The Winkle Club

The year is 2000.  I can't remember the time of year because Singapore has no seasons.  I am living in an open plan apartment among four men; my husband and three sons, Thomas aged 6, Conor 2.5 and Joe is still a new born.  

'Winkle' is a word my husband made up to describe what the men in my life were born with and I don't have.  What I do have is a short fuse.  My husband formed the 'The Winkle Club' for those moments - usually around the time of my period - when I get irritable with the kids.   The minute I snap at the boys, usually once a month, Hubbie sends out the clarion call, "Time for the Winkle Club."  There follows a mad dash to the master bedroom.   

When the Winkle club convenes, they have sock fights using balled up pairs of socks, do limbo-dancing and play Offence-Defence.        Hubbie loves NFL - American football - and created a game out of it called Offence-Defence.  In our bedroom, we have a king sized bed which came with the apartment.  It's made of solid teak with a headboard which has a ledge running along the top of it wide enough to keep books and a cup of tea.    In this game, Hubbie crouches on the bed defending the headboard while the Offence team, Thomas and Conor, line out at the other end poised like rabbits ready to spring into action.   The boys are also learning Judo.  The word used to start a fight is Hajimeni which means 'to begin.'  It sounds like Hadja Mee when they say it.    The object of the game is for the Offence team to get past Defence and land an orange-sized rubber ball on the ledge.     If they succeed they change ends.  The best out of three wins.

My husband is more wide than tall.  During the game, there's lots of testosterone-fueled roaring, growling noises, grunts and screams as the two bear cubs attempt to outwit and wrestle past Papa Bear.  It's adorable to watch but I think it must be a male thing.  Where there's a need for physical contact, rather than just hugging each other, they make it competitive and turn it into a sport.       

I tried it once.  This particular afternoon, I was watching Oprah and doing the ironing.  I had walked into the bedroom to put some laundry away when Hubbie paused mid-mauling and asked if I wanted to have a go.    Conor, his eyes shining with exertion, called out, “Yeah Mum, why don’t you have a go?"

Thomas sniggered, We'll thrash her."

I looked down on them sprawled out on the bed and said, "Ye little squirts. "What can you do to me?"  

As my husband explained the rules, including the use of the word 'Hajimeni', I thought it sweet how they were incorporating Japanese culture into their daily lives.  

Hubbie was the referee.  I was defence. When he called out, "Hadja Mee" my two babies launched themselves at me and rolled me off the bed on to the very hard wooden floor.  Hubbie made a half-hearted attempt to break my fall.

Picking myself up off the floor, I roared, "You little fuckers." 

My husband, helpless with laughter, said, "Boys take it easy, it’s her first time."

"Come on Mum, go again."

"Ok, but you’re not to push me off. "   I didn’t trust them. I noticed the bed had been pushed up against at the wall.  I kept my back to the wall.   

Hubbie called, 'Hadja Mee' and they launched again. They got past me easily.  I had enough.  I wanted to go back to my ironing.  

"Best out of three, Mum?" said Thomas.  His earnest, sweet face exuded innocence.  I trusted him.

This time, I had a strategy.  Thomas, being the captain, had the ball.  If I targeted him first by wrapping my arms around his entire body, thus not only trapping him and the ball, I could stop him passing the ball to Conor and stop the game.  I did exactly that and it worked.  However, as Thomas struggled furiously to wriggle free, he shouted, "Conor help me."  Conor jumped on my back and wrapping his arms around my neck attempted to choke me.  I released Thomas and what ensued what a free for all of pinching, tickling, hair pulling, punching and biting on their part.  I shouted, "Enough."  They didn't stop.  Hubbie the so-called-referee said, "You have to say 'Surrender.'"  

I screamed 'surrender' and immediately the boys fell back laughing flushed with success.  As they broke into their football chant, 'Championes' I crawled off the bed.  I slowly and painfully got to my  feet.    I caught sight of myself in the mirror.  Dishevelled and scratched, I looked like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards.  

Never again.  They're sneaky.  In all the chaos, you don't know who is doing the pinching and I suspect they use it as an opportunity to inflict pain on me.  I took it personally of course.  But then again, maybe it's a male thing: once they're in full flow, they can't stop themselves.    

One of the perks of the Winkle Club, they eat loads of snacks.  This one Sunday morning, I was sitting at the computer typing a letter to my mother when I snapped at one of the boys.  Hubbie must have overheard because the next thing I heard was him roaring from the couch,  "Winkle Club time." 

Thomas immediately shot into the master bedroom - my bedroom - and started to raid the sock drawer for ammunition. Conor ran to the kitchen: he was on snack duty.  As I sat watching his stocky little butterball body pass me scurrying back and forth between kitchen and bedroom - it took three trips - I regretted my temper.  Through the open doorway to the bedroom I saw Thomas had efficiently built three neat piles of sock grenades.    

Conor was on his final dash from the kitchen, his arms filled with bags of popcorn, when I decided to grab the rapidly closing opportunity to be included. Using my nice voice, I pleaded, “Can I come in?” Conor screeched to a halt dropping the popcorn. He planted his feet on the floor and facing me square-on, he stretched out his left arm as if to stop traffic and declared firmly, “No bosoms!” Then bending down, he quickly snatched up the popcorn and scurried into the bedroom. I got up from my seat and said, “Hang on…..! The door slammed shut. I rapped on the door and shouted, “"How do you know about bosoms?!?"

They couldn’t hear me. I heard squeals of laughter: the sock fight had started.

Lockdown - Cold, Dark and Handsome.

The new fridge arrived at 8.30 Friday morning.  A huge white delivery van with two men in it pulled up at the gate.  Hubbie hastily dragged the old fridge out to the front lawn.   I stood at the gate in my dressing gown and happily clapped their arrival.  The driver noticed and mimicked me back.  

The delivery man, who introduced himself as Bud, carefully eased out the fridge from the back of the van and rolled it up the driveway into the house.  It was enormous.     Bud commented that black was a mad colour for a fridge and then with a nod to me, said, "I suppose you'll be wanting a new kitchen now to match it. "   He told us to leave it stand for a couple of hours to let the gas inside settle, that the freezer would then take another while to get going and with a wink, he added. "So, don't be running off to Aldi just yet."  I laughed a little too loudly: it was so wonderful to interact with strangers again.  

He then said to Hubbie, "I won't ask you to sign for it because of Covid-19 but if you would just send a text to the mobile number on the email to confirm delivery that would be grand."   Job done, he went to leave but then turned back and asked, "Do you want me to take the old one away for you?"  This was incredibly decent of him: with Covid-19, he's only supposed to drop and run.  

Hubbie told him that would be great and then whispered to me, "Quick, do you have any cash?"    It's been so long since I used actual money, I wasn't sure where I last saw my bag.  Rooting around the kitchen frantically, I spotted Son's (20) wallet on top of the microwave and extracted a tenner.  As my cousin Frank once said, "Sometimes it's easier to do the deed and apologise afterwards than to look for permission."       

The black is a bit strong but it's a receding colour so hopefully we'll get used to it.  Hubbie measured it.  It's six foot tall and deeper and slightly wider than the last one.  

I love it.

We left the fridge stay in the middle of the kitchen all day. Even though Bud said it only needed a couple of hours we decided to wait until 3pm to plug it in.  Hubbie thinks the problem with the last fridge is that we plugged it in straight away.  

After the delivery men left, Son (22) came down the stairs.  He surveyed the beast now dominating the kitchen and examined its features.  It has a water dispenser in the door and a temperature control panel in the front that lights up.  He said, "It's like that time warp machine from Dr Who."  He then got down on his knees and examined the underbelly.  He reported back that it has feet and wheels and wrenching open the door announced, "Well, there's plenty of room for your cider."

It was then 9am and time to log on for work.   Hubbie made himself a cup of tea and picking up the carton of milk sitting on the counter commented that it was cold.   I told him I had left it in the garden overnight to keep it from going off.  He stopped dead and said, "Rats could have peed on it." I reassured him, "It's ok.  I put it in a flower pot up high on the window sill and, besides, I've used it three times already this morning and I'm feeling ok, so far." 

While Son read the instruction manual cover to cover, I went back to work.  "Should we leave room at the back?" he asked.  "What does the manual say?" I said.
"I can't find it.  Google it there will you?"
I got up to check the spelling on the door.  It said 'Samsung.'  I walked into Hubbie's office, "You said you ordered a German model."  
"Oh yeah," he said, "I changed my mind. Is that a problem?"  
"No, it's just I was going to name it Claudia.  I don't know any Korean models, much less black ones."

At 3pm, all alone, I climbed the kitchen counter and plugged it in.  No ceremony, nothing.  I put the last can of cider in as a test.

Hubbie came into the kitchen ten minutes later to make a cup of tea.  He examined the temperature widget on the fridge door. Fascinated by the flashing blue lights, he set the temperature and freezer to the maximum.  Son (20) filled up the water dispenser.  I can't see that novelty lasting.  Son (22) asked "Will we set up the wine rack?"  I laughed, "Don't be ridiculous.  We don't drink wine." 

Son (22) still reading the instruction manual, opened the door and said, "Wait now Mum, you'll love this."  We waited.  I hate leaving the fridge open.  I was raised not to because it lets in the warm air which causes the fridge to work harder thus making it inefficient and this causes the electricity bill to go up.  Old habits die hard.  Every time, someone opens the door and leaves it open for longer than is strictly necessary, I get anal about it.   Another reason why I think the last one packed up after only five years.      Then a strange beeping noise happened like the reversing noise of a truck.  
"What's that?" I said.  
Son laughed and said, "When you leave the door open for more than a minute it reminds you to close it."  Perfect.  No more nagging: I have a machine to do it for me.

Half an hour later, alone in my 'office' I started to hear a high-pitched squealing noise.  Being deaf, I miss most sounds but sometimes I pick up high tones like radio signals that others don't.  Son (20) came into the kitchen.  "Can you hear that?" I said.  He stopped in his tracks and sleepily cocked his head to the side and said, "No." 

I prowled the kitchen examining the usual suspects; radio, dishwasher, the boiler, washing machine but none of them were operating at that time.  I went into the hall thinking it was either a TV or someone's phone but the sound receded.  I stepped back into the kitchen.  It was coming from the fridge.  I rested my head on the door to make doubly sure.  The horror, I can't be putting up with this noise for the next three weeks.  I picked up my laptop and phone and moved out.  

I spent the afternoon in my bedroom taking work calls and at 5pm, I chatted to Mum and my sisters on Zoom.  At 5.40 pm, the call expired and I returned to the kitchen.  Then I noticed it.  The noise was gone.  I leaned my head against the door of the beast and listened to its gentle purr. 

I'm no scientist but I think that after my gizmo-loving, ambitious, testosterone-fuelled husband set the temperatures to Arctic levels, the strain of plummeting to such icy depths caused it to squeal.   I opened the door and reached in to check the can of cider. It was too cold to hold. I shivered with pleasure.  Bring on the book club. I'm ready for them now.    

From Monday, though, I will have to move my office out of the kitchen: it's too distracting.

High Anxiety

Two years ago, this week, I took part in a week long group study as part of my Masters.  The first three days we worked with Terence on psychometric testing.    I scored 2/10 for empathy and 2/10 for compassion, no surprises there.  I scored 10/10 for social boldness, 8/10 extrovert and 8/10 for anxiety.  That last one shocked me.  An anxious person is someone who is constantly on the edge and is at all times worrying about senseless, pointless things like wondering whether they should bring in the clothes off the washing line in case it rains or getting upset things they have no control over.    

When I got home, I protested to my husband, “I’m not a worrier, I don’t get anxious about anything.”  Hubbie shrugged and said, “Ask to take the test again.”

Still upset the next morning, I stopped by the Common Room before class to check with my work colleagues.  I told them about the test scores before adding incredulously, “And, would you believe, I got 8/10 for anxiety?” 

No response. 

I protested, “I’m not anxious!”  

“Well….” said Maire carefully.

“Well what…?”

Maire paused searching for the right words before settling on, “You’re highly strung.”

The rest of my colleagues agreed.  With some relief, I thought that if being highly strung fell into the anxiety category, I could live with that.   I went back to the class but not ask for another test.    

The final two days of that week, we had Professor Greene for Group Dynamics and Family Constellations.  Fascinating topic.  On Thursday evening, Prof. Greene sent an email to the group requesting we come in half an hour early the following morning.  He wanted to try out a group experiment.

I and three others did not see the email and so we arrived at the usual time to find the entire class sitting in a circle around Prof. Greene in complete silence.  Like latecomers to mass, we stood at the back respectfully silent waiting to see what would happen next.    

After some 20 minutes of silence, Prof Greene spoke, “By now, you will have formed a group consciousness.  Some of you will feel called upon by the group to take on a role.  And so, if you feel compelled to speak, speak.  Alex, a secondary school teacher, spoke as if she was in a trance, “I feel called upon to be your leader.  I will take the group wherever it wants to go.”

‘Ooooh, would you listen to her?' I thought, ‘who does she think she is?”

Silence.

I spoke. "I feel compelled to tell a joke since I have such a captive audience” and then sniggered at my audacity.

A minute’s silence passed.

Then Tina opened her eyes and said, “Go on so Ger, tell us your joke.”

And I did.  It’s my favourite about an Italian, a Frenchman and an Irishman comparing their love lives.  It’s filthy and doesn’t say much for Irish lovers.  I embellished the moment with head rolling and expansive arm gestures.  The theatrics however, were wasted on them as they still had their eyes closed. 

I finished the joke. Silence settled over the group again.   

Prof. Greene spoke, “We’ll take our break now.”

Everyone jumped up and there was a mad rush to the door.  My friend Ber caught my arm and half dragging me down the stairs hissed into my ear, “Where is your filter?” and then pointing to my head said,  “do you even have one?”     In the canteen queuing up to get coffee, my classmates gave me wide berth.  One dared to look over and simpered, “You’re very brave.”   “What is the big deal?” I said to Ber, “We’re not back at school.  He told us to speak if we felt compelled and I felt compelled.”  

Back upstairs in the classroom, we took our seats. Prof. Greene searched the room and said, “Where is she?  Where’s my joker?”  My hand shot up.  He looked at me and said, “You suffer from high anxiety.  Do you have issues with your mother?”   I nodded dumbly.  Prof. Greene continued, “As a child, you were always seeking her approval.  You have a perpetual desire to please and yet nothing you do is good enough for her.  You never got much attention and had to fight to be seen.    You can’t tolerate silence and so where there is a gap, you dive straight in, in an attempt to make it better.  You're not capable of holding your space.” 

I felt like a fly pinned under a magnifying glass.  The entire room disappeared.  I was Dorothy facing my Wizard of Oz.  This was my the moment of truth.  This is what 8/10 anxiety looks like. 
 

“And what’s interesting,” he continued, “is that you told a sexual joke in front of a mixed audience.”  Now, there I disagreed with him.    All my jokes are sexual.  The best ones are.  And what of the mixed audience?  In my insatiable need for attention, an audience is an audience.   

Still he might have a point.  Some years ago, while on holiday in Lanzarote with my mother and sisters, we stopped for dinner in a restaurant perched on a cliff edge.  We found ourselves sitting next to a table with two couples from Scotland.  There were very friendly.  I noticed a steady flow of jugs to their table filled with red liquid, fruit pieces and ice.   "What's in the jugs?" I asked. "Sangria," they said, "It's delicious and it's one of your five fruit a day."  I ordered a jug.   My mother looked at me anxiously, "Couldn't you just have a glass?"      

I was in heaven.  As the sun sank slowly into the sea and the sangria flowed into me, my entire repertoire of jokes and bonhomie flowed out to everyone within shouting distance.  My mother and Louise became increasingly uneasy.  Louise whispered urgently, "If you say penis one more time, I'm leaving."  Unfortunately, Ivan the Terrible was next and his penis was the central theme of the joke.   Louise pushed back her chair and left.  Mum and Catherine fled with her.  I had no choice but to follow: I didn't know the way home.    

When I eventually caught up to them,  Louise was furious.  She said, "Do you want to be raped?"  I scoffed, "Nobody ever got raped for telling a joke." Louise threw her hands up in despair, "But you're giving people the wrong idea.  The way you behave, it sounds like you're gagging for it."  

Prof. Greene might agree with her. 

Lockdown - Day 34

Hubbie and I are planning our escape. 

One evening during the Christmas break four years ago, the whole family sat and watched a DVD of the movie, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel with Judy Dench.   I love the film and as it came to an end, I turned to my husband of many years and said, "How about we move to India when we retire?" 

He nodded in agreement but said, "India is too far, how about Spain?" 

“I can do Spain.” I said. 

Our castle building in the air was rudely interrupted by grumbles of protest from the boys, "What about us?" 

I looked at them in surprise, "What about you?" I said, "sure you’ll be gone by then."  

"But what about Christmas?" said Tom.

"You want us to hang around until Christmas so you can have a place to stay?"

The boys looked at each other helplessly seemingly lost for words at our selfishness.

I attempted to reassure them,  "You can come and visit us in Spain or better still, we come and visit you?"  That didn't appeal to them either.

Since the lockdown, the planning has become more urgent.  I want to live someplace that is reliably warm where I can step outside at any time.  A cosy house is all very well but it gets claustrophobic if you're sharing it with others.  This good weather we're having has given us an extra living room and I'm grateful we're not in Wuhan or Spain now where they were not allowed outside at all.   

I was heartbroken when my eldest son moved to Dublin two years ago to take up a job.  I did the same to my parents and I expect the other two will move out someday once they can afford it.     When they do, and we're retired, whether it's at 65 or 68, I don’t want to continue living in this house and this country all year round with its wet, wild, windy weather and oppressively dull days and long nights.  If any of our children are still living with us by then, we'll sell the house from underneath them.     

Furthermore, I don't want to live in a house bigger than I need and then preyed upon by sons/relatives who have nowhere else to go.  Selfish of me I know but I've done my bit.  

Other people are hell.  I'm hell.  Living with other people is not easy especially as you get older.  Cooped up together these past five weeks has made me realise how much I took for granted.    Downtime is precious and essential to my mental health.    I need space to be by myself even if it's only to putter about the kitchen alone and not be subjected to: 

"What's for dinner?"
"When's dinner?"
"Are you eating that?"
"You're watching Grace & Frankie again?!?"
"Who ate all the ice-cream?"
"How much cider have you had?"
"Are you going shopping today?  Can you buy me..?"
"If I cut the grass, will you pay me?"
"How much will you pay me if I clean my room?"
"Mum, we're out of ...."
"It's not my turn to cook, I cooked last time."

Extrovert though I am, being around people, 24 hours a day is hard and it's the same people all the time.  I know I should be grateful for this unexpected gift of time with my family; it's something I remind myself everyday.   On the whole, we're doing fine.  We're four mature adults muddling along but occasionally we unravel and tempers fray.

I need structure.  I always knew this but up to now it wasn't an issue.  The demarcation between work and play, hobby and family, duty and pleasure, me and everyone else was clear.  The lockdown has blurred these boundaries into slurry pit of headaches and simmering resentment.  As someone on a spiritual 'journey', I'm aware it's called resistance and non-acceptance but naming it doesn't lessen the pain.  Well, last night, I simmered no more.  I claimed the living room mine from 7pm.  No winkles (I'll explain another time) allowed.       

I created a Frankie night.    I changed into layers of body loving floaty fabrics.  I wore funky earrings and mismatched socks with my clogs.  I lit every candle in the house and placed them at different heights in and around the fireplace.  I laid several blankets on the ground and set up my meditation stool.     I didn't have a joint but I recreated the smell and smoky atmosphere by burning sage and letting it burn out on the mantle-piece.   I watched six episodes of Grace & Frankie back to back while sipping two cans of Bulmers. Occasionally the men in my life stuck their noses in the door and pleaded to have the TV back.  I ignored them.  I alternated between kneeling on the meditation stool aligning my chakras and gently folding myself into yoga postures on the blankets in front of the alter of love and peace.    At 10pm, I surrendered the room back to the animals and crawled up to bed.  This morning I'm hungover but calm again: I've reclaimed my space.  

Namaste sisters.  

Lockdown - Week Five.

My moods fluctuate wildly not only from day to day but hour to hour.  I could be high in the morning - as I was today - poised to start a new day and a new job but this evening I'm flat.  

I sat for 30 minutes in the sun this evening soaking up my daily dose of vitamin D which I've been told boosts your immunity and mood.    I ate leftover Indonesian Satay for my tea and took iodine supplements which is meant to support your thyroid/metabolism.  I took a late lunch break and walked to Dunnes in Douglas to buy the iodine and a litre of milk.  The weight of my backpack coming back up the hill was a workout in itself.    I wore my sea breeze outfit; peppermint green t-shirt and turquoise green blue skirt which I bought in Marks at least 16 years ago and will continue to wear until it is threadbare.  It flares down to my ankles and I feel like Stevie Nicks in it.  Wearing these betrayed my optimism, the sun shone brightly but in the shade it was chilly. 

I needed the milk because our fridge is broken.  It was never great. Nothing in it ever seemed to be cold.  It was my turn to host the book club about a year after we bought it.  Book club night is a big deal and an even bigger deal for the hostess.  I usually take a day off work to prepare.  I bought six bottles of white wine, three bottles of red, a crate of beer, a 12-pack of cider and put all these, bar the red, into the fridge at lunchtime.  

My guests arrived at 8pm.  It's a given that the hostess does not enjoy the evening, at least I don't.  Not only do I have to feed my guests but I have to ensure everyone's glass is kept topped up.  All was going fine until the 11th member turned up late.  When I asked her what drink she wanted she said a glass of white would be fine.  I poured a glass and she went to join the others at the kitchen table.  A minute later, she asked for ice.  I said, "No problem" and went to get it.  As I handed her a glass of ice, she said, "Thanks Ger, it's just this wine isn't very cold."  I was surprised and said, "But it's been in the fridge for the last seven hours."

The next day, I received a flurry of phone calls from the other club members condemning her rudeness.  Touched as I was by their loyalty, I actually agreed that the wine could have been colder: the fridge is rubbish.  I had said it to Hubbie several times but he dismissed it as my imagination.  So I lived with it.  Since it's only five years old, Hubbie is convinced it can be fixed and because it's five years old, it's outside the warranty. 

On Saturday, Son (22) and himself unplugged the fridge, dismantled the built-in cupboard around it - Son plans to create a raised vegetable patch from the planks of wood - and pulled it two feet out from the wall.  On inspection, they reported that there was a bulge in the back.  "Maybe there's a problem with the air circulating around the back.  Let's defrost it 24 hours and see what happens."

The next day, the bulge in the back of fridge had not only grown but there was an absence of melted ice water on the floor around it.   Hubbie plugged it in.  It made all the right noises - something is whirring in there - the light lights up but it's colder outside the fridge than in.    Hubbie finally conceded the fridge is knackered.  He also confessed that when he bought it, it was the cheapest one in the shop and the salesman's only comment on it was, "You get what you pay for."  

The new one is a German model and it arrives on Friday.  Hubbie isn't sure if the company will install it but surely you just plug it in.  There's always YouTube and it's vast reservoir of tutorials.

In the meantime, we've cooked all the frozen food; half of it ended up in the bin as we dared not trust the meat.  No more dairy except a litre of milk every second day.  I miss my cheese but it's no harm to go without ice-cream for a while. The sea breeze skirt is the only thing that fits. 

The good thing about email/blogging; it's a great way to vent and very little effort is required.  After my morning coffee, I feel like Beethoven on the keyboard.    You don't have to leave the house, you don't even have to get out of bed.  Any response usually sparks a counter response even though you have nothing to say which is the case right now.  

I'll watch the news and then go to bed or maybe not: it's all about the virus.  I miss Brexit and the water charges.   

Tomorrow is another day.

Lockdown - Easter Monday

It has been a perfect day - weatherwise.  

Maybe this lockdown isn't so bad.  I've adjusted to working from home and can see it as part of my working week in future.  It has been lovely being around my family although it gets a little tetchy at times being on top of each other.  This fabulous weather has been a life-saver.  It gives everyone breathing room, the house is less confined and we can all escape once or more times a day.  Had all this kicked off in December, as it did in Wuhan, with its miserable dark days and nights closing in early, I'd be hiding the sharp implements in the house.

I'm a revisionist vegan and happily cooking every day.  When you work in an office, it's stressful facing into cooking a dinner as soon as you get home.  You're swapping one form of pressure for another.  Working from home however, you get back time you otherwise spend commuting and can spend that time cooking quality dinners from scratch.    This morning found me minutely chopping ginger, spring onions and cloves of garlic and it was a pleasure.  

I've signed up for the Happy Pear cooking course.  I've been wanting to do it for months but didn't want to spend the money nor commit the time but they have an offer at the moment at 44% off so I signed up.  Week 1 give you four easy dinners and five easy breakfasts.  Son (22) is the breakfast fiend; he is taking up the challenge of preparing a different recipe each day while I am doing the four easy dinners.  Today is 10 minute Indonesian Satay.  The recipe calls for Pak Choy and courgettes, neither of which I have so I'm using broccoli and cauliflower instead.  The sauce asks for nine tablespoons of almond butter - again I don't have it - so I used peanut butter.  The sauce is incredibly thick and needs constant stirring to keep it from congealing at the bottom of the saucepan. It seemed liked a lot of peanut butter.  I wonder are my spoon sizes different from theirs.

Son (22) is painting the garden walls magnolia white and loving it.  He planned to include the fences too but after lunch and mature reflection we decided against it.  With so much white and all this sunshine, we'll be dazzled.  Son (20) is painting the upstairs bathroom in brilliant white.  It has to be painted every year as there seems to be an air circulation / condensation problem which breeds mould.  We've tried keeping the windows open as much as possible but in winter that's not always easy.  

Sunday evenings is Zoom night.      We first started Zoom calls to support and commiserate with my mother when her brother John died in England on the 31st March.   It was so successful, we made it a weekly event.  Zoom is free which is great but after 40 minutes it expires.    We incorporate my brothers Tommy, who lives in England and Stephen in Waterfall, my sisters Catherine in Dublin and Louise in Mahon, nephew Sean in Blackrock and me and Mum in Douglas.  Tommy is a teacher and it shows; he tries to instill order by telling us to raise our hand when we want to speak.

Last night's call was pure chaos.  Mum spent the first ten minutes asking, "Am I in?", "can you see me?" and "I can't see anything."  We can all hear her.  Sean cracked open a can of Guinness.  I joined him with a can of Bulmers and two straws.  Tommy wagged a finger at me, "Now Geraldine, you know what you're like when you drink."  I flipped a finger back at him.  Louise pleaded, "Remember, it's the Lord's Day, we should be celebrating."  I said, "Good thinking, Louise, does anyone have any God jokes?"  Stephen had one.  "Two men were out golfing.  They teed off.  One man's ball went straight and landed within ten feet of the hole.  The second man lashed off his ball but it landed in the woods.  The two men went into the woods to look for the ball but they couldn't find it.     The first man said, "Look, I'll go up and putt my ball and you join me when you find yours."  So the first man headed off and just as he was about to putt his ball, another ball came soaring out of the woods and landed within two feet of the hole.  The first golfer said to the caddie, "He's some cheating bastard." The caddie said, "How do you know?"  "Because," said the first golfer producing a golf ball from his pocket, "this is his ball."

"What's that got to do with God?" I said.

"What about God?" He said.

"I asked for a joke about God."

"Oh sorry, I thought you said 'golf'.

Catherine piped up and said, "Actually I thought you said 'golf' too."  

Sour silence.   

Sean smiles and says, "I have a Jesus joke."  Louise and Tommy attempted to warn him off but the rest of us egged him on.  

Sean, "Jesus said to his apostle, John, "Come forth and I will give you eternal life.  But John came fifth and got a toaster."  I roared laughing.

After 40 minutes were up, Louise, the instigator, asked did we want to go another round.  There were no takers.  She did it anyway and we all re-appeared.  I do it through the phone as my laptop is knackered and the sound quality dodgy.  The phone is better but you only see four faces at any one time.  It's like Sesame Street and the song, 'One of these faces is not like the other.'  I look at these people, especially after a couple of ciders, and wonder how we're related. 

Hubbie went for a cycle this morning before lunch.  He was gone two hours and returned with a different bike.  Son (22) spotted it immediately.  Hubbie explained he was cycling the mean streets of Mahon when he met Louise (my sister) also out cycling.  Hubbie has an engine on his bike and Louise asked if he would swap bikes for the day and he agreed.  "What's it like?" asked Son (22).  "It's a piece of shit," said my sweating husband.  Then declaring 'he was starving' he horsed into a plate of 10-minute Indonesian Satay infused with a squeeze of lime and garnished with toasted nuts.   Son (22) and I agreed there is something about the juice of a lime that just kicks a dinner into a whole new level.

In the afternoon, I lay out on the grass face down to get my vitamin D and after 20 minutes, with the heat of the sun on my back, I did yoga poses - proud pigeon, downward dog and sun salutation.  It was divine.  With blue skies and steady sunshine set to last until Thursday, it doesn't get better than this.    

The Blow In

When we moved to Singapore in January 1998, we joined the St Patrick's Society.  We didn’t rush to do it: what is the point of travelling if you’re only going to mix with your own kind?
  

Crossing Orchard Road, two weeks after our arrival, I stood in the scorching noon sun, and waited at the pedestrian crossing.   A blonde lady joined me.  She commented on the size of the baby asleep on my chest.    I told her his name and age.  She noticed my accent and told me she had an Irish friend.  She gave me the phone number of Deirdre Caher and then she was gone.    As an expat, I soon learned that random introductions happen like this all the time.   

      

With some misgivings, I rang Deirdre.  It was the single, most spectacular, best move I ever made.  Deirdre lived in the Four Seasons apartment complex and told me that she happened to be hosting a coffee morning the following Thursday.  Would I like to come?  Conor (baby) and I went.  

Over platters of sliced papaya and pots of Barry’s tea, I met Jennifer Heade, Mary Matthews, Mary Holland, Gretta Delaney and Deirdre Dempster. 

I was the last to leave.  Until I got there, I didn’t realise how much I pined for home and the familiar accents of Mary from Tipperary and Jennifer from Dublin triggered a longing to be among my own.    I stayed until Deirdre’s husband came home for lunch.       Before I left, Deirdre suggested I join the St Pat's Society.  She said, “I’m no longer a member but it will be the best fun you’ll ever have.”

The first event I attended was the St Pat's AGM which took place in the British Club which I thought ironic.  I found myself sitting at the same table as a couple called Liz and Des Gallagher.  Deirdre Dempster, from the coffee morning was also there and I got to meet her husband PJ for the first time.  

The AGM finished at 10 pm and oddly enough for a Saturday night, so did the bars.    No drink means no fun but the night was still young; nobody wanted to go home.  Then Des told a joke.  We all laughed.  My friend Nora who worked for CitCo at the time emailed me jokes every single day.  I remembered one of them and told a joke too.  Then Des told another and so did I.  It became joke tennis.  I'm glad I picked up the phone to Deirdre and that I lobbed back a joke at Des. That night set the tone for our great friendship.

Five years later, we moved again.  This time to Hong Kong.  Liz, who had lived in HK before recommended I join the St Pat’s Society there but warned it was different.  “They’re more highbrow in HK; their members are judges and successful entrepreneurs.  They’re not cuddly like us in Singapore.”  I printed off a membership form for St Pat’s HK, filled it out and posted it just before we left Singapore.

After spending Christmas with our families in Ireland, we arrived in Hong Kong on New Year’s Day 2003.  We moved into our serviced apartment in Parkview on Tai Tam Reservoir Road.  I didn't like Hong Kong at first.  I couldn't understand the fuss over this damp rock where it always seemed to rain.  And all this before SARS kicked in.   I missed the heat and my friends back in sunny Singapore.  

Tom and Conor started in Bradbury School on Stubbs Road and Joe had been accepted into PIPS pre-school.  We now had to start looking for a place to live.  In the meantime, I hadn't heard anything from St Pat's about our application.  

One evening after I had put the boys to bed and I was asleep myself, I heard my mobile phone ringing.  It was after 10pm but since Neil was on a work trip in Korea, I thought it might be him.   It took me a while to find my phone, it was in the living room, and by the time I got to it it had stopped ringing.   The missed call was not a number I recognised.  Assuming it was Neil, and still half asleep, I listened to the message:

“Hello Geraldine, it’s Ronan Delaney here, President of the St Pat's Society here in Hong Kong.    Geraldine, I’m looking at your application form and I’m not at all impressed.      It’s all over the place.  You haven’t filled it in properly.      There's gaps everywhere.    What sort of blow in are you?     Look, I’ll ring you again in the morning and then perhaps you can explain yourself.”

I sat in the dark. Stunned.  

Hot shame flooded my body.   My scalp prickled – always a bad sign.  

I listened to the message again.  

I exploded. Shaking with rage, I rang Neil.    He had been asleep.  Spewing indignation down the phone, I told him about the call.   

He said sleepily, “It sounds like a joke.”

I wasn't having any of it. “A joke?  How could it be a joke?   Who do I know in Hong Kong that would play a joke on me?!?”

 

 “When he rings you back, just stay calm.”

“Calm?  That fucker doesn’t know what he’s dealing with?!?”

“Can I go back to sleep now?” said Neil.

I hung up.   I went back to bed.  I couldn't sleep. Ronan Delaney did not know what he unleashed that night; he hit a raw nerve.  My mind boiled with indignation and insults. Who is this bog-trotter to tell me I wasn’t good enough?  The morning could not come fast enough so I could tell this Ronan Delaney just where he can shove his form. 

The next morning, as soon as I got Thomas and Conor off to school, I returned to our serviced apartment.   I settled Joe in front of the TV to watch a Fireman Sam DVD and braced myself for the call.

Just after 9am, the phone rang.  I snatched it and dashed to the bedroom;  I didn’t want to pollute my baby son’s ears.  I attempted a power pose but my legs were shaking too much to support me.  I sat on the edge of the bed quivering with indignation.  

“Hello, this is Ronan Delaney, is that Geraldine?” 

I took a deep breath and said, “It is.”

“Well, Geraldine I hope you got my message. Now, can you explain yourself?”

Struggling to keep my voice steady, I said carefully, “I didn’t think I'd need to have to explain myself.”

Then came the sound of smothered laughter and, “I can’t do this."  There was a pause and then, "Geraldine, this is Des.”

“What?”

“It's Des Gallagher.  From Singapore.”

“Des?”

“Look Geraldine, I can’t talk, I have a plane to catch.” And he hung up.

I sat on the bed dazed and just stared at the phone.  I needed to release. I rang Liz.

 

Liz was sympathetic, “That’ll be Des alright.  How're you getting on with Hong Kong?"

I told her I hated the place.  As she soothed my ruffled feathers, she assured me she would kill Des.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

As it happened, Des did me a huge favour.  Orla Thomas, secretary of St Pat's rang me later that day not only to tell me that my membership had been approved but also to invite me to their quiz which was taking place in Delaney's pub - no relation - in Wan Chai the following week.

I went along.  The minute I introduced myself, everyone responded, "Are you the one that Des rang last week?"  They all knew me already and I hadn't done anything yet.  

Des had arrived in HK on business the week before and had gone to a St Pat's event.    He asked Orla if a 'Geraldine Blake' had applied and she handed over my application form.  Des only intended to get my phone number and invite me to join them.  When I didn't answer the phone, he did something very naughty.  The fucker will pay for it someday.