Living with Mother

On Wednesday evening last I moved in with my mother: she fell and fractured her hip and so, my sisters, and I are taking turns to stay with her.  My new office is the upstairs back bedroom - south facing but I'm perpetually frozen. That's old houses for you.    

I'm watching Coronation Street, Fair City and East Enders.  It's torture.  

This morning, I think I accidentally poisoned myself.  Being back in the home of my childhood, I'm 12 years old again wandering into her bedroom trying on her makeup, using her face creams, and nosing around to see what interesting books she might have to read.  On her nightstand was a spray bottle.  It said Magnesium with black pepper and peppermint.  My son is always raving about how magnesium is good for muscles and the brain.  

The instructions said 5-10 sprays, so I sprayed it five times under my tongue.  It tasted utterly foul but like a good girl, I swallowed it. 

The worse something tastes the better for you, right?  Wrong.  I read the instructions again. It said spray directly onto the muscles.  I've been spitting and drinking gallons of water ever since.  My throat is on fire.  

On a positive note, her bathroom scales are telling me I'm a stone lighter.  I checked with my sisters, they said it makes them heavier.  I'll wait until my son calls and get him to check his weight.  Also, her mirrors are more flattering than mine.  I might take one of them home with me.

I don't miss Alan.

I'm having a Zoom 'meeting' with my Singapore buds tomorrow night.  The can of Bulmers is chilling as we speak and there is the rugby to look forward to.  Come on Ireland!

Have a fab weekend!!

Hitting the Wall

Last week my mother fell getting out of bed.  She didn't tell anyone.  She found an old pair of crutches she had from a hip operation she had last year and used them to get around.  She knew that as long as she could walk, nothing was broken.  But the pain wouldn't go away. On Friday, she rang her doctor and asked would he come and see her.  He told her to go to the Mercy Hospital for an x-ray.  My husband brought her in.   She has a tiny fracture in her hip, not serious, but the doctor said she needed complete bed rest for two weeks.  

Immediately, my younger sister Catherine came down from Dublin, Louise, another sister from Mahon and I called into her yesterday.  It's like we needed an excuse to see her - she's been cocooning - and this was a legitimate reason to do so.  

I texted her from Aldi, "What can I bring you?"

She replied, "Daffodils, I need brightness."  So that's what I got her, a bunch of tightly closed bunch of green stalks for €1.49.  I apologised for the state of them, but she was delighted. "They're perfect like that; they're ready to burst into colour; I love that potential."  

Louise brought a cooked chicken, sliced bread, milk, biscuits. You know, practical things. 

The three sisters and their mammy sat around, catching up on the news.  Mum, sitting up on the couch tucked under a rug, next to the plug-in radiator, a cup of tea in her hand, and her daffs, was the happiest I'd seen her since Christmas day.  My nephew, his girlfriend and their new baby, Isabella popped in.

It was a lovely afternoon.

During this past week, Pat Kenny on Newstalk discussed how people were 'hitting the wall'.  When the first phase of Lockdown was announced on the 12th of March, I was attending a First Aid Refresher Course in a separate building with no access to phones, computers or a radio.  It was only when I returned to my office at 4.30 pm did I hear the news.  It was like the end of World War 1: the guns of normal office life fell silent, nobody felt like talking as they quietly and urgently packed their stuff into boxes, and left.

Once the loneliness and reality of working from home sank in,  I hit the bottle.  I went from a can of Bulmers once a fortnight, and usually only if a Munster game was on the TV, to 12 cans on the weekend, and ice-cream, chocolate and Taytos every single weekday evening.  I wallowed in a massive, self-made sulk.  I felt these indulgences were my reward for getting through another day of having not a single other person to talk to.  I was angry at having my carefully constructed life dismantled without my consent or even discussion.  There was no one person to blame or get angry with, so I turned it inwards.      Being the extrovert that I am, I had no outlet for my 'fabulous personality' and no one to share the nuggets of wisdom I learned that day.  Eventually, after several weeks and once the summer arrived, I saw an upside to all this, the value of getting back time previously consumed by the daily commute.   

Someday some wise person will explain this time we've been forced to endure, but I suspect that none of us is the same person we were 12 months ago.   I've taken this time to work on my anger, to forgive my many enemies, to empty my backpack of favourite grudges and to 'let that shite go.' I meditate daily, and sometimes I even pray. Alan, the puppy, has been a pain but he's brought so much joy.  Most days I wouldn't leave the house only that he has to go for walk or he'll tear up the house. I've also taken up running again and try to get out first thing in the morning and at lunchtime.   

My office these days is my son Conor's bedroom.  It faces south-west, and the sun, when there is any, starts to appear just before lunchtime.  I watch it as it sets behind the house at the end of our garden, and on Friday, it cleared the chimney.  The daffodils are out, the days are lengthening an inch a day, the quality of the light is changing, and this tells me that the earth is still turning on its axis.  The Universe is doing what it always does; it's moving on.  

Mum will mend.  This time will pass.  So far it's a cold but sunny day in Cork this morning. Some day all this will be over. In the meantime, I am grateful for friends and kind work colleagues. I will never take relationships, intimate conversations or the freedom to travel for granted ever again.   

That's a promise.

Sweaty Betty

 Our assignment this week is to describe someone we don't like. I cast my net wide and landed on this woman I worked with in London in the early 1990s. 

Her nickname around the office was Sweaty Betty on account that her initials were BO.  The Managing Directors, Jack and Nigel adored her, odious as she was to the rest of us, she could do no wrong in their eyes. During the recession in the early 90s, when other building companies were going under, Betty relentlessly harried and chased customers for payment. 

Occasionally she'd slip up. Every month her office ran a list of debtors, and customers with an outstanding balance got a nasty letter in the post.  She sent one of these letters to one of our biggest customers whose due balance was one penny.  We owed that same customer 15,000 Sterling for machine hire. On receipt of Betty's letter, the outraged customer promptly sued us for immediate payment of our debt to them.  Stories of Betty's evil doings were eagerly gloated over on our Friday night binges in the Vulture's Perch pub, a 100 yard walk away on the Kentish Town high street.   

Like Trump, Betty had no conscience: neither truth nor the rules applied to her.  Shortly after I started with the company, I set about bringing our 700 employees' personnel files and the leave records of the 50 staff in Head Office up to date.  Naively I asked everyone in Head Office for their annual leave entitlement and balance for the current year. Betty told me she had 30 days, five extra days for every five years of service. I believed her and dutifully noted that on my list.

The next day, Jack's secretary Sue summoned me, over the tannoy to his office. I came to dread those summonses. Jack looked like Conor McGregor's dad in a suit.  Although short and slim in body, the cut of his expensive suits did not disguise the man's Jack Russell character, distrustful, jealous and willing to fight anyone who crossed his path.  Jack was trigger happy; in his world, you were only as good as your last mistake.  I had seven filing cabinets in my office, four of them filled with ex-employees who were either sacked or had left in the previous five years.  At the sound of my name, my bowels turned to water.  It was like being back at school, 'What have I done now?' 

I immediately trotted up to his office. You did not keep Jack waiting.  I happened to have the list in my hand, and as I walked in, Jack immediately pounced on me, "What's this, I hear about you going around giving people extra holidays." I meekly handed him the sheet of names and said, "I'm just trying to get the annual leave records up to date." Jack grabbed the list and said, "Remember, I'm the one paying your wages. You're supposed to working for me, not against me."

As he pored over the names, I dared to speak and said, "You don't really think I'm working against you, do you?" Jack frowned at me. He seemed surprised to see me still standing there.    "Ah, no, no, of course not," he said and then jabbing his finger at the list, said, "Why have you given Betty 30 days."

"She told me it was company policy," I said.

Jack looked at me incredulously and shook his head, "It most certainly is not. She gets 20 days, the same as everyone else."

Once I was released, I shot down to Betty's office, "You lied about the extra 10 days," I said, "you're not entitled to them at all."

Betty only shrugged, "I should be, I've been here long enough."

I came to see Betty as my colleagues did, i.e. evil in human form. She didn't really have a body, she seemed more like a blob in a dress. Her dresses looked like kitchen curtains that had been ripped down that morning and tied around her waist. The hem dipped in the front to facilitate her belly and rose high in the back over her wide bottom. Like Jabba the Hutt, Betty sat at her desk all day chain-smoking haranguing debtors over the phone.    The only time she moved was to visit the Ladies. As she meandered slowly down the corridor, leaving a trail of toxic vapours in her wake, people stood back to let her pass.  Not out of respect, but because there was only room enough for two ordinary people at a time. 

As we were both heads of departments; Betty, Credit Control and I, Payroll and HR, we rarely had anything to do with each other until one day, I was summoned to see Jack.  Up to his office, I trotted.

When I entered the room, Betty was already there. She smiled at me kindly the way a spider might when a hapless fly crash lands into her web, and there's no way out. Jack explained that Betty wanted to avail of a grant scheme to renovate her house for free but to be eligible her salary had to be under a certain threshold. For the next six months, my instructions temporarily cut her gross monthly pay by a third. In month seven, I would reinstate her standard pay and repay the deductions over the following six months. It seemed straight forward enough.

"No problem," I said. 

And that's exactly what I did.  

On payday of month seven, Betty appeared at my office doorway.  She seemed distressed and said, "Why did you pay me extra?"

I looked at her in surprise and said, "Don't you remember the arrangement you made with Jack?"

"Yes, but...." she started to say but then dithered as if unsure of what to say next.

"But what?" I said.

Betty didn't say anymore.  She turned away and hurried up the corridor towards Jack's office. 

'Dozy cow,' I thought to myself and closed the door.

The following month's payday, Betty again appeared at my door, wringing her hands, "Why are you paying me this extra money?"

"What's the matter with you?" I said crossly, "you know why."

"Yes, but.." she said but then turned away suddenly and scuttled up the corridor.  

Less than a minute later, Jack appeared in the doorway, his face brick-red with fury. I jumped to my feet.  He growled at me, "Stop paying Betty the money,"  

"Yes, Jack." Jack left.   

I sank into my chair and felt my insides begin to curdle.  

Seconds later, Betty reappeared at my doorway. She smiled at me. I slowly got back up on my feet.   Betty slithered into the room, keeping her back to the wall and her eyes on me as she inched her way into my personal space. Her liver coloured lips stretched across her moon-like face revealing her nicotine-stained teeth. She cocked her head to one side, looked at me kindly and said, "You see, Geraldine, I told Jack that normally Geraldine is very good, but she made just this one little mistake."

Frustration raged through my heart. "Mistake." I said, "How could it be a mistake when I don't know WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!"

The last part in that sentence came out so loud that Peggy, the tea lady walking past with a full tray of dirty mugs, stopped in her tracks.

Betty's head jerked back as if surprised. She rallied quickly and tried again. "I thought Jack would tell you."

"Tell me what?" I said. "What is there to tell me?"

Betty stood before me, her hands flapping uselessly in front of her like a confused walrus.  

"And," I continued, "Why didn't you tell me, and why can't you tell me now?"

"Now, Geraldine, don't get upset with me."

I had enough.  Betty is never wrong. Like one of her debtors, she will wheedle and grind you down until you agree to anything just to get rid of her. 

"Get out," I said.

She was still close enough to the door that I could ease her out without having to touch her.   

"But I...?" she protested, her eyes opened wide in panic. 

Slowly I eased the still protesting Betty, carefully - I didn't want the bitch suing me - out of my office until I could close the door safely. I turned the key in the lock. 

I didn't get fired that day.

The following Friday, in the Vultures Perch, my colleagues plied me with cider and whispered gleefully, "I hear you had a barney with Betty." Naturally, I gave them all gory details with bells and whistles on.

I learned later that Betty didn't get the grant but never found out what Betty and Jack hatched between them.   

To be fair, I don't dislike Betty. I regard her like I do Trump; large, repulsive, evil,  someone to be pitied but kept at arm's length.  

I remember

Thanks to my friend, Carol Anne Connolly, I'm doing a fantastic online writing course.  This is my assignment this week.

I remember my first writing workshop.  It was Hong Kong, March 2001.  After enduring five weeks of SARS, home-schooling our three children then aged 7, 4 and 2, several bouts of black rain where everything in Hong Kong grinds to a halt, and repeated rants to my husband, "Tell me again why we moved to this rock in the middle of nowhere?" he booked me on a 12-week writing workshop with Jane Camens.    There were 12 in the class including me; the rest were American, Australian, or English.    Jane kicked off by handing out a three-page handout called the Morning Pages.  "I want you to write three foolscap pages every morning with a pen.  No typewriters or computers; it has to be with your hand."

 

"Why does it have to be first thing in the morning?" I asked. Clare sitting beside me answered, "Because if it’s the first thing you do, you don't have time to polish or edit; it is truly your raw thoughts you're putting down on paper."  I wondered the value of that, but Jane was talking again. 

 

"Now, to get you going, I want you to write a page on, 'I remember.'  The first t thing that came to mind was my father's, Red Ford Cortina and how it would never start on cold mornings.  After 15 minutes Jane asked us to read our pieces. The Australian man to my left described meandering down the Waanyarra river, paddling a canoe, inhaling the scent of eucalyptus trees, as the sun was setting. An American man wrote about the last conversation he had with his dying father.  My heart sank, "I'm out of my depth here." Finally, Jane turned to me. I read my piece.  I heard a few sniggers but kept going.  When I finished, Jane cocked her head to one side, looked at me kindly and said, "You're funny." Jane gave us another writing cue, and we were off.  I filled five pages before she told us to stop.  We read aloud again.  Jane looked at me and smiled, "You've found your voice."

 

My heart exploded with pure joy.

 

When the class finished, I floated down the hill to the Star Ferry to catch the bus home.  The sky was screaming its brilliant blueness; the sun felt gloriously delicious on my upturned face, the water in the harbour sparkled just for me, the noises of the city filled my ears with music.  I loved the world, and the world loved me back. It was as if Jane had taken an axe to my head and split my brain wide open - I was alive. 

 

As I neared the bus stop, I remembered home and pulled out my phone. 18 missed calls. All from Neil.  My darling husband, who made all this happen and with a smile in heart, I listened to his voice. 

 

He sounded urgent, "Tubber, the boys, have judo, where are their uniforms?"

 

Next message, "Where are their uniforms?"

 

I could hear my son, Conor wailing, in the background.

 

Message 3. "Geraldine, will you for God's sake turn on your phone and ring me."

 

As I listened to his panic and obvious annoyance, the world around me seemed to shrink. I shivered in the cold harbour breeze.  Reluctantly, I boarded the bus for home and slumped into the first available window seat.  

‘Well, that’s just great,’ I thought to myself, ‘back to dreariness, back to my real life of making a million dinners for thankless mouths, the school run, dropping and collecting to play dates, soccer training and judo practice.  As the bus struggled up the steep hill, Jane's voice floated through my thoughts, "You've found your voice."  I snatched it before it floated it out again and mentally put it into a little box to be savoured later. 

I'll be back.  

Baltic Tuesday

I woke up with a bang.  My bedroom window shook as Joe slammed the front door heading out to work.  When Joe's up, everyone's up.  I looked at my phone.  It was almost 6 am. 

Time for my Morning Pages.  I roll out of bed and head downstairs to get my coffee and let Alan out.    As I enter the kitchen, I cock my head towards the utility room where Alan sleeps.  No sound. Usually, when he hears me coming into the kitchen, he immediately starts whining. I run the Nespresso machine; nobody can sleep through that.  Still nothing from Alan.  Perfect. I take my cup of frothy heaven and tiptoe back up the stairs.   

The wind is whipping outside as I settle into my leaba and prop the pillows around me—my favourite part of the day.

I'm still on a high after the retreat at the weekend.    It's like all that silence - mostly - and the lack of 'blue screens' have dissolved my usual early morning brain fog.  Since the previous Tuesday when on Joe's recommendation I ate a Flying Fish pitta from KC's chipper - the best chipper in Cork - followed by heartburn for the next three days, I resolved to never eat fast food again, nor eat after 6 pm and to walk 10,000 steps per day.   The 10,000 steps is an easy enough target if I walk Alan down to Douglas Fingerpost every morning and evening.    

20 minutes later, the pages finished. It's shit or get off the pot.    I put on my runners and listen again at the kitchen door—still no stirring from Alan.  Let sleeping dogs lie as my father used to say.  

When I open the front door, the wind nearly cuts me in half.     Should I add another layer?  No, Alan might hear me.  I battle up the road.  I have no hat, gloves not even a scarf.  I pull down the sleeves of my hoodie to cover my numb hands and break into a slow trot.  All the better to get this over with.   I look up at the street lamp and see the flurries of snow swirling, but the pavement is bone dry.  Perfect.   It's downhill all the way into Douglas, and with Boney M's Rivers of Babylon booming in my ears I run further than I planned.  As I pass Barry's pub, I feel so good I decided to go the extra half mile and visit my mother.  I haven't seen her since Christmas: she's terrified of the new variant of the virus and had asked us all politely not to call in.  We haven't been doing Zoom either as she cannot get it to work.  So it's phone calls and WhatsApp only.  

Some 10 minutes later, I arrive at her front door with my face the colour of raw meat and ring her doorbell.  I step back and look up at her bedroom window.  The curtains are closed, but her wooden duck is still there. At the beginning of Lockdown back in March, all the neighbours put teddy bears in their front windows for the little children to spot.   Mum didn't have a bear, so she put out the duck that Conor gave her the previous Christmas.  I rang again and still no response.  I checked behind the hideous green elephant ornament she kept in the porch, under the mat and lifted the flower pots guarding her front door.  I even checked the soil.  No key.  I push at the front door on the off chance she didn't close it properly.  I try to prise open the window of the downstairs guest room, the lock has always been dodgy, but it didn't budge.  The side gate was padlocked.  To her credit, she has the house well secured.  

I jog off again.  Halfway home  I remember I had my phone on me. I mentally slap myself on the forehead: I could've phoned her.  When I arrive home, Neil is in the shower. I have five minutes to get to work.  I quickly stripped off my sweaty bits and put on clean clothes.   When Neil emerged from the bathroom, I told him of my efforts to break into Mum's house.  

"Maybe something's wrong," he said.  

That hadn't occurred to me.  "I'll ring her now."

She answered on the second ring. 

When I tell her of my efforts to break in. She laughs.  "I wake these days at 4 am, I can't help it.  I have my breakfast and then get back into bed.   Right now, I'm toasty with my electric blanket and listening to Ryan Tubridy."  She pauses for a few seconds and then says, "Where are you?"

"I'm working."

"Where?"

"At home."

"Really? How?"

I sigh.  Since March, she has asked me that question every single time we talk.  She usually follows it up with "What do you do again?"

But instead, she says, "Isn't it terrible about these young people having parties?"

"What parties?"

"According to Joe Duffy, the virus is worse because of the young people not obeying the rules."

I bristle. "Well, I have one of them living with me, and he's either at work or watching TV at home. He has not been to a single party. In fact, he's only met one friend since Christmas and that's because his father died. Conor is doing all his lectures online and staying within his bubble, and Tom hasn't stirred outside his house in Dublin."

She ploughed on, "And people are apparently flying to Lanzarote because they have to have their holiday.  They don't care about the rest of us."

"Don't listen to Joe Duffy anymore."

"How's Alan?"

"He's great, he's trebled in size since we got him.  I'll bring him up to you at lunchtime."

"Perfect, see you then."

At 10 am, it's time for my second coffee of the day.  I open the door to find a human-sized turd on the carpet in front of me.  'Who would do this?' I wondered, and then the smell hit me, the gamey smell of venison.  

"What is Alan doing upstairs?" I look around, and I see through the doorway of Joe's bedroom, a pair of jet black eyes blinking back at me from the bottom of the wardrobe.

"Who let you out?" I asked.

What to do first? Clean up after him or get him outside fast before he pees for Ireland in the wardrobe.  I roar downstairs to Neil, "Can you come up here and take Alan outside?"  

Untidy doesn't even begin to describe the hovel Joe calls his bedroom. Every item of clothing seems to be on the floor along with towels, weights and used cereal bowls. It's four paces from door to wardrobe.  I tread carefully anxious not to step on anything Alan may have produced. Alan shrinks further into the back of the wardrobe.  I grab his collar and haul him out to Neil.  I then go into the bathroom to get toilet paper to deal with the turd. 

When Neil arrives back in a few minutes later, I say, "Well, did he pee?"

Neil shook his head.

"Oh no, that means there's a pool of piss somewhere in the house."  I rang Joe at work and put him on the loudspeaker, "What time did you let Alan out this morning?"

"I didn't."

"You didn't let him out before you went to work?"

"I didn't go near Alan at all."

The horror sank in.  That meant Alan has been roaming the house for hours, possibly since last night.   I scoured the floor in every room but could find no 'evidence'.  

As promised, at 1pm, I set off at a brisk pace with Alan to my mother's house.  There is no way I'll get there and back within the hour, but I need to rack up the steps on Fitbit.  I'm halfway down the Carrigaline Road when Joe driving home from work spots me-not only am I with the creature he loves most in the world, but I'm also wearing his jacket. He pulls into the side of the road.  I ask him for a lift.  I sit in the passenger seat with Alan on my lap, he weighs a ton.  I open the window so he can stick his head out.  It's bitterly cold but better that than dog smell.  

"How's work?" I ask.

"Grand," said Joe. And then he looks over at me and says, "What does 'Baltic' mean?"

"It's a Cork thing. When people say it's baltic they mean it's as cold as the Baltic Sea."

Joe shook his head in wonder, "At least three customers said it to me this morning."

My mother is delighted to see Alan and Alan is so delighted to see her I'm afraid he'll knock her over, but she manages to stay on her feet.

She offers us Cup-a-Soup.  We decline the offer as we have both already eaten.

"When can we resume Zoom?" she asks.  

I ask her to give me her iPad, and I show her how to access the link.  "Press it gently and press it once just before 7pm on Sunday evening."

After the 3rd invitation for Cup-a-Soup, I check my Fitbit, we need to be leaving soon. 

"Joe," I said, "Tell Granny about all the parties you're going to."

Joe looks puzzled, "What?"

Mum titters nervously and says, "Well, all you young people must miss going out."

Joe shrugs and says, "Yeah, but, that doesn't mean we're actually going out."

Six minutes to two. "Mum, we have to go,  I need to get back to work."

"Oh, righty O," she says and then pauses, "What is it that you do again?"

"Talk to you, Sunday Mum."

Joe gathers up Alan into his arms as we brace ourselves to head back out into the Baltic air.

The 'Silent' Retreat

This weekend just gone, Neil and I did a silent meditation retreat from 7 pm on Friday to 3.30 pm on Sunday.  The silence we did not manage as Joe can not seem to hold the promise of not talking to us and then not actually talk to us simultaneously in his handsome brain.  

On Saturday morning, we did a walking meditation. Neil and I parted at the top of the road, but I took Alan with me: Joe had gone to work and as he is still only a puppy, his bottom explodes if he's not taken outside every hour.  

A sweet hippie girl once said to me on her front porch on Lantau Island in the South China Seas, "If you put your intention out to the universe, the universe will conspire to make it happen for you."  I heard that repeated on Oprah and in the book The Secret by Rhonda Byrne.  It's more like Sod's Law for me; if it can go wrong, it will.  The purpose of the walking meditation is not to go too far and to take a familiar route so that you can expand your awareness to include sounds and objects you would not notice in the frantic routine of your day.  

Just inside the gates of Douglas Park is a little wooden wagon on wheels called The Dough Hut.   Every day as I go through the park with Alan, I see people queuing up for their takeaway coffee, but I never have the time or the money to join them. Being still only 8 am, I noticed the hut was closed, so I took the opportunity to become aware of their menu.  I must have been salivating over the Six Doughnut Holes for Three Euros and did not notice I had allowed Alan's lead to go slack in my hand.  The next thing I noticed is that Alan spotted another dog called Millie across the bark and took off like a bullet.  The lead whipped out of my hand.  I scream helplessly, "Alan, get back here." So much for my vow of silence.  Alan doesn't hear me.  I chase after him as he gallops like the wind, his lead bouncing uselessly in the grass behind him.   He stops abruptly in front of Millie with pure love in his heart and then starts to jump all over Millie's owner leaving muddy paw prints on her bright pink jacket. I am mortified.  

As she bends down to pat him, she says, "Will I grab him for you?" 

"Please do," I said.  

Once I get my breath back, I apologise repeatedly.  Millie's owner is called Clare, and she is completely lovely about Alan.  We introduce ourselves.  Clare tells me that her husband died only last year, none of her neighbours seemed to know that and so did not commiserate, her two daughters live abroad and only for Millie, she'd have no one. I was so glad I talked to her.  I promise her that if our paths cross again, I'll buy her a doughnut hole and coffee.  I then hurry home to assume the seated position for the 9.30 am sitting.  

That afternoon, we had a 2nd walking meditation. This time I left the mutt at home.  But sod's law a woman pushing a man in a wheelchair stopped me.   Can I just stress at this point, I NEVER meet anyone when I'm out walking and definitely never talk but the universe......  The woman asked me a question about footpaths and whether if she continued on this particular one would it get her to the Mangela Woods.  What could I do?  She asked me a direct question, and she's pushing a wheelchair.    

We had a break at 5.30 pm, and Conor called in.  Again I was obliged to speak: you can't reject your children. We were having a quiet cup of tea in the kitchen when Joe, who is watching TV in the sitting room suddenly roars, "Scotland are beating England." The three of us said, "No way," and rushed out of the kitchen to see for ourselves.  Four minutes left of the game. We roared for Scotland until they got it over the line.  Then I remembered, "Neil, we're not supposed to be watching digital entertainment." 

"Too late now," says Neil knocking back the dregs of tea.      

We had to resume our seating positions at 7.30 pm, and so Conor left leaving behind a bag full of stuff he didn't need including his ukulele.  It was an impulse buy with his first paycheck Son of a Bun.  He never mastered the instrument, but it looks cute poking out of the bag.

Sunday was more silence and sitting on our bums, but in the afternoon, we had break-out discussions which I love.  It's great what you pick up from other people and their experiences with meditating.  Most of the teacher's stuff sails over my head, but when I listen to the other participants and how they understand it, then that clicks for me.  For instance, one girl Grace a front-line worker said how much the weekend meant to her.  She broke down crying as she told us the stress and helplessness of working with patients and COVID.   Then, Brian, a fellow participant said to her, "Time is the greatest gift you can give another human being.  Don't get lost in your thoughts about how you could be doing more for your patients. What they want from you is to listen to them, to be with them here and now.  The fact that you are present with them both in body and mind is the greatest gift you can give them.  And by turning up every day for work and making yourself available to them, you are giving them exactly what they want."  

I was moved by his gentleness and his lovely explanation. For the first time ever, I understood what being present meant.  I've heard it a thousand times, I've read countless books about the importance of being present to yourself and others, but the penny only dropped once Brian, in his efforts to console Grace, explained it.  

And it was done by the power of Zoom.  

Book Club Night

Book Club Night is on the last Tuesday of every month.  Of course, we haven't actually met since late last summer when sitting outside in our coats was allowed, so we meet via Zoom to discuss the all-important novel of choice.  This month it was Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell.

Since I have the Zoom app set up on my laptop, I 'host' the meeting from Conor's bedroom.  Conor rudely moved out last summer, leaving me starved of his humour and company and, as my friend, Liz Gallagher astutely observed, the content for this blog.  However, every cloud has a silver lining, and the upside to his departure is that I converted his bedroom into my 'office'.  His window faces south-west so if there is any sun to be had it starts to pour in at around lunchtime and it gently swings across my view all afternoon until it starts its descent behind the house at the end of our garden.  January was a great month, weatherwise.  As the days inched slowly by, I noticed the sun dipping slightly later each evening and ever so excruciatingly an inch to the right of my neighbour's chimney.  Once it clears the roof completely, then I know summer is on its way.  One of the joys of living so far up the northern hemisphere is that every minute more of daylight is a cause for celebration, a sign of nicer days to come.  I digress...

At the beginning of the evening, the 12 members are so happy to see each other, we raise a glass to each other's health and happiness.  I had my can of Bulmers at the ready.  However, in my excitement, I drained the can a little too quickly, and so I asked my son, Joe, to get me another from the kitchen. He came back up the stairs a minute later to tell there were none left.

"Will I make you a hot whiskey instead?" he said (he's 21).

"That would be divine," I said. 

Some minutes later, he knocked on the door and handed me a mug which contained a steaming hot brown liquid with several cloves floating on top.  He explained, "We've no lemons, and I couldn't find the sugar, so I used maple syrup." 

 

"Does that explain the colour?" I said, and he assured me it did.

It was so strong and still piping hot, I sipped it carefully as I listened to the others discuss the book.  The next hour flew by in a blur, I remember that the general consensus was that it was a great book, and we scored it five out of five.  As we said our goodbyes I had a crushing headache and went straight to bed.  

I slept through the alarm the next morning: I could not lift my head from the pillow and my arms felt like logs.  When I finally awoke and scrabbled under the bed for my phone, it told me that it was 10 minutes past nine.  "Shit, I'm late for work."  I rolled out of bed.  My head felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand.  I used the wardrobe to hoist myself into a standing position and walked slowly to my office.   I craved a shower, but it was out of the question. 

 

A few minutes later, Joe knocked perkily on my door and announced, "I'm just off to work." 

"C'mere," I said, "What exactly was in that drink you gave me last night?" I said.

Pushing the door open wide, Joe grinned and said, "Whiskey, hot water, cloves, syrup..." and backing away quickly until he had one foot on top of the stairs said, "and a spoonful of poteen."

I don't know how I got through the rest of Wednesday.  

What's the moral of the story?  Don't accept alcohol volunteered by your children.  Or maybe it's don't have children....

Relief

There's nothing quite like knowing you have a visitor coming to spur you into action.

Even if it's only your son.

Conor, on the family WhatsApp wrote on Friday two words 'Lunch Sunday?'

It's understood that he is not paying nor is he inviting. He's announcing his intention, and we need to be ready.

I didn't see it until Saturday.  Only 24 hours to get ready.

"Neil, you'll have to go to Aldi."

Neil shrugs, "We'll get take away."

Great, that only leaves the house to clean up.  Better get started.

The smell hits you as you're coming down the stairs.

It's not quite a stench but not welcome either. Like an overripe blue cheese; rank and weeping.  

Careful where you walk.   Then I see it as I reach the last step, a fresh turd in the middle of the hall floor.  Usually, it's the kitchen.  

"Joe, Alan has just shat in the hall."

"Ah, for fuck's sake," grumbles Joe, "He's only just come in."

"What are you feeding him these days?"

"Venison."

"He's better fed than we are."

Joe snags two sheets of paper towel.

"This time put it in the bin outside; it stinks up the whole kitchen."

Joe grumbles under his breath as I wrestle open the kitchen windows.

"What's that?" I say turning away from the sudden blasting of January wind and rain. 

He ignores me as he makes swipes at the hall floor.

Taking one of three bottles of vinegar from the cupboard beneath the kettle I sprinkle it freely across the kitchen floor, the dining table, countertops and tiled walls above.

Joe's head jerks up, "Mum, you know I hate the smell of vinegar."

"The trainer said it masks the smell of his urine and will stop him from pissing there again."

"He's not going to piss on the table, is he?"

I grab an old tea towel and vigorously polish the table.

Joe doesn't know it, but when I make honey, lemon and ginger tea, I give the puppy one half of the lemon. It drives him berserk as he asserts his 'alpha male' and tries to show it who's in charge. 

It's my revenge for the mess he creates. No harm comes to him, and the kitchen smells of burst lemon.