere.  Money well spent. It affects my mood and I cannot afford to let it drop in my delicate state.  I would love to grow my fringe and cut my hair into a one chin length bob, like an elegant Parisian.  I asked Hubbie what he thought of my bald forehead look.  He hesitated.  "You want to know the truth?" he said.
"Always."
"You look like a cross nun."     

I finally made the connection after going to the hairdresser or cutting it myself.  It's like someone pulls the curtain across and lets you see the world - the effect is that dramatic.  I can't afford to let me mood plummet at this delicate time.  So, this morning I bit the bullet. I had an appointment with my doctor at lunchtime. His clinic is in Wilton – outside my 2km zone – and I needed smarten up. Using my sewing scissors, I barely nipped the edges, just enough to be able to see and it doesn’t hover like an annoying insect around my eyes.   The roots will have to wait. I did consider letting my hair colour grow and adopting the funky chic silver look but when I put it to my colleagues one evening celebrating a birthday, I got a chorus of shocked, “No”. I backed down. The lockdown is changing how we do things. Maybe it will be bridge to embracing ageing.

I’m wearing those clothes in my wardrobe that I wouldn’t normally be seen dead in but in my many purges I cannot bring myself to get rid of them. Having gained 9lbs since the lockdown started, my options are shrinking.  I bought this skirt for a family wedding in 2007.    It’s rather stunning.  As I detest clothes shopping, I of course left it until the last minute to get something.  At a wedding you have a licence to wear the extraordinary.  It’s black with a layer of black netting underneath and two ribbon sashes at the waist which tie at the back to create a slight rump effect.   It’s full skirt with an underlay of black netting that peaks out below the hem.  It goes spectacularly with a knee length black velvet coat.  On the big day I wore with scarlet red tights and ankle high laced black boots, I thought I looked like gypsy royalty.   Because I left it so late before the wedding, both the boots and skirt were one size too big.  Using inserts and thick socks I wore the boots to death.  The skirt however being too outlandish for everyday wear languished at the back of the wardrobe until four days ago.   I’m grateful for extra waist room.  However, wearing it with runners, multi coloured socks – not always matching – my rapidly greying hair under my son’s beanie hat, fear of catching the virus might be the reason fellow pedestrians are giving me wide berth on the pavement.  all those I meet on my walks I look like one of those cranky old women that live alone and have a huge collections plastic bags at home.  Oh wait, I am one of those women…..

Son (22) also tells me that I am sitting in the kitchen chair too long - he thinks its sewn to my ass - and that I should move more.  He takes off cycling/jogging for hours every day and comes back sweaty, happy and smelling of fresh air.  On Tuesday, he ran to Harty’s Quay on the Rochestown Road and said he saw the Guards taking photographs of the number plates of the cars parked there.  If they actually do anything is a mystery but their strategy might be to raise awareness and if people see them doing, the word might get round and this makes people 'honest.'  

People continue to give me wide berth on the footpath, which forces them to step out on the road to avoid me. This is insane. There's very few cars but social distancing doesn't mean you have to take a wide circle around a stranger. I'm only walking.  I don't have my mouth open; I'm not coughing or sneezing or spraying particles of germs in their direction.  We are two passing strangers on the street, why the extremes.  So, I say on the footpath and let them work around me. 

Son (22) continues to educate me. In the first week it was Abstract – the Art of Design. Then it was Flying Solo with Alex Honnold who climbed a 3,000-foot-high vertical rock face in Yosemite Park with his bare hands and no safety ropes. Last week’s documentary Icarus who set out to research doping in amateur cycling tournaments and inadvertently stumbled upon and exposed Russia’s doping of their athletes. His findings threatened to exclude Russian from the Rio Olympics. This week it’s Michael Jordan and The Last Dance. It’s a 10-part series on Netflix and we’re only allowed two episodes a week.  How could you fill 10 hours about one man, but the series also explores the people around Jordon at the time and the politics of sports.  And podcasts. Son listens to them all the time and recommended I listen to Cal Newport on Digital Minimalism.        

I’ve gained 9lbs since lockdown started and so on Sunday, even though it was raining, I went for a two hour walk to listen to the podcast from start to finish.  Cal reckons up to 10 years, boredom was part of our lives.  We didn’t like it but according to Cal, our brain needs boredom in order to have downtime.  With event of smartphone, and the need to work on laptops, and the advantages of rapid communication via email, we are never not communicating or listening to something.    With all the opportunities to fill every waking moment with distractions, the effect is you never switch off.  Every time you are listening or watching the news your brain is in process mode.  The brain also needs time to absorb the information you have just taken in.    The result is that your brain because is being perpetually stimulated, this causes a constant mild anxiety. Cal also talked about how Facebook reengineered the algorithms on their apps to produce the same effect of slot machines in Vegas.  The ‘Likes’ on Facebook are timed to exploit you’re the human weakness in their psychology the need for reassurance of approval. How cruel and manipulative is that? Cal suggest a 30-day detox or less drastically, to deliberately limit your time on your phone and only use your laptop to check emails/Facebook.    The phone is lethal because it is available all the time whereas the laptop being larger and less portable is slower.  Facebook makes money every single time you check it.  Constantly checking social media affects your concentration and your ability to focus.  Cal then refers to Alex Honnold the climber in Free Solo.  Alex uses social media to draw attention to his achievements but before his most famous climb up El Capitaine in Yosemite Park he abstained from social media completely for one month so that it would not impair his ability to focus.  One slip of concentration and he would have plummeted to his death. Cal advises us to be discerning and talked about the Amish community in America.  They have a reputation for shunning all technology but that’s not the case.  They review all technology and new innovations and weigh it up – does this thing benefit the community and if it is deemed to potentially isolate within the community then it is rejected.  They use electricity and use disposable nappies, but they reject cars because that would encourage people to go outside and spend their leisure time away from the community.  They have the same approach to mobile phones.  The Amish have a single land line phone available to the community if needed but since mobile phones are deemed to create isolation within the community, they reject them.  I found that argument the most convincing of all. 

With my fall from gypsy royalty to serfdom, maybe the social distancing has as much to do with my appearance as with avoiding germs.  

Communication with work continues via email and phone calls.  I make every work call last as long as possible.  I ignore their, "I’ll let you go now," and "I won’t keep you."  My work colleague and friend, returned my calls after several texts.  Her mother and herself love watching RTE's Home School Hub.  It's designed to help primary school children keep up to date with their school work.  Maria pleaded to be let off the phone because Home School Hub was about to start. My mother raves about programme that too.  She told us in one of our Zoom calls that she learned how to remember the counties in Northern Ireland – FATDAD and that Leinster has 12 counties = 3 Ls, 3 Ws, 2K, and then the three awkward ones around Dublin, Meath Carlow Offaly and Meath.    

I’m on week 2 of the Happy Pear cooking course.  Hubbie’s Aunt Ka has wild garlic growing rampant in her garden and despite her best efforts to dig it up, it comes back in spades every year.  I’ve asked her to get some the next time he is over.  I once did a charity walk in Kinsale in aid of breast cancer and there was wild garlic growing in the ditches.  The aroma of crushed garlic filled the air as us women briskly walked for charity/cancer.  smell in the air was divine.  The challenge is to make a different dinner out of this week’s recipes. With garlic on my mind, I made the low-fat pesto with pesto with almonds and basil and spinach. I went a bit heavy with the garlic, I think.  It was bitter.  I’ve been repeating garlic all evening.  Another reason why people might want to social distance themselves from me.

After the doctor, I stopped in Dunnes near the Bandon Road roundabout for milk. I met my sister-in-law Jemma getting rid of beer bottles in the recycling bins. Beer parties she explains her son has remote parties and this is the evidence. New government manifest that where possible people will be required to work one day a week from home. Amen to that. She also told me that her son Jack is planning to move out of home at the first opportunity and rent a house with eight friends on College Road. We expressed pity for their soon-to-be neighbours, but it seems they’re not the only ones with the same idea because everytime they think they've secured a house, the landlord gets a better offer.  My son in Dublin has had to break his lease as his two flatmates – who are working from home – in Cork have been told to continue working from home until September -. He cannot afford the rent by himself.  However, since the lockdown started rents are coming down and so he’s on the lookout. Son (22) said he’s planning to move too.  Maybe this lockdown has shaken up the housing market and made it affordable for people to move or being trapped with their families suddenly makes independence attractive.

Wednesday night, Son (22) introduced us to Beer Pong. We cleared the kitchen table. At opposite ends of the table we have four cups each. It’s supposed to be glasses of different sizes and heights but since we were using capsules instead of ping pong ball it would have shattered the glasses.  So, we used teacups instead. Each cup half filled with beer or cider for me. And the aim is to land the capsule in your opponent’s cup, and he drinks it. Hygiene how are you these capsules rolled onto the floor, landed in flowerpots, rolled behind cupboards with dust, I washed mine, but my drink still had floating bits I couldn’t identify. I didn’t whinge and drank up. You’re supposed to do it in one shot, but Cider is too gassy to swill down in one go. I was fantastic. Without thinking, I landed the first three without effort but could not land the last cup. I came last. The boys called me a choker. In one round, Hubbie suggested reinstating the last three cups and I nailed it. We were all drunk. Neil took a video of Son (20) nailing the last cup to win the championship. Even slowed down the shot to slow motion. Unfortunately, I unaware he was filming walked through the shot and I saw in slow motion the 9lbs I’ve gained. He then put it up on the family’s WhatsApp. The diet starts today.

I’m noticing my home more. I’m cleaning it more and buying eco friendly products.  In Wilton on Wednesday I bought Ecover Floor Soap with oil of orange. Oil. I think I followed the instructions, but I was drunk; it was right after Beer Pong and the floor was a lake of beer and it had to be done. My fellow contestants had disappeared into the living room to watch Star Wars with corn dogs, so I took the opportunity to clean. I must of have put too much product or too little water because the result was lethal. I got carried away and washed the tiled floors in the hall and downstairs too. I nearly broke my neck as I slithered in the hall. Luckily, it’s not a wide hall and the wall broke my fall. I immediately got a towel and trudged up and down drying to dry the excess. I opened windows. I told the menfolk not to leave the room and trudged up and down the length of the hall draining the excess and speed up the drying process. This morning floor is gleaming in the early morning sun and it smells of oranges. I love my home.

And even better, summer is here. Driving to Wilton on Wednesday, I didn’t need the heater in the car. The horse chestnut trees lining the Link are in full leaf. The grass is long and dense with thousands of dandelions poised to release their seeds. I saw children sitting in their front gardens wearing t-shirts and sandals. It’s like summer exploded overnight.   

Pat the Surgeon

A friend told me how she regularly takes her young children to the woods and they have a great time running through puddles and playing Hide n' Seek.   The very thought of Woods makes my blood run cold.  It's not a place I would go to on my own or take my children.  I see houses out in the country surrounded by banks of evergreen trees and wonder how they can live alongside such a dark, brooding presence.   The sound of the wind blowing through trees is such a lonely sound and there is the fear of one of them falling on top of you, or your house or car.

August 2017, my husband and I celebrated our anniversary in Parknasilla hotel which is set on 500 acres of land.  On the drive down a storm was blowing in the from the Atlantic.   The utter blackness of the night, the lashing rain and the acres of tall, dark, brooding trees lining the narrow country roads leading to the hotel sent my mood plummeting.  

The next morning dawned fresh and delightful and after eating a massive breakfast including four poached eggs - a misunderstanding with the waiter - I suggested we act like children and explore the grounds.  

A small gate takes you down a path lined with eight foot high freshly clipped hedges until you emerge onto a small beach with a full view of the Atlantic.  We crossed the boardwalk spanning the beach and reached a grassy knoll on which were a series of white painted wooden signs pointing to Heron's Walk, the Islands Walk.  Enchanting.  We opted for the Islands walk.  We came to a grove of trees.  I hesitated.  I reminded myself I was with my husband and kept going.  The trees didn't look like normal trees.  Trees should be tall and straight with green leaves on top.  We were surrounded by a tangle of pale, thin, smooth boughs that looked like the gnarled, bony fingers of my granny.  

Every so often our path crossed a tiny stream struggling to make its way through clogged leaves and twigs.  The engineer in me found a stick and happily squatted down at its banks to nudge the debris out of the way until the stream flowed again.

I confided to my husband my uneasiness of wooded areas.  "This is where you find the bodies of murder victims." I told him, "according to the news, they are always found by a man walking his dog or by a woman out jogging."  My husband pointed out that the murders are usually done elsewhere and the bodies are only brought to woods to be dumped.  I told him I didn't want to be the person that found the body either. 

That night I did not sleep.  I don't know whether it was being in a strange bed, eating too late and too much or the room being too hot.  At 1.30 am I stopped trying and got up.  Bringing my phone and book with me, I found a seat in a corridor in front of a window overlooking the sea although at that hour nothing was visible.      

Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realised the night sky was clear and truly beautiful.     Being so far out from 'civilisation' the stars were at their brightest and, although only a finger nail, the moon shone too. It wasn't so dark after all.  I opened the window to breath in the sea air.  It was so still the only sound you could hear was the sea gently lapping against the rocks.  

I longed to go outside but I was afraid; afraid I might get locked out, afraid of who I might meet - man or beast and so afraid of being afraid that I might scare myself to death.  And then the fear turned to practicality - I didn't want to wake my husband looking for my clothes at four into the morning. What kind of lunatic does that?

I sat on that chair. I meditated.  I prayed and waited for sleep to take over. 

Finally, dawn broke.  I looked out the window.  It was another beautiful morning.  I made a decision.  I would go for a walk in the woods. Alone.

I let myself back into the bedroom.  I crawled past my sleeping husband.  I found yesterday's jeans, my shoes - no socks - and coat.

I nodded good morning to the night porter and let myself out the front door.  I crossed the boardwalk and into the first grove. I kept telling myself, "Rapists don't get up this early." and "Murderers wouldn't dump bodies during daylight hours."

I was so jittery, even the sound of my shoes squelching in the soft earth and wet leaves unnerved me.   At every turn in the path I checked over my shoulder for strange men and rabid dogs.  There were none but the hood of my jacket made me jump a few times.  I re-traced my steps from the day before.  I approached the part of the Island Walk that dipped downwards causing the growth around the path to look like a mouth.   The mouth contained nothing but darkness.  I kept going.  Once inside it wasn't as dark as it first seemed.   

What kind of trees were these?  I eventually realised they were really old rhododendron bushes that had run amok.  Their leaves only grew at the very top of the shrub above my head where they could catch the sun.  Underneath was a mess of scrambled limbs, their branches bleached white like dead bones, creepy and perfect for an old witch hiding children or boiling rabbits in black pots over an open fire. 

Occasionally, I emerged in the open to cross a wooden bridge spanning a water inlet.  The sea water was so calm it barely moved.  The water didn't ripple so much as heave as if there was a monster moving slowly beneath the surface.  A flash of white swooped past me and screamed.  My heart clenched but it was only a sea gull.  I watched a grey heron, almost the same colour as the rocks around it, take off and land almost casually on another rock further down stream.

Maybe it was the endorphins but after an hour I started to relax and actually enjoy the walk.  Nature at peace with itself and so was I.  All was well, I felt well.  I came across Bishops Walk, we didn't do that one yesterday.  This walk led to enchanting twists and turns in the path with uprooted oak trees that could definitely house colonies of fairy folk.  A stream flowed by strong and true.  It didn't need my help.

It was 9 o'clock when I got back and Hubbie wanted his breakfast.  I got dressed properly and cleaned my muddy shoes.  I told him about my walk.  He looked at me surprised and said, "I thought you were afraid of the woods?" "Not anymore," I said. 

This morning, as I mulled over my 'feel the fear and do it anyway' moment, the doorbell rang.  I could see a small, round man through the stained glass window in the front door.  'Must be the postman,' I thought and got up to open the door.

"Do you want your trees cut?" said the man, handing me a card.

I looked at him blankly, "Excuse me?"

He nodded at the card in my hand, "I'm a tree surgeon, do you want me to have a go at your hedges. I could do the whole lot for a 100 Euros."

I stared at him in wonder.  Was this serendipity at work again?
 
"Are you alright, Missus?" 

His name is Pat.  He did my hedges, cleaned the gutters and asked if I had Fairy Liquid to wash his hands.  

I told Pat about my fear of trees.  "I've been working with trees all my life," said Pat, "and I can tell you I've never found a body yet. Will I check back with you in six months?" 

"Do," I said, "you never know what I might need then."

Pat opened the front door.  "Remember," he said, "no matter what happens, Jesus loves you." And then he was gone.

In less than ten minutes with a chainsaw, Pat the surgeon decimated my bushes.   They probably needed it.  

Pricked in Bantry

“Today’s exercise is to barter,” said Horatio. “You can barter whatever you like but you must bring back an object, the name of the person you interacted with and a story.  Meet you back here under Wolfe Tone in 40 minutes.”  We scattered like sheep. 

I’m a workshop junkie.  I attend seven or eight a year and July 2016 found me in Bantry at the West Cork Literary Festival doing Travel Writing with Horatio Clare.  

‘Bartering in Ireland,’ I thought to myself, ‘he must be mad. We’re not in China.  I’ll buy something.  Horatio will never know.’     

I crossed the street to use the ATM.    A few minutes later, armed with cash I dashed back to the market.  I had only 20 minutes left. I dodged tourists dawdling at the jewellery stall, strode past nylon Indian rugs, plastic guns, and stopped when I spotted bracelets a Euro each.  The bracelets were pretty in brilliant greens and reds strung on elastic thread.  I tried them on.  They were a little tight.  I chatted to the owner while I tried on first one, then three.  Three together looked good.  The owner’s name was Chung, he’s from North West China and has been in Ireland eight years.  All the time we talked, I weighed up whether he'd be up for bartering.    My courage failed me. I returned the bracelets and walked on.  

Almost at the end of the square, I came across an upturned Coca-Cola crate on top of which sat a tray of seedlings marked ‘Tobacco’.  Sitting next to the tray in the open door of her van was the owner.  With her long, blonde hair worn Joni Mitchell style under a scarecrow hat and skin-tight denim jeans, I recognised her immediately.  

“I met you at the Mallow Garden Festival two weeks ago, you sold me a gorgeous tree peony,” I said.  She nodded and smiled at me. 

“Are they actually tobacco?” I said, pointing at the seedlings.

“Yes," she said, "they have a lovely flower. In a few weeks the leaves will grow to about five times that size.  You cut the leaves right back to the base and hang them up to dry.  When they are fully brown you crumble them up into small pieces and smoke them.” 

“You actually smoke them?” 

She nodded happily.

I sighed and told her I was on a writing course and my  assignment to barter.

“I barter all the time,” She said. 

 “Will you barter with me?” 

“What do you have?” 

I opened my bag and listed the contents.  “I have a laptop, a packet of tissues never used,” and pointing to my head, “how about these sunglasses?” 

She looked me in the eye and said gently, “You know you can barter for services too.  If you get me a cup of coffee, I’ll give you any plant you want.”  My eyes scanned her stall greedily. She had some lovely plants. 

“Done, where do I go?” 

“There’s a red van over on the far side of the square, he sells coffee out of the back.” 

“How do you like it?” 

“Black, no sugar, no milk.” 

I was about to shoot off when I stopped, “What’s your name?’ 

“Kathy.” 

“Hi Kathy, I’m Geraldine, I’ll be right back with your coffee,"   and I took off across the square. 

The coffee van was the last van before the stall selling cheese.  A bearded man played the ukulele and sang ‘When I’m 64’ as I took my place in the queue next to a tiny, elderly lady.  The lady ordered a double espresso, poured in a pinch of milk and knocked it back before moving onto the cheese stall.   

I ordered a large black.  Carefully sealing the lid on the cup as if my life depended on it, I wound my way slowly back across the square.  The coffee was hot and I had to keep switching it from hand to hand.  I saw an elderly lady leaning on a ‘Supervalu’ trolley on the top of which her grandson was helping to balance a large cardboard box filled with primroses.  As I passed, the box fell dumping most of the plants onto the pavement and spilling the soil under the wheels of a parked car. Any other day I would have stopped to help but I kept going.  

Kathy relieved me of the coffee. “Now,” she said, “how it works is that I pay you for the coffee and you, for your services of bringing me the coffee, get to pick a plant.” 

“Oh no,” I said, “Don’t do that, let’s do the coffee for a plant.” 

“Ok, which plant would you like?” 

I looked around at the racks of hydrangeas, peace lillies, peonies, all big, healthy, colourful plants in full bloom.  Reluctantly I dragged my eyes back to the tray of seedlings.    

“I think for the sake of the story, it ought to be the tobacco,” I said. 

Kathy picked up the tray and handed it to me.  There were at least eight plants in it. 

“Oh no,” I said, “I don’t need all of them, just one will do.”  

“You can have them all.” 

“They’ll be dead by the time I get back to Cork. Really, I only need one.” 

Kathy inserted her forefinger and thumb into the first hole and gently pinched out the baby plant. It emerged from its home, snug and root-bound, perfectly intact: not a crumb of soil spilled.  She looked around for something to put it into. She climbed into the van and as she did so, I spotted a used coffee cup just inside the door and picked it up.  

“How about this?” I said.  Kathy plopped the plant into the cup.  

We both smiled.  Perfect.

I dashed back to the statue and finding a bench directly opposite Wolfe Tone, I sat down to write my story.  My brain had been pricked.  I felt alive and as excited as a five-year old.  Oblivious to the noise and activity around me, I  scribbled furiously into my notebook.  I had been admitted to an alternate universe and felt an urgent need to wrestle it down on to the page.      I heard a man insulting my seedling, “There’s something wrong with your cabbage” and he laughed. I wrote on.