Mary Part III

'Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.' Gibran Khalil

The following year, June had just turned into July and I was travelling to Dublin by train. Three elderly people, a couple and the wife’s cousin boarded the train at Mallow. They had pre-booked the seats in my booth. The husband of the couple stored their coats and bags in the overhead shelf. He sat down opposite me and said, "Guess how old I am."

"70?" I said.

"I’m 82," he said proudly. "It’s not every 82-year old that can lift luggage like that.”

I couldn't help but overhear their conversation. They were on their way to a wedding of a grand-niece in Kildare. The women seemed to be cousins and were glad of the opportunity to catch up. The husband kept chipping in with puns and other useless conversation, but the women ignored him.

We were just pulling out of Thurles, the last stop before Dublin when the husband caught my eye. He said, “Guess how old I am?”

“You’re 82,” I said

He looked hurt and said, “How do you know?”

“You told me,” I said.

The two women laughed.

His wife then leaned across the table, “I’m sorry about him,” she said, “but I don’t write his script.”

I then remembered I needed to contact Mary. I pulled out my phone and texted, ‘Sorry, I missed you last week. You’re probably down in Roberts Cove these days. When would be a good time to drop down next week?’

Two minutes later, Mary replied, ‘I’m very sorry Ger but I've got cancer, I have three weeks to live.’ I wanted to jump off the train and run all the way back to Cork. Until that moment I didn’t realise how much I loved her.

As soon as the train pulled into Dublin, I rang Mary.  It was true. She had been complaining about back pain for years and they finally found the reason why. She had a tumour in her spine and cancer in her bones.  She told me she was going for treatment. If it worked, it might give her another seven years. “Seven years would be good,” she said, “I can deal with seven years.”

Over the next year, Mary was in and out of the Mercy and Erinville Hospitals all within walking distance of where I worked.  The Erinville is an old hospital with dreary rooms.  It was clear, the nurses adored Mary and her eternal cheerfulness in the face of her illness. Mary, always glamorous in her lilac coloured satin pyjamas, chatted to the nurses as they plumped pillows behind her back and tucked blankets in and around her body as if they were old friends.  She, in turn, accepted their kindness cheerfully. 

Another time, a Saturday, she was admitted to the Mercy. I texted her, "I'm on my way in, what can I bring you?"

“I’d love a drink.”

I stopped off at Galvin’s Off Licence on the Douglas Road and bought six bottles of West Coast Cooler, a bottle of Moet Chandon, and a couple of packets of Taytos. With the bottles clinking in a plastic Dunnes Stores bag I arrived at her bedside. Tony was with her. “I got you the drink you asked for,” I told them.

Mary looked at me surprised, "But Ger, I can’t drink."

"But you said..."

"Ah, Ger cop on.”

"I’ll leave them with you," I said. "You can use them to celebrate when this is all over."

The following November, Mary’s daughter Katie turned 18 and was having a party to celebrate. Mary invited all her friends and extended family to the party. It was held in a pub in Passage West.  

Glamour is very important to Mary and I wanted to make the effort.  I wore the only pair of heels I owned, tights, a skirt that was a little bit long, but it had a frilly hem so it looked dressy, and a black jumper. I asked my son, “How do I look?”

He looked at me and said, “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

I went looking for the full-length mirror in the hall. It was true. I had dressed from head to toe entirely in black. I looked like a Sicilian widow.

“Ah, the hell with it,” I said, “I’m dressed now.” I put on a coat, also black, grabbed Katie’s present and left.

I found the pub and parked on the street outside.  I went inside and looked around. No sign of anybody I knew. I asked the barman, “Where’s Katie’s party?”

He pointed to the stairs and said, “Upstairs in the roof garden.”

I climbed the two flights of stairs until I reached a single door. I pushed it open and entered another country. It was a large flat open space with huge potted palm trees and hundreds of fairy lights strung from pole to pole and beautiful people everywhere. Hollywood had nothing on these girls with their 8-inch heels, floor-length flowing dresses, tanned bodies and hair extensions. I wandered in this forest of people until Katie took pity on me and identified herself.  Relieved to see a friendly face, I pressed the gift into her hand and said, “Where’s your mother?”

“Down in the bar.”

I shot back down the two flights of stairs.  

I found Mary with a huge gang including her mother Sheila, brother Jerry, husband Tony, son Russell and long-time school friends Honor and Val. There was a live old-time band. Mary loves a singsong and we sang all night.   

At about 11 pm, Mary said, “Ger could you give me a hand with the cake?”

“No problem,” says I.

Mary asked the barman for the cake. He brought out the box from the kitchen.  The cake measured 12 inches by 9 and was in the shape of a hairdryer. Katie is a trainee hairdresser. I carried the cake up the two flights of stairs and Mary brought the breadknife, matches and candles. When we reached the single door, Mary stuck the candles into the cake and lit them with the matches. Handing me the knife and the matches, I threw open the door and Mary entered the rooftop paradise with the blazing cake.

The DJ stopped the music.  All the guests gathered around Mary and Katie and sang Happy Birthday and For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow. Katie blew out the candles to huge cheers. The DJ started the music again. Mary handed me the cake and the bread knife and started dancing with Katie. I had just turned towards the door when a beautiful 18-year-old girl tottered towards me on her 8-inch heels. She gestured to me to dance too. I looked around to find a chair and put down the cake. The girl then caught both my hands and started to sway slowly from one foot to the other.

‘Hmm,’ I thought to myself. ‘She’s had a few drinks.” I looked at her kindly and said, “Are you Katie’s friend?”

She nodded eagerly and then said kindly, “You’re Katie’s Granny, aren’t you?”

The smile froze on my face. I managed to keep going until the song ended.  Mary and I re-joined the others at the bar. I told Mary what the girl said.

“Ah, she probably meant well," said Mary.

“I know,” I said, “That’s the problem!" 

For Mary's birthday, the 1st of June, Tony hosted a small party at home to include close friends, her neighbours and her mother, Sheila.  At around 9pm, Mary became tired and went up to her bedroom to rest.  She pleaded with everyone to stay on and enjoy themselves.  After ten minutes, Katie tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Mam wants to talk to you.” I went up to Mary's bedroom and while she sat up in bed resting against several pillows, I sat on a chair and chatted.  Then one by one, the other guests joined us.   Mary was so happy. The entire party gathered around her.  Then Honor told a joke. That was my cue. I told a polite one to test the waters. They laughed. Then Honor told another and I another, each one getting more risqué than the last. Sheila didn’t like the way things were turning.

"I don't think I like your jokes," said Sheila. She had a warning glint in her eye. I looked at Mary. She winked at me. I kept going.

Again, the warning signal from her mother, "Oh, you're very rude." But as long as Mary was laughing, we kept going.

That summer was Mary's last. We didn’t know it. Mary had convinced herself and everyone around her she had seven more years.  The last memory I have of Mary before she became really ill is of her sitting on the deck of her mobile home in Roberts Cove.  The sun was setting over the cornfields of Tracton behind us and Mary was where she was happiest, surrounded by her friends, and her beloved mother sipping a white wine spritzer.  Everybody in Roberts Cove seemed to stop by for a chat. Mary knew everybody and everybody that knew Mary loved her. You couldn’t help yourself.

It’s Mary’s birthday this Monday, June 1st. It always marks the beginning of summer for me. She would have been 56.  I think about her every single day.

Mary Part II

Like most young Irish people in the 1980s, I left Ireland to look for employment. In  July 1984, I headed to New York to work as a nanny.  All my life up to that point, it had been my dream to see America but the whole time I was there I was chronically homesick.  America was good to me.  I made lovely friends but I pined to be home even though I knew home had nothing for me.  I wrote 24 letters a week.  Mary and my mother were the only ones that wrote back.  

After New York, I got another nanny job in Boston and worked for a fantastic family who went out of their way to treat me as one of their own.  I still wrote as many letters home. Mary always wrote back.  

In 1987, with the economy as bad as ever, I migrated to London. I got married in 1989 and started having the first of three boys in 1994.  In 1997, Hubbie got an offer of a move to Singapore.  I didn't know where Singapore was but I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. After ten years in London, I was ready to move and Ireland was still not an option.  In January 2002, we moved to Hong Kong.

By 2006, I had had enough.  Ireland was booming.  My oldest son had just turned 12 years old and was ready to start secondary school. It was 'make or break' time.  I had read somewhere that the most vulnerable years psychologically are between 13 and 15.    The time had come to move or wait another ten years until the youngest finished secondary school.  I started to make plans. 

I kept my expectations low.  My mantra that year was 'Expect nothing and you won't be disappointed' is the mantra I repeated to myself.  

Just before leaving Hong Kong, I started to get cold feet and expressed my doubts to my friends over lunch one day.  Sitting on a rooftop terrace in Repulse Bay overlooking the sea I wondered was I doing the right thing.  The boys were very happy in their school and Hubbie was allergic to the idea of returning to a country that had zero employment when he first left college.  The headlines on Irish Times told us that Ireland in 2006 had 100% employment.  It seemed too good to be true.     "I think you might be depressed," said Sam.   

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "Not with my personality." 

"It has nothing to do with personality," said Sam. "Depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain. You should get it checked out." 

Even with all my planning, moving back to Ireland was the single most stressful move I ever made.  The 21-year-old who left in 1984 was curious, young and open to new experiences.  I thought I was coming home but I was wrong.  I was not the same person and I was not returning to Ireland I knew in 1984.   I was a 43-year-old married woman with three small children and a husband on the other side of the world moving to a country that had evolved fifty years ecnomically in the space of ten.    

Hubbie eventually transferred with his company to London and commuted at the weekends.  Sons then aged 12, 9 and 6 had mixed reactions to living in Ireland.  Sons (12) and (6) adapted immediately. Son (6) had a Cork accent within a week.  Son (9) sulked for the first year.   I hated being back.  In the first few weeks, I wondered, “What was the rush?”  It went downhill after that.  Every week, I either telephoned or called down to Mary's house who was now living in Passage West with her own family.    

She listened as I ranted about how awful my life was.  I could only tell her because I couldn't admit to Hubbie I made a mistake. Nor could I talk to the children as none of them wanted to come back in the first place.  I couldn't tell my parents as they were in the horrors that we would take off again.  There was no-one to talk to and so Mary, for the first few months, bore the brunt of my frustration.  One evening, down in her house, after one particular burst of bitterness where I raged that, "Ireland is supposed to be such a friendly place but I don't find it friendly at all....."     Mary stopped me.  "Ger," she said, "Do you know what you're like?"

“What?” I said.

“You walk into a room and say, “It’s a nice day isn’t it?” in such a way that you frighten people."

I looked at her doubtfully, "I do?"

"Yes," she said, "You're scaring people.  You need to lighten up.”

Mary advised me to go see my doctor and also gave me the name of an addiction counsellor she knew in Turners Cross.  I made an appointment to see my doctor the next day.  The doctor told me it was likely I was suffering from depression but rather than prescribe medication she decided to take blood tests first.  The results would take ten days and in the meantime, she recommended I take Pharmaton.  A week into Pharmaton, my brain changed.  I felt lighter and more at ease around my children.  The results of the test; I had an underactive thyroid gland the symptoms of which are identical to depression.    I also made an appointment with the counsellor.  I don't have any addictions, other than moaning, but after six weeks, just talking to a professional changed my entire perspective.  

    

It was a turning point.

I am forever grateful to Mary for having the courage to tell her friend that she was wrong.  Mary dared to do what no one would and helped me to see that my misery lay with me and no one else.  And as always, she did it with humour which always makes the medicine go down easier.

Mary

My father loved all things, German.  He was a member of the German Circle in Cork and every two years he would travel to Berlin to visit his friend, Klaus and practice his language skills.  In 1979, he brought the whole family.  It was our first time abroad.    

“If you want spending money on this holiday," warned my mother, "start saving your pocket money.”   I went one better.  In Douglas Shopping Centre, one afternoon after school, I saw an advertisement sellotaped to the front door of Quinnsworth, 'Part-time staff wanted immediately.’  I inquired at the information desk and was interviewed by the manager, Tony Keohane.  He offered me a job and I started the following Thursday.  The hours were 6 pm- 10 pm Thursday and Friday and all day Saturday at 9 am - 6 pm.  The uniform was a knee-length orange housecoat and brown trousers. The pay was 40 pence an hour.  That was a pittance even then, but I didn’t care I was earning my own money.  My biggest kick was walking through the white double doors at the end of the shop with a sign that said, ‘Staff Only.

There were two other part-timers, Deirdre Rennie and Mary Russell but they ignored me.

That was fine.  I was put on dairy with Angela Dalton who by a stroke of luck was the most popular employee there.  Her best pal was Anna in Cereals and sitting with them in the canteen during our breaks was pure entertainment.  The TV series, Mork & Mindy had just arrived in Ireland and was a huge hit.  Anna and Angela greeted each other with the split hand signal and cracked up laughing. 

I was in Inter Cert year and the Christmas exams were coming up.  "What’s your favourite subject?" said Anna. "History and I like English too," I said.  "I love reading, but I hate poetry." "Oh," said Angela, "I love poetry." And then standing between the Corn Flakes and the Frosties she declared, “I wandered lonely as a cloud, I wandered o’er vale and hill. And all at once, I heard a shout, ‘Get off me fucking daffodils.'"

Life was good.  It was about to get better.

I had finished my shift for the night and was walking towards the white double doors to freedom.  All at once, I heard a shout, “Hey Ger.”  I stopped and looked around.  It was Mary.  Once she saw that she had my attention, she broke into a run.  She stopped in front of me, smiled and then raising her right hand she slapped me across the face.  Then screaming with laughter, she took off running towards the Pick N’Mix.  I took off after her.  Mary looked back and when she saw me gaining on her she screamed, "Someone, help me."  She turned sharp left at the end of the aisle. Coming around the corner, I found her cowering behind Catherine who was in charge of Fruit N'Veg.  Using the bewildered Catherine as a shield, Mary shouted, “Don’t touch me, you’re mad.” 

“I’m mad?" I said. "You’re the one that just hit me!"

“Yeah, I know” sniggered Mary. "I wanted to see what you would do." 

We became best friends.

It was the summer of 1980, Mary and I planned to go away for the August bank holiday weekend. Her parents said no.  Instead, they invited us to join them and Mary's younger brother, Jerry who was then four years old, in their caravan in Ballybunion in Co. Kerry.  It always rains in Kerry and so I didn't bother to pack swimming togs.  

I was wrong.  With the sun ‘splitting the stones’ I baked in my jeans and t-shirt. “It’s ok," said Mary, "I brought a second bikini."     I didn't trust bikinis ever since I dived in the deep end of Douglas Swimming baths and the bottom half came off in the pool.  I had no choice. It was either the bikini or swelter.   After much encouragement from Mary and her mother Sheila, I put it on.  Itsy bitsy doesn't begin to describe this contraption. It was all strings and triangular patches of cloth.  I felt unsafe. I spent the whole time checking the knots were secure and that the triangles were covering my modesty.   

Sunday morning promised to be a scorcher and we headed to the beach early.  Mary's dad found us a great spot next to a ridge of rocks that served as a back support for Sheila and a buffer from the breeze coming off the Atlantic.  

Mary and I flapped out our towels on the sand and laid out to work on our tan.  By 4 pm, the beach was packed with families and fellow sun worshippers.  Mary said, "C'mon Ger, let's go for a swim."   The tide was fully out, and it was a long walk to the water's edge.  That was OK. All the better to parade our sun-kissed bodies glistening with Tropicana suntan oil.  With my fingers ever running over my body checking the bikini strings, we chatted gaily.   We were two carefree seventeen-year-olds on holiday.  The sun was shining and the glistening ocean stretched out before us. Life was good. 

We had just arrived at the gentle lapping water and were tentatively dipping our toes into the freezing water when suddenly, I felt the bottom half of my bikini being yanked down to my knees.  I froze. Mary laughed and pointed at me.  I screamed in horror and frantically grabbed at the strings now falling to my ankles.   Tangled and furled I couldn't drag it up my legs quick enough.   I ran into the sea, but the tide was so far out it wasn't deep enough to hide my mortification.    I finally flopped into the shallow water.    As Mary waded out to join me, I popped my head above the water and looked up the beach towards her family.   I saw Sheila sitting on the rug, laughing and patting Jerry.  "The little bollox," I said, "Your mother put him up to it."   Mary flopped down beside me and said, "She probably did."

That night with our gorgeous bronzed skins; Mary's golden buttery, mine a few freckles more we went to the local disco.  We had to be back for 11 0'clock.  I wore my lemon-yellow Bermuda shorts bought with my millions working in Quinnsworth.   At 10.45 pm,  we obediently headed back to the caravan park.  Walking through the streets of Ballybunion we came across a parked car.  The windows were steamed up.  The driver's window was open halfway.  We stopped and looked in.  A couple were locked in a passionate embrace.  Without hesitation, Mary stuck her head in the window and shouted, "Cock a doodle doo."  The couple broke apart.  The man glared at us through the steamy window and roared at us to 'fuck off'.  We ran all the way home. 

Randy

Laverne's friend, Winnie was visiting from their hometown in Minnesota. "We have to take her to the coolest spots in town," said Laverne, "so she can go back and tell my family what a great time I'm having." The Onion was the coolest bar in Quincy. I borrowed my boss's car for the night.

Laverne and I are nannies in Boston. We live five hundred yards apart and meet up every single day. The contrast in our appearances couldn’t be greater. With her Viking heritage, at 5' 8" tall, her fine baby blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes set into pink-white marshmallow skin, Laverne drew men to her like flies.  With my Celtic skin, and being five-foot-tall with a lisp, I didn't even get the flies.

I collected Laverne and Winnie at 8 pm and with the No. 1 hit that summer, Too Late for Goodbyes by Julian Lennon blasting on the radio, we drove into the heart of Quincy looking for excitement. Within an hour inside The Onion, Laverne met Lennie.

According to Lennie, Dirty Dicks, a night club just an hour's drive outside Boston, was the place to be.  With Lennie and his friends leading the way in their jeep, I followed in my car with Laverne and Winnie.  Laverne told us Lennie was Julian Lennon's cousin. “Are you sure?” I said. “John Lennon was an only child.” Laverne didn’t care, she was in love.

Dirty Dicks was a huge wooden barn in the middle of a vast car park surrounded by fields. It was like Little House on the Prairie for badasses. Lennie bought everyone drinks and then disappeared with Laverne, leaving Winnie and me to fend for ourselves.  We leaned against the wall watching the heaving dancefloor.  The music was incredible but it wasn't Abba.  Also, it slowly dawned on me, we were the only white people there.   

After a few minutes, this six-foot-tall black man in his forties came up and asked me to dance. My brain screamed into overdrive. 

"A black man has asked me to dance.”

“What do I do?”

“Concentrate you fool and dance.”

“But how?”

I looked up at the man. He seemed oblivious to my presence. Completely comfortable in his own skin, he seemed to move with effortless grace. I moved like a person trying to stamp out a fire with my feet. I closed my eyes and searched frantically for inspiration. My inner voice spoke, “Stop panicking.   Listen to the music. What can you hear? Look for the beat?"

I stood still. I felt the floor vibrate through my feet. The music seemed to pulsate through the walls.  My breathing slowed down and so did my heart.  I sensed the beat and then I felt it. I surrendered to it letting it synchronise with my own heartbeat. I started to move.    

The fourth song was Barry White. The man leaned down and whispered, "I don't care for this slow stuff, I’ll check back with you later."

I returned to Winnie. She was still leaning against the same spot on the wall. "I can't believe you danced with a black man," she said.

I grinned, "Neither can I."

A few songs later the tempo switched up again. The man re-appeared as promised and we danced until closing time.

The lights went up. I hate this part: with a big red head on me and my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat, most men start running for the door. The man put out his hand and said, "My name is Randy, what's yours?"

"Geraldine," I replied holding my breath.  

Randy shook my hand and said, "Geraldine, it's been a pleasure. Good night."

Winnie and I went looking for Laverne. As the nightclub emptied, it was clear she was no longer in the building. She could only be in the car. We stood in the doorway of the night club looking out into the pouring rain. We walked slowly towards the car. Judging from the condensation on the windscreen something was happening in there. As we got closer, we could see Lennie’s skinny white buttocks rising above the window line and falling.

We stopped, unsure of what to do next when a black corvette pulled up alongside us. The driver rolled down his window. It was Randy.

"What are you two ladies doing out here standing in the rain?" he said.

I pointed to the car and said, "Our friend is in there and she's having sex."

Randy laughed. "That's easy," he said. "You just go up to the window, knock real hard and let her know you're there."

"Thanks," I said. Then bracing myself to ask the question I've been wanting to know all evening, I said, "Randy, can I ask you something?"

“Sure.”

"Of all the people in there tonight," I said, gesturing my head towards the now-empty nightclub, "why did you ask me to dance?"

"You were there leaning against the wall with your foot tapping. I could see you wanted to dance and I thought, why not?" And then smiling at me, he said, "You're good."

He then rolled up his window and drove away.

I splashed through the puddles and keeping my eyes averted, I rapped sharply on the windscreen three times. Then taking several giant steps backwards, I stood with Winnie waiting. The driver’s door swung open. Laverne looked up at us smiling, "Oh Geraldine, I love you, but you can be so impatient."

Lennie disappeared. I slid into the driver's seat and turning on the engine, I cranked the heating up to max. With no-one to guide us home again, I peered through the driving rain looking for signs to Boston. Laverne, sitting in the backseat, chirped happily, "He's going to call me on Monday. I can't believe I made out with Julian Lennon's cousin. Wait ‘til I tell my Mom."

As the steam rose from my clothes and my teeth stopped chattering, I savoured Randy's words.

"Geraldine, I need to pee, could you pull over?" said Laverne.

"We're in the middle of the countryside," I said, "There's nowhere to go."  

"Oh, just stop anywhere," said Laverne.

I pulled into the first wide gap in the road. Laverne clambered out and walking to the front of the car, she squatted down on the tarmac. The light from the headlights reflected off her snow-white bottom creating our own personal moon.

I smiled. I danced with a black man and the dancing was good.

Lockdown Day 74 - Best Laid Plans

Thanks to my friend, Mary Mc from Skibbereen I signed up for an online writing course with the Irish Writers Centre starting last Saturday morning.  I'm a workshop junkie and with my usual summer lineup cancelled, I needed something to get my teeth into.  Online anything does nothing for me: I love being in the same room as other people, but I was desperate and signed up for the Travel Writing with Manchan Magan.  The course is excellent.  I'm looking forward to next Saturday already and I can't wait to get stuck into my first assignment.  

There is just one hiccup.   My family.

I told Hubbie on Friday night that I needed the sunroom to myself between 10 am - 1 pm. He shrugged and said, "No problem. Sure nobody goes in there anyway."      I didn't see the necessity to forewarn Son (22) and Son (20) since they rarely surface before lunchtime. 

I woke early. I had a shower to maximise my alertness and to smarten up before strangers. I set up the ironing board in front of the couch to ensure the camera had a view of my splendid back garden. Only this morning it was wet, wild and windy. I plugged in the laptop. I set my cup of tea on the nearby radiator, I put my spiral-bound notebook on the arm of the couch with two spare pens. I could have done this in my bedroom but Hubbie was still in it. 

To further reduce the potential for restlessness, I prepared a blanket to put over my legs and a hot water bottle for my feet. At ten minutes to ten, I used the loo. At six minutes to ten, I closed all doors. All was peaceful. It was quieter than Christmas Eve. At a not-too-eager five minutes before ten, I settled into my little writing nest and clicked on the Zoom link. 

Manchan was already in. So was Susan.  A minor flutter of panic, surely there would be more than two of us.  Manchan looks relaxed. I can't pronounce his name so I didn't even try. He looks young, like an earnest, first-year Trinity student.  I love the room he's in. With its exposed beams, antique butter churn, whitewashed walls, deep-set windows and well-stocked bookcase too far away to read the titles, it was a blend of Elizabethan Tudor meets West of Ireland cottage.

Bang on the dot of 10 0'clock, nine more signed in. As my camera shrunk with each new student, I adjusted the curtain behind to show a full view of the garden. Then I heard Son (22) walk into the kitchen. I didn't alert him to my presence. I figured it would be best not to engage with him.  He used the Nespresso machine but that was OK: it only lasts 30 seconds.  I hit the mute button.  Then I heard him shout out, "Alexa, play Johnny Cash"        I called out in a calm but urgent voice, "I'm in here on a call, can you mute it?" He muted it.   The kitchen is linked to the sunroom by an archway.  There is no door to close.    

Last Thursday evening, with all our talk of barbecues, Son (22) brought one home and dragged it into the back garden.  He borrowed it from a friend so we could try it out.  It's a black metal pod on a tripod. It must have jinxed the weather because Friday's weather was a wipeout. It was so windy when I woke up Friday morning, I decided to give my jog a miss.  Saturday morning wasn't looking good either with high winds and intermittent violent showers.  Definitely not barbecue weather.   

At 10.10 am, Son comes through the sunroom and opens the door to the garden. He seems not to notice me as he steps out into the wind and closes the door behind him.  He checks over the barbecue. He goes to the shed to look for coal. He carries a bag back and lifting the lid of the BBQ, he pours in half the contents of the bag.  He comes back into the sunroom and doesn't close the door properly. I shiver under my blanket but I don't call out to him to close it. I could get up and do it myself but I don't want to miss what Manchan is saying. Son comes back with a newspaper. He goes out to the garden but this time he closes the door.   

I'm torn.  I'm assuming he can see that I am tied up in a meeting, but I don't want to speak sharply to him.  I've already asked him to mute but cannot understand the need for him to be so active in and around me at that moment.  I'm hoping that he'll satisfy his curiosity with the BBQ soon and he'll vanish.  

Son comes back with a single fork in his hand.    He returns with a plate.  He comes in and goes back out with a packet of sausages and Hubby in tow.  Hubby looks at me quizzically but follows Son anyway.   Son comes in and goes back out with a gaslighter. He comes in without the lighter and returns with a lighted candle carefully shielding it from the wind. 

By now, I am deeply irritated and confused.  I make signs to Son that I am on a call.  He laughs and playfully gives me the two-fingered salute.   Then it starts to rain. The rain hammers down on the skylight, I think, 'Surely be to God, this will dampen their need for sausages cooked over coals at this time, at this moment, while I'm doing a course but cannot fully participate in because I live with two bone-headed men who, despite the fact they are getting soaked, persist in fanning a dying flame with last week's newspaper.  It'd better be last week's newspaper.'

The two of them retreat from the rain by coming back into the sunroom with wet shoes, bringing in mud and grass cuttings on the carpet.       Son skids on the wet floor. If he broke his neck, he would not have had a shred of compassion from me.  But then his howling would have me abandon the course completely. 

For the next hour, I heard Hubbie talking to Son through the open kitchen window.  I saw Hubbie hauling the barbecue into shelter outside the door and into my line of vision. Son walked into the sunroom, paused to think, and then walked out again. 

My frustration was immense. Their constant presence impeded my engagement with the course: whatever I contributed verbally would be commented on and analysed afterwards.  It's hard to be spontaneous when those who overhear you don't relate to it because they think it's a load of pretentious bollox anyway.

The course signed off at exactly one 0'clock. I was stiff from lack of movement and rage but did not know how to articulate it. Son (22) wandered in for the millionth time and said, "So, how was your course?" I had planned to say nothing. I needed to get out of this house and get the fuck as far as say from these moronic pricks as possible. I carefully peeled the blanket back. I took out the hot water bottle from underneath my knees. I attempted to shove the ironing board backwards to allow me room to swing my legs down from the couch. "Well, since you ask, it was awful. Having you and Dad traipse through a countless million was very distracting."

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry about that but we were just trying to get the barbecue going."

"I can see that but did you have to do it now? Did it have to be today? Did it have to be while I'm doing a course? Was your urge for sausages cooked on an open fire in the rain so great that it had to be done at this time, on this morning, in this room.  You couldn't use a frying pan on the cooker like you do any other time you want sausages?

"Relax.  I just wanted to to see how it worked."

"Could you not have done it this afternoon?"

"I could, I suppose but I didn't make any noise."

"OK, the next time you are on a Zoom call with your girlfriend or you're having a Zoom quiz with your friends in the privacy of your bedroom, I'll find a compelling reason to walk into your room. Maybe I'll pick up one of your books and lie on your bed reading. I won't make any noise at all. That will be OK, won't it?"

He didn't answer.

I struggled to my feet and hobbled into the kitchen. Hubbie was there. 

"As for you, I told you I was doing a course this morning. So what is in your head that made you think it was OK to walk through that room again and again and again?"

"You didn't seem to mind."

"How would I show you I minded? Did I have to show you I minded? Why couldn't you just be considerate and stay away as I warned you last night? What is the point of telling you I'm doing a course if you are going to enter and leave the room as many times as it is possible to enter and leave a room?"

"You could have moved your laptop upstairs. That's the whole point of a laptop."

"I was there first and had everything set up to make it as comfortable an experience as possible. Why should I move? Why should I scuttle from the room like a refugee because a bunch of morons like ye decide to cook sausages in the rain."

He didn't respond.

"And another thing, if I did everything in my bedroom, I would never leave the room.  We have eight rooms in this house - my house - which I pay for.  Why is it I cannot allocate a corner of a room to myself for one morning? Is that too much to ask?"

"We didn't make any noise."

"It's a creative writing course. The very fact that you are in the room breathing is distracting.   How am I supposed to contribute, talk, engage fully when I have two people completely unconnected to the experience traipsing past me every few minutes with burnt sausages, their arses hanging out of their jeans while leaving muddy footprints all over the carpet?"

Son (20) came down the stairs and attempted to get stuck in: he can't resist a full-blown screaming session but I was not about to let him hijack my moment.  I pushed him back out of the room and closed the door.

Hubbie rallied, "You get distracted, so what? We all do. You've been working out of the kitchen these past two months; you should be used to it by now."

"Yes," I said, "and I knew that any distractions would be annoying so I made arrangements.  How clueless are you to think walking in and out countless times would be OK?" 

"Get over yourself."

"OK," I said. "The next time you are on one of your highly confidential calls to the head office in Dublin, I'll walk in with a cup of tea, unasked for and leave it on your desk. Then I'll take a few minutes to browse through the bookshelves. Maybe I'll select a book and flick through it. Then after looking at a few more, I'll settle on one and sit in the armchair and read it. Then I'll get up and make a cup of tea for myself, come back in and resume reading. Then I'll pass in front of you, make signs to check you're OK and sit down again.  I'll do all this without making a sound.  Would that work for you?"

He had no answer for that.

I walked out of the house. I walked to Cinnamon Cottage. Hilary, my friend lives close by but I didn't want to drag her downtown my level. I swung left for the fat arse mile to Blackrock. The wind nearly blew me off the bridge.  I wanted to cry but couldn't. My friend Brighid calls her work as 'emotionally burping' her clients. I needed someone to pat me firmly on the back and help me release my frustration. I arrived at the castle. My feet started to hurt. I walked into the village.  Having spurned Son's earlier offerings of burnt sausages, I was hungry.

I joined the queue outside the Natural Food Bakery.  My cousin Anita walked by. I called out to her. She said, "Hi" back and walked on. Maybe it's just as well.   The coffee shop was manned by one person and only one customer was allowed in at a time. As soon as I got in, I went to use the loo but it was closed. The coffee maker said, "I'd have to hire someone to clean the toilet after every single use and that wouldn't make business sense now, would it?" 

I bought a slice of bog cake to go with my decaf latte and went back outside.  I found a gap on the wall and sat with my back to the sun glumly eating my lunch. The recently paved harbour area and centre of the village were thronged with people on bikes, children on scooters, dog walkers and people like me watching the world go by hugging their take away cups.

Evelyn rocked up and taking off her bike helmet we compared our home colouring success. My grey isn't too bad. I haven't been to the hairdresser since February but my roots are OK. I have a home kit ready and a spray-on colour if I'm stuck but my hair isn't growing that fast. Evelyn's greys are coming through but with her hair tied back, she looks fresh and youthful.  We walked to the end of the Marina.  We continued up the track towards Shandon boat club where Evelyn kicked the gates. "It's a tradition in our house," she said. "It sort of marks the walk."

We turned back. I eyed the ditches and parked cars for possible opportunities to use the loo but in this crowded area, there is no accounting for everybody and you don't know where there might be unseen prying eyes. I kept going.

With its long line of mature elm trees running down both sides, the Marina is a Goddess of cool greenness and soothing shade.  "I read in the paper that they were going to pedestrianise this section," I said. 

"They have," said Evelyn pointing at the roadblocks.

"I was expecting something more elegant," I said. 

"You have to manage your expectations," replied Evelyn. "Besides, it's too expensive.  Also, they need the option of keeping the roads open for emergencies and Parc Ui Caoimh has to have car access as it's the test centre for Covid-19."

Evelyn's husband has diabetes and so has been self-isolating for the last eight weeks in their holiday home in West Cork. Their children's casual attitude to social distancing was making him nervous and this was having a ripple effect on the rest of the family. Evelyn told her husband that he needed to recalibrate and suggested that he move down to West Cork and work from there.  

"Recalibrate," I said, "Now that's a great word. Telling people to relax just shoots their blood pressure through the roof but suggesting they recalibrate is more practical."   

"The key to calibration," said Evelyn, "is keeping your expectations low."     

My understanding of a balanced mind is like a finely tuned instrument that has the needle indicator set at zero.  When the needle strays too far to the right or left, you need to take immediate corrective action to re-set your clock and bring the needle back to zero.    A shower usually does it for me. In the mornings, a 20-minute shower transforms me from sluggish to the Duracell bunny.  I needed more than a shower now.

After I left Evelyn, I set off for the long walk home. I felt a blister coming on. I rang Hubbie. I needed to vent and nothing short of putting an axe through someone's head would do. We always have our best conversations over the phone. It's the same with my mother. When I got home, I examined my foot. I had two blisters. I went straight to bed. I still haven't cried but I slept well.  

This Lockdown isn't going away anytime soon.  The best that I can do under the circumstances is to recalibrate my expectations; prepare, prepare, prepare and expect the worst. 

As I inched my way painfully up the stairs on blistered feet, I passed Son (22) on his way down.    "I suppose you're going to put this in your blog," said he. 

"You're damn right I am," I said. "I haven't suffered all this pain for nothing."

Lockdown - Day 71

With only nine days to go, I'm harnessing Son's (22) exuberance while I still have him. On Monday, when the hardware stores were allowed to open, he practically galloped to B&Q with a list: paint for the shed and for the fences, hose connection for the power hose and lettuce seeds.  Since the first week of the Lockdown, he has been hankering to power hose the concrete path around our house. We have the machine but were missing the hose to connect it to the outside tap. He queued up for an hour.

Our wooden fences are crumbling for lack of nourishment. Plus three planks are missing. I've taken care of the gaps by planting plaited willow boughs bound in ribbons in their place. We were very creative in the early days of Lockdown all those years ago.

Once inside B&Q, Son rang me. The colour choices for the fence were either Dark Teak or Red Cedar. Red sounded thrashy so I chose Teak. When he started painting the fence yesterday lunchtime, 'Dark Teak' looked more like diarrhoea. Luckily, by teatime, it had darkened to medium toast.

He's doing the shed tomorrow. I wanted Duck Egg Blue. A few years ago, he was invited to a Debs. The Debutante lived on Pearse Road in Ballphehane. Hubbie and I were invited to her house for 'Prinks'. Standing in the kitchen, their shed in the back garden caught my eye. It was painted a soft powder blue with lilac trimming. It was like something out of Country Living magazine. The Dad of the girl laughed. He told me the shed was falling apart and he was ordered to paint it in time for the prinks to hide the eyesore. That's what I had in mind when I asked Son for Periwinkle blue or Seabreeze green. Son rang to say they were out of those colours; the closest he could find was Sage. It could be nice. If all else fails we could do what the estate agents suggest and make it a 'feature' or grow something over it.

He also bought seeds for gherkins, jalapeno peppers, and basil - they were out of lettuce - and little incubator boxes. I thought they were rat traps at first. Yesterday evening, he spent hours carefully reading the instructions, evenly spacing the seeds in the finely grained compost and now the rat traps grace the windowsill in the sunroom. This morning he inspected them and was disappointed with their lack of progress. He planted an apple a month ago and was thrilled to see a green shoot after a week. It's a weed but I'm not going to be the one to tell him.

The powerhose is knackered. It's grand for washing the car and watering the pots but for shifting dirt it makes no impact. On these sunny evenings, I like to lie face down on the grass but with all his power washing he's turned the garden into a bog. So I hung out on the sofa finishing The Woman Who Spent a Year in Bed.

While I languished on the sofa, I couldn't help but notice the layers of dust under the armchair opposite and the cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. That's the downside of sunny evenings, the sun shows up everything. After my jog this morning at 8am, when all right-minded people should be up anyway, I hauled out the vacuum cleaner and ran over every surface on the ground floor including the bottom half of the stairs.

I bumped into my American friend, Judy, while out on my jog. She refers to Trump as 'Trumpty Dumpty.' She has two children attending university in the UK, but are now back home studying for their online exams next week. When I asked her what her kids thought of Boris she said they had no opinion but that this pandemic was exposing him for the incompetent that he is and for once he can't blame the EU.

I just thought of a silver lining. Son's (22) bedroom will be free from June 1st for the whole summer. It's as sunny as the kitchen and with its small desk, I could use it as my new 'office'.

To complement all my jogging, I am trying to eat healthier. On Tuesday I boiled two eggs. I planned to have an egg salad sandwich only to find we had no bread left. I couldn't persuade anyone to go to the shops - no-one wants to queue for a whole hour for a sliced pan - so I did the unthinkable, I had a salad. Same thing, no bread. I added in grated cheese and sprouted beans and it was delicious.

I bought the bean sprouts while at an organic stall with my friend Annette in the English Market last Saturday. They are great in soups. They add crunch, texture and substance to a homemade soup. I never got around to making soup and seeing them in the sitting in the fridge filled me with guilt. I horsed them into the salad on Tuesday. Covered in a sprinkle of rock salt, they were delicious. Every day since I have been adding them to my lunch-time salad.  Yesterday, Son (20) came into the kitchen while I was eating. I noticed a terrible smell. Being careful with my words I said to him, "Maybe you could do with a shower."

"I just had one," he said.
I looked at him surprised, "Then what is that crotch smell?"
"What?" said he. "Do you mean the smell inside your underpants?"
"Yeah," I said, "I can smell crotch and it's horrible." I sniffed the air again and then bending down to eat another forkful of salad, the smell hit me again. It was coming from my lunch. The bean sprouts had started to turn.

That poor boy, I blame him for everything. Like Son (22) he's planning to move out for the summer too. I might change the locks after they leave. The house would be a joy to live in. The laundry would grow only slightly. If I leave the kitchen clean, it will stay clean 12 hours later. No cold piss on the toilet seats or sprayed within a three-foot range of the general toilet bowl.  No four-day-old socks, sweaty jocks or canoe sized shoes left lying around the house as evidence of their passing through.
I'll miss them.
No, I won't.
Yes, I will.
No, I won't.
Will.
Won't......

Lockdown Day 70

I have been counting the days wrong.   I thought today was day 80 but luckily Son (22) was paying attention, it's actually day 70.  80 sounds more spectacular but is unfortunately untrue.  I need to go back and correct the previous posts.    Son is still moving out on June 1st.  In fact, he's negotiating with the landlord to bring the date forward.  Son (20) is also threatening to do the same.  What are we going to do this summer?

The morning is gearing up to be yet another beautiful day. Last night I had glorious yoga with Karen. She doesn't call it that; glorious is how I feel afterwards.  It's all gentle stretching movements and breathing exercises which both energises and calms the nervous system. The most strenuous movement is the boat pose which I detest.  It involves keeping your bum on the ground while simultaneously lifting your feet and upper body off the ground at the same time.  I can barely lift my shoulders.  At the end of the hour and a half, I feel so sublime I take care to switch off my alarm and slide right into bed. The beauty of classes via Zoom is there is no having to deal with the real world like getting into a car to go home or conversing with others. 

I sleep like a king. In fact, I slept so well, I did not notice the open window nor the fact that the blinds were not closed. My bedroom faces North-East and somehow this morning, the sun managed to squeeze between the houses opposite and send through a shaft of light.  It hit the back wall of my bedroom and filled the room with this incredible red-golden light. It was so bright it woke me up. At first, I thought somebody had flipped on the light switch. I went from annoyance to sleepy wonder.  I looked at the time: 5.45 am. It was earlier than I had planned but I got up and went for my jog.

On the way back, I met Hubbie setting out for his walk.  I greeted him with a wail, "What are we going to do this summer?"  It's our first child-free summer in 26 years and we always planned our holidays around what the kids wanted.  

"We'll get a barbecue," he said, "and do what everyone does in their back garden in nice weather."  

I'm not a fan.  A few Christmases ago, Hubbie's brother, Paul threatened to buy us a barbecue set for Christmas.  "Tell him we don't want it," I said to Hubbie.  
"Why don't we want it?" said he.
"Because I don't like barbecue food.  With our weather we won't use it very often and where are we going to store the monstrosity in the winter."   
Hubbie shook his head and said, "It's bad karma to refuse a gift."
"It's bad karma to force someone to accept a white elephant if you say you don't want it."   

Hubbie wouldn't be told.  So, two days after Christmas, Paul collected us and drove us to the B&Q hardware shop in MahonPoint.  While I sulked in the back seat Paul talked up the benefits of cooking outdoors.       Paul parked up and as we walked towards the shop entrance, I bit the bullet.    

"Paul," I said, "No offence, but I don't want a barbecue set."
"Nonsense," said he. "It's about time you came into the 21st century and join the rest of us in the adult world." And with that, he stepped through the sliding doors of the shop.    I reluctantly followed.    

Inside the shop, Paul quickly scanned the shelves and displays.   I stopped a passing sales assistant and asked for the barbecue section.   "Oh, they're out of season," he said, "we won't be getting them in before March."    Gloating is a terrible thing but I struggled to keep the smirk off my face.  Leaving B&Q again, we stepped out into the cold winter air.  I couldn't stop smiling.  Paul said, "Ok so, what do you want for Christmas?"  Eyeing Curry's in the distance, "How about a Nespresso machine?" I said.  The three of us walked briskly to Currys.   While Paul looked at coffee-making gizmos that froth your milk and have multiple levers, I quietly picked up a sexy red and black Nespresso machine, their basic model, and headed for the checkout.  Paul caught up with me before I paid for it and shoved in his credit card ahead of mine.   Some people are so stubborn.

So now the only plan for the summer is to get a barbecue.  If this weather keeps up;  a well-fried burger, cooked by a man, in my own back garden, and washed down by a can of Bulmers could be glorious indeed.  

Rescuing Mother

This morning, during my new routine of jogging at daybreak, I saw a girl on a peppermint green High Nelly bike.  It was early but I assume she's cycling into work.  She wore a soft green helmet that matched her bike, a sky blue zipped up jacket and on her back, she carried a red polka dot backpack with a flask in a side pocket.  She looked as neat as a pin sitting upright and as controlled as a swan pedalling through the near-deserted village into work.     It made me want to have a bike again.  

Maybe when I go back to work, if I ever go back to the office, I'll cycle in too.     Sometime in 2012, when I still did the school run, there were two weeks out of every three when I didn't need the car.  I took advantage of the Bike to Work scheme and bought a black High Nelly style bike.  It had wide wheels and a thick comfortable saddle.  Even in the throes of dense rush hour traffic, it only took me 20 minutes each way.  But rush hour traffic is hazardous.  I know myself when I'm driving to work I become a crazed beast: everything else on the road is an obstacle that's out to stop you getting to work on time.  No one else has the right to be on the road the same time as you.    

Cycling home on the back Douglas road one winter's evening, I overtook a No. 206 bus that had just pulled into the bus stop.  As I passed the bus, a truck overtook me.  For five terrifying seconds, I was trapped between two moving vehicles.  The weather is another issue. To be fair, Ireland isn't as wet as it looks but the two weeks leading up to Christmas, it rained every single day.  Even with rain gear, my shoes filled with rainwater.  It's like all things when you want to be independent, you have to be well prepared and it takes a lot of work.  On the other hand, I have good memories of cycling through Ballyphehand leading up to Halloween and the evening filled with the aroma of burning peat fires.     

I kept it up for two years until Tom started college. Since I had parking and he didn't, I reverted to driving again.  One person who still cycles into work is a girl called Amber.  I don't know her very but she works in the building next to mine.  Most mornings, I see her gliding in on her mint green High Nelly bike, the front basket of her bike filled with pretty things, she wearing velvet green shoes and clothes made from floaty fabrics and smiling.  She's always smiling and in her effortless elegance and poise, she reminds me of Audrey Hepburn from Roman Holiday.   

One Sunday evening, about a year ago, I was standing on Aston Quay in Dublin waiting for the 6 0'clock bus to Cork.  I had spent the weekend with my friends, Deirdre and Liz and being hungover and talked out, I was tired.  You know that feeling when your holiday is over and you just want to get the journey home over with.  A few minutes before six, I saw Amber coming towards me pulling a small suitcase behind her with her left hand and holding a large fruit cake in her right.     My first thought on seeing her was, 'please don't let her see me.'  I didn't have the energy for small talk with a work colleague for the next three hours.

Amber spots me and comes over smiling.   "I'm just back from a week in Cyprus and I spent the weekend with my brother in Dublin.  He's a baker and he's given me this huge barmbrack," and waving the cake in the air she continued, "sure, how am I going to eat all that, I'm living on my own."  I suggested that she freeze it and cut bits off as she went along.   Amber dropped her voice and whispered, "I'm booked on the 7 0'clock but you know how it is when your holiday is over and you just want to get home."    I quickly reassured her, "Oh, you'll have no problem getting on.  They're very good like that.  Whether you have a ticket or not, if there's room, they'll let you on."   

A minute later the bus pulled up.  It had stopped at Dublin Airport first and it was already a third full.  The driver opened the door and stepping down onto the street shouted, "All those with booked seats first please."  I picked up my bag and assured Amber I'd keep her a seat.    The bus filled rapidly. By the time I got on the only free seats together was at the back of the bus.  I slid into the second seat from the end of the row cornering the last seat for Amber.  The bus continued to fill up but no sign of Amber.  The driver wrestles his way down the centre of the bus past the crammed seats and badly stored bags.  He stopped in front of me.  He pointed to the empty corner seat and said: "Who's sitting there?" 

"My mother," I said.

"Where is she?"

"She was right behind me a few minutes ago, but I don't know where she's got to?"

"Did she get on the bus?"

"I don't see her"

"Can you identify her?"    

I wasn't expecting that.    I was getting annoyed now and wondered why he couldn't just leave her on.  I said, "Well, she's not on the bus so she must be still out on the street?"

"Come with me," he said.

I asked the African student sitting on my right to keep an eye on my stuff and reluctantly followed the driver to the front of the bus.  The driver pointed to the group of hopefuls clustered around the bus door, "Which one is she?"  I spotted Amber standing to the far right of the group.  Keeping my eyes averted from the pleading eyes of the rest, I pointed to her and said, "The lady with the hat." I immediately returned to my seat.  

Seconds later, Amber boarded the bus and made her way towards me, smiling and waving her barmbrack in the air.  "Have I you to thank?" she said.  "Are you my lucky charm?"     

"Ssssh," I said putting my finger to my mouth and as soon as she settled into her seat, I whispered, "You're my mother."  

"Well that's gas," said Amber.  "Here, have the barmbrack as a 'thank you'."  

"Thanks, Mum," I laughed.  "I love barmbrack."   

The African student leaned forward, his dreadlocks swung out elegantly as he turned his face to look at us.   He looked from Amber to me and back again, "You two are not related, are you?"    

We laughed and Amber said, "What makes you say that?"   

"No offence," he said looking at me, "but she's at least half your age and about 12 inches taller."

"And you'd be right," I said.  "That's why I didn't hang around after I pointed her out to the driver. If he saw the two of us together even he couldn't fail to notice that Amber couldn't be the mother."  

"So, why did you say mother?" asked the student.

"I don't know," I said, "It just came out."

"There's something about the word 'mother'," said Amber.   "It just tugs at the heart.  No one can refuse a mother." 

"I feel bad for the other people who didn't get on," I said.  "I'd hate to be stranded in Dublin and I've never seen so many people turn up for the bus at the same time." 

"It's always the same on a Sunday evening," said the student. "And don't feel bad, you did the driver a favour.  He could only pick one person and you made that decision for him."

The student then introduced himself as Albert.  I bumped into Albert in Cork a few weeks later.  We laughed about the bus incident.    Amber got a good laugh too the following Monday when she introduced me to her colleagues as her daughter.    

Lockdown - Day 69 Running

I used to run three mornings a week in the gym before going into work and was missing that badly.  I’ve gained a stone and the effect on my morale was stark.  Every other day, I would go for a walk but it doesn't cut it.  It stretches the limbs and gets the circulation going but that's about it.  Yoga classes resumed via Zoom and that helped to keep perspective.  I missed the running because nothing beats running for the effect it has on your metabolism, your brain, and your mood.    I could, at any time, just put on my big-girl knickers and just step outside but I managed to find a range of reasons why it was not a good time e.g. 'I must avoid the sun because of my skin', 'running on the roads is bad for your joints' and as I got fatter, I was just plain too embarrassed to step outside the house in jogging pants.

Then, last Thursday morning, before our bi-weekly staff meeting, while we were waiting for colleagues to join us, my boss casually mentioned that she had gone for a run that morning.  I was stunned with envy.  I’m an early riser, I have no excuse. On Friday morning at 7.30 am, I put on my runners and walked out the front door.  My Hubbie opened the bedroom window and shouted up the road to ask where I was going.    I turned right at the top of the road to keep the sun at my back.  I walked down the Carrigaline Road to warm up and soon as the road levelled into Douglas Village, I started jogging.  Sticking to the shady side of the street was easier than I expected and in fact, running early in the morning is the perfect time to go because the sun is still low and there is always shade.  I was out for 50 minutes in total.   I came back with my circulation pumped, a big red head on me but totally energised.

Over the weekend I went for two long walks, no running but on Monday, I headed out again.  The slight drizzle did not put me off.  I noticed more cars on the road and the house building project on Carrigaline Road has resumed.  That was good to see.

I feel great.  I’ve taken the first step.  It's about taking back control in a situation that sometimes feels rudderless.  I hope to do it every work morning before work.    Yesterday afternoon, listening Newstalk and Sean's Moncrieff's, So you Think You're an Adult, a man wrote in concerned about his wife's drinking since the Lockdown began.  The man explained they had four children who had to be home-schooled, both he and wife worked from home and even though he contributed 50% towards the housework, he was alarmed that she went from one glass of wine at the weekends to a glass of wine every night.  The advice from Sean and his team was for the man to show compassion for his wife rather than judging, he should get the older two children to help with the homeschooling and to babysit while he went for a walk with his wife, get a take-away coffee and discuss in ways she could de-stress rather than drink.  Loads of people wrote in questioning his '50% contribution.'  Declan's advice got my attention.  "Ask yourself, what did you do before the Lockdown to keep you grounded and see if you can go back to that."  Running on the road is not too bad.  As long as you're not pounding the pavement and locking your knees, damage should be minimal.    Doing it first thing in the morning before you have time to think about it and start anything else is ideal.  And it sets you up for the day.  That's what I say now.  But, one day at a time.   

Last night, the whole family watched the final two episodes of Michael Jordon's, The Last Dance.  Fantastic series.  At the outset, I wondered how they could fill ten fifty-minute programmes about one man but in the end, I felt I could have watched ten more.  What was interesting was the observation of one of the journalists interviewed the extent of Jordon's fame worldwide without the 'help' of Facebook and Twitter.