Joining the 1%

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

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

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

With that 20 miles under my belt I was confident.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are now in the 1% Club.

 

If I only had a dream...

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

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

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

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

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

Open Heart Surgery in Aldi

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn't answer.

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

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

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

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

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

Gardening with Brighid

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered over vale and hill

When all at once I heard a shout

"Get off me fucking daffodils."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how we laughed.

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

 

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

 

 

 

Bed Wetting and Divorce

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

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

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

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

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

Broken Computers and Shin Splints

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Friday," I said. 

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

"No," I said and sat down again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Light They Did Not See

“Mum, we need milk,” announced my son, Conor aged 4.

"Let’s go then,” I said.

The local shop is a 100 yard walk further down  our road, Tanjong Rhu.   Being situated a few degrees above the Equator there is no twilight in Singapore. At 6.30 pm you get a sense the day is ending and by 7pm it’s night time. Conor and I walked slowly, savouring the rapid sunset and the cool of the evening. The street lights flickered into life along Tanjong Rhu and in the tiny kitchens of  the apartment blocks around us we could see people preparing their evening meal. 

“Mum, why are there lights at the top of the buildings?” said Conor

I looked up. “They must be for the planes,” I said, “When a pilot sees them he knows he needs to stay above them.”

We got to the shop, bought the milk, and sweets - the real purpose of our trip and walked home again.

Shortly after 9 o’clock that same evening my friend, Fiona rang.

“Have you your TV on?” she said.
“No, why?”
“Go to BBC World, you won’t believe what you see.”
I searched around the couch looking for the remote, “Has something happened in the North?”
“No,” she said, “bigger than that.”
I turned on the TV and saw a building on fire in New York.
“A plane has crashed into the World Trade Centre,” said Fiona.
“Wow,” I said, “That’s one hell of an accident.”
“It’s no accident, keep watching.”

Just then, a second plane appeared to the right of the TV screen and drove into the second tower.

“It’s terrorism,” said Fiona and hung up.

I sat up all night watching.

The next morning I woke to the clamour of the boys, Tom aged 7, Conor and Joe aged 2 bustling into the TV room for their morning’s viewing of Cartoon Network.  I rolled off the couch and taking the remote from Tom said, “Boys, I’ve got something much more interesting to show you,” and switched over to the BBC.

By now there were four planes down. 

I took my cue from the BBC caption, ‘America under Attack’.  “Boys, do you realise you are witnessing an historical event? This is your John Kennedy moment: you’ll always remember where you were when this happened.”

The boys said nothing: they just stared at the TV.  I sat down again and watched with them.

Then the first building collapsed and as we watched - live – we could see people running for their lives terror stricken, as an enormous cloud of dust reared up behind them. 

Finally, Conor spoke.   Without taking his eyes from the screen, he said, “Didn’t the pilot see the light at the top of the building?” 

In One Ear, Out The Other

“The way I see it,” said Sam, “I have two ears.   No matter what my mother-in-law says, it goes in one ear and out the other.”

My husband’s niece was being baptised in Kildare and I was getting a lift up with my sister-in-law, Anne, and her husband, Gavin.  I sat in the back seat with my mother-in-law, Mrs D.
 

As we set off from Cork, Mrs. D told me that since the Christening was not until 2pm, we were going to stop for coffee in Leixlip House.
 

The drive north was smooth and we made good time. As we exited the motorway for Leixlip, Gavin asked Anne where would be a good place to stop for coffee.  Anne told him anywhere that’s convenient would be fine.
 

Mrs. D. called out from the back seat, “No, no, we’re going to Leixlip House.”
 

Gavin spotted a Gloria Jean’s and turned the car off the road.
 

“Gavin, we’re having coffee in Leixlip House,” insisted Mrs D.
 

Gavin pulled up in front of Gloria Jean’s and switched off the engine. Mrs. D. turned to me and said, “I guess we’re not going to Leixlip House.”  I smiled back at her in sympathy.
 

Anne and I ordered coffees while Mrs D. went to the Ladies to check on her hair.
 

Looking over my shoulder to check for Mrs D.’s whereabouts, I said to Anne, “That was the most civilised disagreement I’ve ever witnessed.”  She laughed.
 

Sam was right: the 'Two Ear' technique really works.  

Feeling the fear...

Last week, a friend told me how she took her young children to the woods and had a great time running through puddles and playing hide n'Seek.   I got shivers at the very idea: it's not a place I would go to on my own or take my children.  I see houses out in the country surrounded by banks of evergreen trees and wonder how they can live with such a dark, brooding presence beside them.  The sound of the wind blowing through trees, to my mind, is a lonely sound.  And then there is the fear of one of them falling on top of you, or your house or car.

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

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

A small gate takes you down a path lined with eight foot high freshly clipped hedges until you emerge onto a small beach with a full view of the Atlantic.  We crossed the boardwalk spanning the beach and reached a grassy knoll on which were a series of white painted wooden signs pointing to the Heron's Walk, the Islands Walk.  Enchanting.  We opted for the Islands Walk.  

We came to a grove of trees.  I hesitated.  I reminded myself I was with my husband and kept going.  The trees didn't look like normal trees.  Trees are tall and straight with green leaves on top.  We were surrounded by a tangle of pale, thin, smooth boughs that looked like long, bony arms and that reminded me of the old, gnarled fingers of my granny.  The greenery came from several feet over our heads, the low growing ferns and the beautiful emerald green moss that seems to cover every rock and boulder.  It was easy to see where the stories of leprechauns and little folk came from.

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

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

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

Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realised the night sky was clear and truly beautiful.     Being so far out from 'civilisation' the stars were at their brightest and, although only a finger nail, the moon glowed bright too.  I opened the window to breath in the sea air.  It was so still that the only sound you could hear was the sea lapping against the rocks.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

What kind of trees were these?  I eventually realised they were really old rhododendron bushes that had run amok.  Kerry has the kind of soil Rhododendrons love and they grow rampantly there.  I remembered a couple getting lost in a Rhododendron forest somewhere up the country and had to be rescued.  That must have been embarrassing - telling your friends afterwards you were rescued from shrubbery.  Their leaves only grew at the very top of the shrub above my head where they could catch the sun.  Underneath was a mass of scrambled limbs, their branches bleached white like dead bones;  creepy and perfect for an old witch hiding children or boiling rabbits in black pots over an open fire. 

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

Maybe it was the endorphins but after an hour I started to relax and actually enjoy the walk.  Nature was at peace with itself and so was I.  All was well.  I even imagined my six year old self going berserk with happiness in these woods chasing my brothers and sisters.   I came across Bishops Walk; I didn't remember doing it the day before.  This walk led to enchanting twists and turns in the path with uprooted oak trees that could definitely house colonies of fairy folk.  A stream flowed by strong and true.  It didn't need my help.

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

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

"Do you want your trees cut?" said the man, handing me a card.
I looked at him blankly, "Excuse me?"
He nodded at the card in my hand, "I'm Pat the tree surgeon, do you want me to have a go at your hedges. I could do the whole lot for a 100 Euros."
I stared at him in wonder.  In all the ten years I have lived in this house no one has ever come to my door asking to cut trees.  Was this serendipity at work again? 
"Are you alright, Missus?" 
I agreed to let Pat loose in my garden and within minutes I could hear him revving up a chain saw.  Ten minutes later, he reduced my shrubs to stumps.

Pat not only did my hedges, he cleaned the gutters and asked if I had Fairy Liquid to get the muck off his hands.  While he washed his hands in the sink, I told him about my fear of trees.  
"I've been working with trees all my life," said Pat, "and I can tell you, I've never found a body yet.  Will I check back with you in the spring?" 
"Do," I said, , "you never know what I might need then."
Pat dried his hands and made his move to leave.  
"Remember," he said, "no matter what happens, Jesus loves you." And then he was gone.

I shared this serendipitous moment with my husband.  "Fuck me," he said, "you let him into the house. He's seen where you keep the car keys, he has a chain saw and he knows where to hide your body!" 

I didn't agree....... Jesus loves me. 

My husband double checked the house alarm and hid the car keys. 

 

Sleepless in Kenmare

Hi Fiona,

It's 3.35 am and I can't sleep. I had insomnia as a child and I think it's coming back.  When I was three years old my parents were given a bottle of champagne as a present and on one of my nocturnal forages I found the champagne and drank it. How I got the cork off is a mystery but perseverance and patience in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles has always been one of my strengths...

My mother found me passed out on the hall floor the next morning.  She didn't take me to the hospital. Maybe it was too late to pump my stomach as the alcohol had entered my blood stream by then. I wasn't allowed out of the house for a week until I 'dried out' but more probably to let the alcoholic fumes fade from my breath.

Champagne remains my first drink of choice but a pint of Bulmers will do in a pinch.  Neil and I are down in Kenmare for our anniversary and while the hotel is lovely I can never sleep in a strange bed hence my writing to you: you're the only one awake. 

I could chance the hotel bar but I can't find my clothes in the dark and don't want to risk waking Neil.  There is a can of cider in the fridge at home but it's too far to drive.

What news have I? Bugger all really. Tom has started his new course in Galway and LOVES it, thank God. I asked him were the girls in Galway as nice as Cork but he refused to be drawn.  My boys tell me nothing... Joe's match was cancelled because of the rain.  The rain today was spectacular; thank God for water proof clothes. 

Speaking of which, I must have been sprayed with Teflon as a child - right after my alcoholic phase - as I seem to be oblivious to the negativity around me.  People's agonies seem to have no effect on me. I'd have made a terrible nurse: I laugh when I see people in pain.  Tonight at dinner, Neil noticed a woman at the next table complain about every course and even sent her dinner back.  At another table, he noticed a woman giving her husband a bollocking. I saw two men sharing a bottle of Dom Perignon at 185 Euros a bottle.  They were a handsome couple, happy and relaxed and even took selfies of themselves. They were a hoot. Why argue over dinner? why complain? It ruins your digestion. Actually, why have champagne with dinner? Drink the champagne; fuck the dinner.

It's nearly 4 am.  If you are awake text me back. All I need is one drink and I'll be in a coma.

It's so peaceful at this hour of the night/morning.  The rain has stopped and the sky is clear. I can see thousands of stars, some are in clusters while others stand out alone sharp and bright.  The moon is barely a fingernail.  I could go for a walk but if I go outside, I might get locked out.  And I might meet other nocturnal beasts and scare the shit out of myself.

Sleeplessness is a curse and I'm pouring out my heart to you dearest, and one and only awake, friend.  It's great having friends in different time zones: there's always someone up.  And as the saying goes it's five o'clock somewhere. Where? Middle of the Atlantic? No pubs there..... I'm hallucinating. Thank God for predictive text: who can spell 'hallucinating' at this hour? 

Alright, I really am going to bed besides, I'm bursting for a piss. Take care, my wise and lovely friend.  When you're in Cork, schedule me in for a marathon chat. That's if you're sure you want to see me again. My kingdom for a cider and a packet of Taytos right now.  Night, night x

Battenburg Blues

"Feed your inner child" said Andrew, "it's the key to getting in touch with your creative side."  I am doing a course, The Artist's Way with Andrew Carroll and our assignment each week is to do '"something silly but fun that appeals to your inner child."  I immediately thought of how I've always wanted to have an entire chocolate cake to myself and smash my face in it.  

"Synchronicity and serendipity are at work here," Andrew told us, "look out for them and see what they bring you."

'How to get the chocolate cake?' I asked myself, 'do I make a cake or just buy it?'   I loved the idea of plunging my face into a cake in front of my children and making growling noises like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street but Andrew said we had to do our assignments alone in order to fully immerse ourselves into the experience.  

I decided that I ought to do this assignment at home because devouring a whole cake in public using no hands might have me arrested not to mention the mess I might make.  Yet how was I to get a cake into the house past three permanently 'starving' boys and a sweet toothed husband undetected?  As for being alone in my own home......, that never happens.  I'd have to do it after they've all gone to bed.  

The next day was Friday.  Three temporary staff from work were finishing up that day and my boss, Mary bought a Battenberg cake during her lunch break to mark their leaving.   My eyes lit up when I saw the Battenberg.  As a child I always thought they were the ultimate luxury: a big chunk of cake smothered entirely in thick chocolate.  Mary was about to put the cake in the fridge but I urged her not to as chocolate tastes best when served at room temperature.  She agreed and put the cake on the filing shelf above the fridge instead.

At 4.30pm, we downed tools.  Mary filled the kettle, put out extra mugs and sliced the Battenberg into 8 pieces.  Everybody helped themselves to a cup of tea but nobody touched the cake.  Not even me: I just wasn't ready for it.  Mary was upset: not only did nobody want her cake but what upset her even more was that it might go to waste.  I offered  to bring a few slices home for the boys.   Mary looked at me eagerly and said, "Would you take the whole thing?"  A light bulb went off in my head. This is what Andrew meant by serendipity: I needed a chocolate cake and now the universe had given it to me.  

Mary carefully wrapped the Battenberg in sheets of photocopying paper and sellotape.  Because of it's awkward triangular shape, it's a hard cake to wrap; she went to a lot of trouble to make sure none of it leaked out.  I didn't have the heart to tell her what I intended to do with it.  

I laid the cake gingerly at the bottom of my lunch bag, covered it over with newspaper and headed for home.  The front door was locked.  That's odd.  I had to use my key to get in and as I stepped into the hallway I heard no sounds from the TV.  I peered into the living room.  The TV wasn't on and there were no starving boys on the couch demanding, "Where's my dinner?"   There was no-one  in the kitchen.  I called up the stairs but got no reply.  I was home alone.  Synchronicity.  I hurried into the kitchen: it was now or never. 

I placed the Battenberg on the kitchen table and carefully cut through the paper and sellotape with a scissors.  I tied my hair back.  I placed a tea towel around my neck, another on my lap and then, taking a deep breath I plunged my face into the cake.  It tasted horrible.  Like a dog nosing around in his food bowl, I persisted looking for the best bits.  But there were none.   The cake part tasted like sawdust and the chocolate crust was bland and oily.  Disgusted and disappointed, my inner child spat it all out again.  No wonder nobody at work touched it. I roughly wrapped the cake back up and plunged it into the bin. 

My next 'inner child' assignment is to re-live one of my favourite childhood memories: eating cold, hard-boiled eggs - with a little bit of salt - sitting on a tartan blanket on Garretstown beach shivering in the wind.  I can't imagine what serendipity and synchronicity will bring me this time.   

Blue Glass Earrings

"I'm sorry, I don't have change,"  I said as I handed the girl a 50 Euro note.
"That's ok, I have," said the girl.  She took the note from me and put it in a cash box.  Then adjusting her glasses, she picked up a calculator. 
Several seconds passed. 
"The change is 42 Euros," I said.
The girl nearly dropped the calculator.  "I'm sorry," she said, "I can make candles but I don't know how to use calculators."
I felt such a brute.  I softened my tone. "Here, let me show you."
I took the calculator from her, keyed in the numbers and turned the calculator back towards her so she could see the answer.  She whispered, "Thank you" and proceeded to pull out my change from the cash box.

I was on a mission and in a hurry.  I had a tickets to see Gloria Steinem back in Bantry at 12 noon that day but had dashed over to Skibbereen in search of earrings. And not just any old earrings. Elaine, who attended the Travel Writing workshop with me at the West Cork Literary Festival, wore gorgeous, hand-made earrings everyday and on the last day she had ones made of blue glass. I couldn't take my eyes off them. When I asked where she got them, she said "Skibbereen Farmers' Market, the best market in the world."

So here I was on Saturday morning at Skibb Market where there were loads of earrings but not the ones I wanted.  Of course, that's the whole point of Farmer's markets: the stall holders are artisans making unique, one of a kind products and therefore no two  products are going to be the same even if made by the same person.    Maybe the blue-glass-earring maker was sick that day.

My mother bought a fairy door painted on a stone.  It's adorable and I'm sorry I didn't get one myself.  I did get homeopathic drops which the label tells me 'feeds the third eye and fuels creativity.'  It's delicious.  

So no blue glass earrings.  But I have my candle.  The scent is Vanilla Sugar and it smells divine.  It's gentle aroma is like the girl who made it: sweet and non-toxic. I see it as a reminder to take the world easy and be patient.   

 

Robbing The Eye Out Of My Head

"She'd rob the eye out of your head," said my mother.  Garretstown beach, July, 1975.
 
I used to write for the Douglas Post.  Every week my mother would let me know that she read my latest 'piece' and would have a comment: "That never happened to you!" and, "I remember that incident, it didn't happen like that!" and, "You called her Ellen but I know full well you mean Annette O'Connell."
 
When I still only worked part time, I called in every Wednesday to my parents and have my lunch with them.  This particular Wednesday, my parents had just come back from a fortnight in Lanzarote and mercifully, my mother had missed the previous two editions of the Post.
 
As my mother poured out some spuds onto my dad's plate, she said, "My friend, Shirley told me you wrote about me last week." 
I paused in my chewing and tried to remember last week.  "No, I didn't." 
But my mother was insistent, "Shirley said I was in it."
"No, you weren't"
"But Shirley said I was."
I looked at my mother and said very carefully, "Mum, I wrote it. If I say you're not in it, you're not in it."
My mother tossed her head and smiling to herself said, "I'll ask Shirley."
 
The following Wednesday.  "What Shirley meant was," said my mother, "it's the way you write: she can see my style in your writing."
I stopped peeling my spuds and looked at her.
"So," continued my mother triumphantly, "you get your writing talent from me."
I smiled.  "That reminds me," I said, "of the couple talking about their baby son.  The husband says, 'I think Johnny gets his brains from me.' The wife replies, 'Yes dear, I think you must be right: I still have mine.'"
 

I FIND YOUR FONT OFFENSIVE

On Sunday over lunch my 16 year old son asked me, "If you had a daughter, what would you have called her?" 
"Georgia." I said.
"Georgia?  What kind of name is that?" said my son frowning at me. 
I smiled sweetly back at him. "What would you call your daughter?  If, you ever have one."  
"I don't know, but if I had a boy I wouldn't call him Blake."  Blake is his middle name and my maiden name. 
"Why not?"
"Blake is a knacker's name."
He might as well have punched me in the chest. 

Monday morning at work, my colleague, Diane sent out an email to 'All Exchange Users' with guidance notes on how to complete an application for funding form.  It's something she's required to do every year yet despite the clear, step-by-step instructions, the forms are often returned with vital pieces of information missing.  When sending out the instructions this year she carefully underlined the relevant points and highlighted in bold and yellow what not to do. 

Another Diane, with the same surname, received a phone call.  
"I find your font offensive."
"What?"
"The email you just sent. It's offensive."
"I didn't send any email."
Yes, you did. Just now. To all exchange users and it's rude."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"It's about funding.... Instructions on how to fill forms....  Ring any bells......?"
There was no bell but a penny dropped.
"You mean Diane in the Fees Office," said Diane, "she probably sent it."
"Oh,  now you're trying to pass it off on someone else."

Later that day, another colleague, Marita was heading home on the bus.  A lady boarded the bus with the help of crutches.  Marita could see there was a seat available so she stayed put.  A few stops later when Marita got up to leave, an elderly woman came up behind her and hissed, "How do you sleep at night?"
Marita blinked at her, "Excuse me?"
"You never offered your seat to that poor lady on crutches, you're a disgrace."

The humidity we have been experiencing this last week seems to be softening the brains of Cork.  The clammy air, charged with lightning accusations and imagined insults, is sparking friction and offence among seemingly normal people.  The Irish can't handle heat and the sooner we revert to cooler conditions, the better.    

In the meantime, everybody can just font off.

The Wrong End of the Stick

I love to talk.  I can talk to anyone about anything.  Small talk, or big talk, is my speciality.  Sometimes I miss the mark and I look stupid but as long as there's dialogue I consider that a success. George White, a good friend from a previous life said to me once, "What I like about you, Geraldine, is you always get the wrong end of the stick."

My husband, two older sons and I were at a rugby function in Newcastle, Australia just before a Lions game in 2013.  Mingling in the crowd, I recognised Eric Rush, an ex-All Black player.  The man, who invited us to the function, offered to introduce us.  Eric was very friendly but my sons, aged 19 and 16, clammed up in the great man's presence.  I told Eric I recognised him from when he played for New Zealand in the Hong Kong Sevens.  Eric noted my accent and told us he was half Irish: his dad was from Belfast.  My husband said, "So you could have played for Ireland then?"  Eric seemed taken aback by the idea and said, "Well I don't know about Ireland, they seem hot and cold to me." I immediately jumped in and said, "Oh no, we've been having great weather this summer." My two sons groaned aloud and said, "That's not what he means, Mum!" Eric turned to the boys and asked if they played rugby.  Their tongues now unlocked, they eagerly filled him in on their rugby playing credentials. 

It turned out that Eric was the guest speaker and when he got up to speak, he welcomed 'the family from Ireland' and told the crowd of his Irish roots.  Back in the 60's Eric's father took the 10 pound boat from England to Australia but when the boat stopped in Auckland he got off and headed for the pub.  Whenever Eric complained to his father about his drinking, his father would reply, "Shut up, son, if it weren't for my drinking you would be playing for Australia." 

It was a brilliant night for us. Grabbing the stick, at both ends, puts you in the path of interesting people and great memories. 

Happiness is.............

....not having to use the Rochestown road - west bound - to drive to work, getting back home after a blustery walk in the mad wind and it starts to rain and, when it's raining really hard but you don't have to be anywhere. Perfect.

The Dilemma

When I lived in Boston, Lavonne was my best friend.  Lavonne is from Minnesota and true to her Norwegian roots, she was beautiful with her pink, white skin; piercing, blue eyes; wispy white, blonde hair and tall.  We both worked as nannies and met every day.  The one thing we had in common was that we both loved eating.  Every evening, we'd cycle the twenty minutes to a home-made ice-cream parlour and eat a pint bucket of ice-cream each.  On Sundays, we'd head into Boston town and eat our way through Faneuil Hall gorging ourselves on triple chocolate fudge brownies with walnuts, rocky road ice-cream with strawberries (we deluded ourselves that at least the strawberries were almost calorie-free), custard-filled doughnuts and hot dogs.  We weren't capable of resisting anything.  If we weren't eating, we were 'dieting' but it was futile in the face of so much temptation. 

With Lavonne, I went to my first night club, Dirty Dick's.  A black man asked me to dance and I nearly passed out with the excitement.  His name was Randy. Lavonne met up with a guy who told her he was Julian Lennon's cousin - he did look like him.

On Paddy's Day, Lavonne cooked me dinner.  Pasta with pesto sauce and spinach salad followed by pistachio ice cream, all slugged down with kiwi margaritas.  Entirely green and entirely delicious.

One day, about eight weeks into our friendship, Lavonne confessed she had a dilemma.   "There's something that's really been bothering me," she said, "and I was wondering if maybe you could help me.  You know, maybe we could talk it through and see if we can work it out."
"Sure," I said, "What is it?"
Lavonne took a deep breath.  "Well, it's just that..." and she stopped.  She smiled sympathetically at me.  I braced myself.
"What?" I said.
"Well..."
"For God's sake, Lavonne, what could be so terrible?"
Lavonne let out a big sigh and looking deep into my eyes she said,  "The thing is, Geraldine, I've never had a short friend before."
I waited. 
"Is that it?" I said.
"Well, yeah," said Lavonne, clearly annoyed.
I don't remember how we resolved the 'dilemma' but the friendship survived.