Lockdown - Day 67

Monday, 18th May 2020. Phase two begins.

Today we can meet up friends in groups no bigger than four. The planning has already begun.   I said to Son (20) last night, “Are you looking forward to tomorrow?”

"Why, what’s happening tomorrow?"

"You can get together with your friends, no more than three, but you can meet up outside and have a kickabout?”

He frowned and said, “I don’t know Mum, I think it’s too soon.” He’s happy some football is back on TV, the Bundesliga in Germany.   According to the news, some 20 million viewers tuned in to watch.

On Saturday, three of us went shopping without telling the others. We now have 40 eggs, 12 avocadoes and, 25 bananas. 

Yesterday, I spent most of the day in bed reading Sue Townsend’s The Woman Who Went to Bed For a Year.   It was an impulse buy, so long ago, I can't remember when but according to the sticker on the cover it was a 'buy three, pay for two' deal.   I flicked through it while waiting for the kettle to boil.  The first five pages made me laugh.  It perfectly captures my mindset these last few weeks.  

My friend Mary, who attends the University of Limerick (UL), emailed me on Friday to tell me that UL announced that from September, students will be restricted to a maximum of 20% presence on campus. Mary is not happy about this as she feels college is more than just learning; it's about social mixing and networking too.  Mary reckons she's learned as much from the classroom discussions and listening to the opinions of others as she has from the lecturers.  She argues that college is about opening the mind, prodding students to think for themselves, and instilling curiosity about the world.  How is this to be possible, she wonders, unless you are sharing space: being in the presence of others creates a fluidity and spontaneity in the conversation which becomes lost in translation through Zoom.   Mary devours books and the new restricted access to the college library will be a big loss.   On the plus side, since she only has to be in college on her 20% days, she doesn’t have to rent in Limerick anymore nor eat out as much and so will save money.  I agree with her about the social interaction but if UL is taking that route, maybe other colleges will follow suit.  If so, then college courses conducted 80% on-line can be done from anywhere which means college becoming more accessible to people who cannot afford to take a year off or give up whole chunks of their day to study, cannot travel, nor afford rent in another town.

And so, it has finally hit me that Covid-19 has forced us to change how we do things forever. My friend Annette assures me that it is the natural order of things.  "We were due a pandemic anyway, she says. The last one happened in 1918 with the Spanish Flu." 

“Why is it ‘due'?" I asked. "Is it to cull the human species?” 

She shrugged and said, “It seems to be the natural order of the world.”

Speaking of natural, I think both sons urgently need to get out and interact with other human beings: they are reverting to Lord of the Flies standards of behaviour. Son's (20) belches are getting louder; some days he sits in the recliner in front of the TV particularly after a satisfying omelette and lets them rip.   He's proud of them. “Mum, listen to this,” he says and then throwing his head back his mouth wide open like a basking shark, he barks out a series of thunderclaps that bounce off the walls and echo in my ears.    

Son (22) has his own specialty; he releases loud quantities of gas while eating and reading at the same time but seems oblivious.   “Could you open the window at least?” I said.  “What?!?,” he replies in mock horror. "But then I’ll wake up the neighbours.”

From today, we are allowed to meet other people.  I really hope they do.   

Lockdown Day 64 - Endsleigh Remembers IV

I am enjoying this Endsleigh Remembers project but I am surprised I don’t remember more. Most of my memories growing up revolve around my family. Anne-Marie Hayes sent a message to our WhatsApp group last night. She remembers a bad storm, circa 1973. A huge tree had fallen across the entrance to the estate blocking traffic in and out. Joe McCarthy, who lived in No. 6 and worked as a camera-man for RTE  interviewed five children sitting on top of the tree.  It was on the 6 0’Clock News that night. According to Anne-Marie I was in the middle of those five children. How do I not remember that?

I do remember trees being a big part of our childhood. Before it was turned into houses, Endsleigh Estate was a very large garden attached to Endsleigh House. The House was bought by Daisy Corrigan and turned into Regina Mundi Secondary School for girls. I went there and actually that’s a whole chapter I could mine for stories.   We had to wear lumpy purple uniforms - the royal colour - according to Daisy befitting our place in the world as queens.  According to my son, who told me shortly after he started secondary school himself, the boys' schools have a ratings for the girls' schools; Christ King school was known as ‘Christ, they’re ugly’ and Regina Mundi was ‘Reject a monkey’. The best-looking girls, according to this rating, attended Scoil Mhuire.

The trees that bordered the old garden were retained during the house building with the result that all the houses backing onto the perimeter of the estate had mature trees at the end of their gardens.  This was lovely except our south-facing garden contained eight huge evergreen trees which blocked the sun completely resulting in our garden and our kitchen constantly being in the shade.   This depressed my mother but Mr Sheehan whose house backed onto ours would not allow my parents to cut down them down even though they were growing on our side of the fence.   Then came the big storm in January 1974 felling all but one of the evergreens. Better still, they fell into Mr Sheehan’s garden. My mother was ecstatic. In one fell swoop our garden and kitchen emerged from shadow into gorgeous, dazzling sunlight.   

The O’Hanlon’s next door, also had a row of evergreens at the bottom of their garden which fell too but the trees collapsed into their garden rather than out.  For a week those trees became our playground. The foliage was child-friendly, soft and pliable and came armed with small hard cones which we use as ammo for our war games. All that week, O'Hanlon's garden was the go to place for every child in Endsleigh.  

Speaking of war games and nothing to do with trees but one of the games we had growing up were 'rock fights.' Most driveways then were gravel so there was plenty of ammunition. We’d split up into gangs and hiding behind gate pillars we’d lob stones at each other. I don’t remember any adults stopping us.  One Saturday morning, Dad had just taken a casserole out of the oven when he told me to go outside and call Stephen and Tommy in. I exited the back door and standing at the gate roared, “Stephen, your dinner is ready.” Just then a rock same sailing through the air from the direction of O’Hare’s and hit me in the forehead. With blood streaming down my face, I ran crying into to Dad.  Dad drove me into the South Infirmary. I got three stitches.  It has just occurred to me that scars on my face are not such a novelty after all.   Accusations were made and the denials were robust but nobody got into trouble over it and it didn't stop the rock fights.   

The O’Hanlon’s also had an enormous Beech Tree. The first accessible branches were 12 feet from the ground. Mr O’Hanlon nailed a wooden pallet to the first branches which we used as a tree house. The pallet was big enough to support six children comfortably. One morning, Deirdre O’Hanlon, Rosemarie McCarthy and I were up the tree. We were eating something. They finished first and decided to walk out onto the branch that was supporting the pallet. Holding onto the branch directly over them they stood on the branch bouncing gently and chatting. I finished what I was eating and decided to join them. But as I did so, the standing branch suddenly snapped, and I fell to the ground screaming in agony while Deirdre and Rosemarie were left dangling above me. They jumped down landing beside me. Rosemarie said, “I’ll get your father.” With all my screaming, I’d say my father already knew. Dad always cooked on Saturday while Mum went into ‘town.’ He turned off the oven. Carried me into the Ford Cortina and took me to A&E in the South Infirmary. I remember we were kept waiting for hours and in the end the broken arm was only a sprain. I was so disappointed. The wrapped the arm in bandages and put me in a sling. I had something to show for my ordeal. 

Stephen remembers being up that same beech tree with Dermot O’Hanlon. They climbed up much further than us. They were at least forty feet up for the ground when suddenly Dermot fell. Branches that could have broken his fall snapped and broke away. He landed on the ground heavily but got up and said he was ok. A week later, Stephen and Dermot were playing on the swings near Douglas Swimming Baths. Dermot fell off a swing two feet from the ground and broke his arm. But that’s Stephen’s memory, I should let him tell that one.

Directly opposite Mrs Eustace, who lived in No. 4, was the ‘Easy Tree’.  This was a joy of a tree that even a toddler could climb. Nobody fell out of that one.

Lockdown - Day 63 - Endsleigh Remembers III

As a child, adults always seemed bad tempered and perpetually irritated by the presence of children.   I seemed to be surrounded by grown ups who regarded me as an unexploded grenade with the pin about to be pulled.  There were some exceptions.  Mrs Kathleen Sorensen who lived in No. 1. was kind to absolutely everyone.   Back then, women from the traveller community came around once a week begging.  Most people fobbed them off with a few coins.   Mrs Sorenson not only welcomed them into her home but would sit them down in her kitchen and give them a hot dinner. Then there was Dr Bob and Molly McCarthy, parents of my friend Rosemarie, who lived in No. 31.   

I took my second driving test at 21 and failed. Fed up with my failure, I took the car for a spin down to Fountainstown and didn't get home until some two hours later than I should. I pulled into the driveway. My mother was on her hands and knees in the front garden weeding ferociously. Our eyes locked; I could see she wanted to kill me. She painfully got to her feet and said, "Come with me." I dutifully followed her through the open front door. She picked up the phone and dialled. As soon as the other person answered, she silently handed the receiver to me. It was my father. He told me they were worried sick, that they thought I might have crashed the car and was in some hospital unable to contact us. I apologised and told him I just didn't think. He quickly forgave me as he always does. My mother was another story. Not feeling safe in the same house as her in that moment, I headed straight to Rosemarie's house.

Rosemarie wasn't home but Molly was. She greeted me with a delighted smile as she always does and led me in to the kitchen. Molly's next-door neighbour, Vincent Kearney was sitting at the kitchen table having his dinner. I sat at the other end of the table. Molly gave me a glass of Ribena and a Club Milk. I told her my troubles. "Serves you right," said Vincent, as he vigorously sawed though a slice of bacon, "worrying your parents like that." Molly smiled sympathetically. While I drank my Ribena, she gently unplugged my hearing aid and cleaned the wax from the ear piece. My own mother didn't do that.

Another time when I had to leave the house in a hurry, I can't remember why, I took refuge in McCarthy's. They kept their house lovely.  Always so clean and calm; it was like entering a boutique hotel. Rosemarie was home with her father, Molly and two of Rosemarie's aunts. I joined them in the kitchen. I announced that my cousin was home from Australia. "She's brought home this awful joke," I said, "wait until I tell you." Rosemarie standing behind her father, started frantically waving her arms and silently screamed the word 'No'. I reassured her saying "It's ok: it's not a dirty one." Rosemarie drew her finger across her throat but I kept going. "It was Christmas morning. Sam and Max came down the stairs to find loads of presents around the Christmas tree but all the presents were for Max. There was not a single present for Sam. Sam went up to his parents and said, "Mum, Dad, why are there no presents for me?" His mother looked at him and said, "But Sam, you're terminally ill."" Rosemarie doubled over laughing, Dr Bob chuckled but the aunts looked distressed. One of them leaned towards me and gently placing her hand on my arm said, "And was he?"

Rosemarie's birthday parties were fabulous. Every girl in Endsleigh was invited. About a year ago, my mother came across a photo of one her parties. It was taken of all the guests lined up in front of their house. Patricia Kearney, Claire Jackson, Anne-Marie Hayes, Frances McCarthy, Deirdre O'Hanlon, Donna O'Leary, my sister Louise and I are instantly recognisable.  I have a huge yellow ribbon in my hair.  I reckon it must have been her sixth birthday judging by the size of us and the fashion; white ankle socks in polished T-bar shoes and lace collars on our dresses. When I showed the photo to an American friend, she pointed to me and said, "That has to be you with the banana skin on your head."

The only blight in that house was their dog. A black woolly vicious poodle called Trudy. I have scars on my knees from scaling their garden wall at 90 miles an hour to get away from that dog. Even Deirdre O'Hanlon. who loves all dogs and is scared of no-one, used to sprint for the gate when Trudy was let loose. Deirdre's dog wasn't much better. It was part spaniel with a muddy brown coat and missing half his brain. I can't remember his name so I shall call him Barker because that's all he ever did. One night I went to see the film, American Werewolf in London in the Palace cinema with my then boyfriend, Shaun O'Sullivan, on McCurtain Street. I don't watch horror films. I don't see the point in paying good money to get terrified; I didn't sleep for three weeks after seeing Jaws. Ten minutes into the film, I told Shaun I was scared. He told me I was free to leave and I did. Being perpetually broke, I always walk home from town but this night I was so rattled, I decided to get a taxi part of the way. 

The taxi driver had a beard. His hairy face reminded me of what I just left behind so I was happy to cut the journey short at the top of our road. Walking quickly towards my house, I looked up at the night sky. It was clear and the moon was almost full.  'No werewolves tonight,' I said to myself with relief.  Just then my peace was shattered by a loud shrill yapping. I froze in fear. Then daring to look behind me, I slowly turned around.  It was Barker.    Pure rage fueled by fright coursed through my veins.  Bring my face within inches of his, I barked back, "Get away from me you stupid, useless, f***ing dog!" Barker yelped and took off in fright.  Taking no more chances, I straightened up again and ran the rest of the way home in case I met any more teeth fanged creatures of the night. 

I had just got into the kitchen and put on the kettle when my brother Stephen came in.   He seemed to be having trouble breathing.  "What's wrong with you?" I said. Stephen wiped his eyes and said, "That poor dog, I think you gave him a heart attack." Stephen told me that he had been sitting on the wall outside Long's house talking to two friends when they heard me screaming.    They looked up to see me running home and a streak of lightning shaped like Barker gunning for his.  

Christmas in Endsleigh

My father drove a Ford Cortina.   It was a dull red rust bucket of a car.  It could not cope with the Irish winters.  On particularly cold mornings, Dad would summon us from our beds with a roar up the stairs, "The car won't start." That was our cue to get up and push him around the green. Dad frantically pumped the accelerator, while Tommy, Stephen, Louise or I, with our hands on its frozen rusted arse, pushed and silently pleaded with it to start. The car did not give in easily. It bucked and lurched in fits and starts like an untamed beast, unwilling and unco-operative. By the time we circled the green the first time, Ken Long or one of the O'Hare boys would come running out to help.  It usually kicked into life coming into the third lap. The triumphant cries from the boys drowned out by Dad revving the engine and waking up the whole neighbourhood.  For a shy man he seemed to experience no embarrassment when it came to his car.  

Dad grew up on the Western Road and his local church as a child was St Francis behind the courthouse.  Even though we lived in Douglas with at least four churches closer to us, St Francis is where we went to mass every Sunday.   One frosty Christmas morning, after Tommy and Stephen pushed the car around the green a few times and eventually got the car going, all five children and Mum piled in. Driving along the deserted Douglas Road into town, Dad stopped at the red traffic light on the Cross Douglas Road.  As Dad gently pumped the accelerator to keep the engine idling over, we children sat in the back relieved that the car had started and excited about the treats yet to come. Then suddenly we heard a loud groaning sound.  We looked at each other in alarm.  Then came a tearing ripping sound like metal being torn in two.  The next thing we knew we found ourselves sitting on the road.     The Cortina crippled with rust and unable to cope with the unexpected burden of ferrying seven Christians to church, dumped us in the middle of the road.

The previous year, we were running late because the rust bucket took longer than usual to get going.   Being late for mass on Christmas day was a sin.  If you were late, or so we were told, you had to stay on for the next mass.  Keen to avoid this we crawled impatiently behind a Renault 4 for a half of a mile as it drove at 20 miles an hour with its right blinker on.  We had just passed the bend in the road by the entrance to Douglas Swimming baths when my Dad saw a clear road ahead.  Containing his frustration no longer, Dad pulled out right to overtake. But just as he drew level with the Renault, the elderly woman driver swerved right and crunched into the passenger door of our car.  We were late for mass. I can't remember if we stayed on for the next service, but Mum could only exit the car by scrambling over the clutch and through the driver side.   

There seems to be a pattern here; Christmas was a stressful time in our house. One Christmas Eve, I was seventeen which means Tommy was twenty. He was cleaning his teeth over the sink in the bathroom when I attempted to squeeze past him to retrieve something from the bathroom cabinet. Tommy annoyed at the intrusion pushed back to block my progress and in the ensuing scuffle the sink came away from the wall breaking the pipe. As the water spurted from the severed pipe, Dad clutched his forehead and cried, "Where are we going to get a plumber on Christmas Eve?"

The other unfortunate Christmas event involves my sister Louise who was six at the time. It was Christmas morning, the turkey had been roasting in the oven for four hours and it was ready to come out. The smell of cooked meat was divine. We children stood well back to watch my mother as she squatted down in front of the oven. Opening the door carefully, with a tea towel wrapped around each hand, she slowly eased out the roasting tin with the beautiful buttery brown-skinned turkey sitting in a sea of its own hot liquid fat. Still squatting, she rested the roasting tin on the flat oven door briefly before swivelling a full 180 degrees to set the turkey on the fire place to cool. For some reason, Louise chose this moment to pass behind Mum. As she straightened up, Mum accidentally knocked Louise onto the oven door. The blisters on Louise's legs swelled to the size of small water balloons. I presumed she screamed in pain. I just remember being fascinated by the speed at which the blisters grew and that they extended from her bottom down to the backs of her knees. Dad rushed her into the South Infirmary.

Speaking of the South Infirmary, my Mum's sister Maura was a doctor. On Maura's first day as a junior house officer in A&E in the South Infirmary, she was told that there are two families that are always in here: the Jones from Togher and the Blakes from Douglas.

Lockdown - Day 61 Endsleigh Remembers I

It was the summer of 1971, my brother Stephen was five years old and I was eight.  Everybody on the estate used to have their milk delivered by a milkman driving a milk float.    The milk came in glass pint bottles with green or blue foil caps.    One afternoon, the milk float was parked outside O'Mahony's house.  Stephen's ball had rolled under the float.  I told him to go get it.  He crawled under the float but as he did so, the milkman came out of O'Mahony's and hopped into the driver's seat.  He turned the key in the ignition and attempted to drive off. Three times he pressed the accelerator and three times I saw the float heave upwards as it attempted to surge forward.   After the 3rd attempt, I looked under the float.  Stephen was still underneath. I straightened up and called in through the passenger window, "My brother is under your van."  The milkman cursed and immediately hopped out.    He went down on his hands and knees and saw Stephen jammed under the axle.  I don't know how they got Stephen out but the next thing I remember is sitting in the back of a car peering around at my mother who was in the passenger seat.  She made soothing noises to Stephen as he lay face down on her lap.  Stephen's back was red and bleeding: the skin had been scraped raw from the middle of his back down to the waist of his shorts.     

Some years later, I was walking down Woodview, a residential road that backs onto Endsleigh when a milk float suddenly came to a halt on the road beside me.   The driver hopped out and screamed at me to, "Get home."  I recognised him.  He had the same slicked back black/grey hair, but he looked like he had aged 30 years.

Lockdown - Day 60 The Endsleigh Chronicles

The family quiz was a spectacular success. I used all 12 rounds and since we had four minutes to spare before Sean had to log off at 9pm, I slipped in the alphabet round. Son (26) is a veteran of quizzes and he gave me the idea. I had gone for a walk in the afternoon to clear my head but when I got home again, I was so addled trying to ensure that the Zoom invitation reached everyone, I abandoned the project. Son (20) took up the mantle. As agreed, he quietly and efficiently kept a running tab on the scores while at the same time, he used Google on his phone to compile answers to satisfy every letter of the alphabet. ‘U’ to describe the encounters of Leopold Bloom, ‘Y’ a slogan used for ‘Not for Girls’ and ‘Z’ the name of the footballer who got red carded in the 2006 world cup final. 

It was neck and neck between Catherine and Stephen the whole way through but Sean won it by a nose. The ‘Who Am I?’ rounds were a triumph. I gave ten clues in descending order of value. If they got the answer on the first clue, they got ten points, if they got it on clue two, nine points and so on. Catherine guessed Michelle Obama on clue three earning her a whopping seven points which shot her into the lead, but Sean guessed Wayne Rooney on clue three which catapulted him into top three. It took them until clue seven before Stephen guessed Graham Norton. If the clues are true but vague you keep them suspended for longer. The rapt attention with which they listened as I slowly read out the clues was like the stillness of an anaconda hypnotising its prey before it strikes. Mum did well, she got Winston Churchill on question clue seven and only once did Catherine feel the need to help her.

I was woefully under dressed for my walk. After the glorious heat on Saturday, I kept my clothes light and was nearly  blasted away by the wind which never ceased. Everyone else on that walk seemed similarly caught out. When I got home, Son (22) told me a storm was on its way. I’ve neglected to watch the news since Friday. It’s not like me not to have a finger on the pulse of the weather situation at all times. The walk did the trick. The cobwebs were blasted away and my limbs pleasantly tired. I finished Amy and Isabelle. The ending is so unsatisfying, I’ll have to read it again. There are gaps in the story where I fell asleep and it’s still a whole two weeks before the book club are due to meet again.

Mum called up unexpectedly. I slammed the lap top shut should she see the questions but that was not the purpose of her visit. Since 1987, the residents of Endsleigh Estate, where I grew up, have held an annual dinner dance. A few years ago, they started to invite the next generation even though we were no longer resident. The dance part had long been abandoned and in its place, Theresa Bracken, the organiser warned each table to come up with a song. I first attended three years ago, and it was a hoot. I can’t sing so I told a joke. Fortunately, as I enacted the actions of the joke to give its fully flavour, I inadvertently moved the mic away from my mouth as I delivered the punchline. Only the man sitting directly in front of me heard it. Two years ago, Dionne Long, attending for the first time, read out a piece she had written of her memories ‘Growing up in Endsleigh’. She managed to mention most people in the room, and it was funny. It was a huge hit. She planned to do the same again this year but of course, it got cancelled. That gave Brendan Bracken the idea that if all the residents of Endsleigh submitted a memory, he would compile them and with the help of Ruth Kearney, he would put together a book. “So,” said Mum, “they want all your generation to contribute too.” She then laughed nervously and said, “I could write loads about you.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“How about the time, when you were two, you crawled out the upstairs window in the rain. Mrs Kearney spotted you and rang the doorbell. Tommy, (then five) stood below to catch you but I managed to grab your nappy before you fell.” Just then Son (20) walked into the kitchen and said, “She what?”

“And the time,” she continued chuckling. Now that she had an audience, there was no stopping her, “you dragged a basket of groceries, as big as yourself, puffing and panting all the way home.” Turning to Son by way of explanation, “The Thompsons were very posh, and they used to have their groceries delivered once a week. Your mother, at two, was no bigger than the basket but managed to drag it six houses away to our back door. I was so embarrassed having to bring it back.” She turned back to me with her eyes shining with mirth, “Or about the time Stephen and Brian Jones climbed through every back garden starting from the Jones’ house all the way up to the Sorenson’s without touching the ground.”

Son (20) was impressed. “How many houses was that?” he said.

“Let’s see we’re No. 14 and they are at least eight houses further on, so it must be 20 houses.”

Son nodded approvingly, “That shows some ingenuity,” he said.

“It does, it does. So,” and there she paused and turning back to me said, “What are you going to write?”

“I’ll stew on it and come up with something,” I said

“You won’t write about us, will you?”

"You write what you want. I won’t edit you and you don’t edit me."    

“Oh, it’s just that you were such an amazing child.”

“That’s not what you said about me at my wedding or my fiftieth.”

She then turned to Son and said, “Do you know she set my bed on fire while I was still in it?”

Son’s mouth fell open. I said to him, “Don’t mind her, I was two at the time.” Mum then brooded some more her brow furrowed in concentration. “I must ask Stephen for more details on the back-garden story,” she concluded.

“That’s another thing,” I said, “Brendan is asking for our memories. That’s not your story, it’s Stephen’s. What do you remember?”

“I remember we moved in a month before you were born. That the house cost £2,000 pounds. The mortgage payments were £16 a month and I couldn’t sleep with the worry of how we were going to keep up the payments.”

“That’s perfect. That’s living history. That is what our generation want to hear.”

“O’Hanlon’s next door cost a £500 pounds more because it was detached. The green out front was pure mud and we saw all the other houses go up brick by brick.” 

"That’s what you write," I said, "The current residents, those who only moved in the last 15 years, would love all that."

She left happy eager to get started.    She had come bearing gifts leaving me with three Nerines and a tall plant with white bell like flowers. She warned me that it looked delicate but grew like a weed. My kind of plant.

In the quiz last night, the most popular round was “Which is the odd one out” especially the last six questions where I personalised it for the family. Out of these four cars, Renault 5, Ritmo, Ford Cortina, Sunny Nissan, Stephen guessed the Sunny Nissan. Right answer, wrong reason. These were all cars my dad owned. The Sunny was the odd one out because it was the only one that didn’t break down. Now that’s an Endsleigh story. In winter, on particularly cold mornings, the Cortina wouldn’t start. Dad would roar up the stairs, “the car won’t start” and that was our cue.  Whoever was dressed had to come outside and push the car around the green. Dad would be sitting in the driver’s seat frantically pumping the accelerator while Stephan, Tommy and I attempted to push the frozen metal arse of the car as it stuttered and jolted into life. After a few minutes, some of the neighbours, Ken Long and one of the O’Hare brothers would come running out and take over. That released me to return home and have my breakfast. By the time I reached out gate, I would hear the triumphant cries from the boys as the engine would finally catch and scream into life. For such a shy man, Dad was completely without shame when it came to his car. He’d circle around the green a couple of times revving the engine, waking everyone up, and then satisfied it was sufficiently warmed up, he'd stop at our gate and shout in the open front door, "Tell your mother the car is ready.” 

Yes, I have great memories of living in Endsleigh.

Lockdown - Day 59 - The Battle of King's Cross

I’m dreading this quiz tonight.

I am the Grace of Grace & Frankie in my family. We are such a free-wheeling, conscience-free bunch - boundaries were laughed at in our house growing up - that the first time Hubbie was introduced to my family back in our courting days, he came out with a headache. We are deadly competitive though, even the dumbest of us scrabble for attention and where we are losing, we resort to point scoring.

The whole point of these Zoom family quizzes,I presume, is to give everyone the opportunity to interact when there is so little else to talk about when in lockdown. So, if I remember to keep that in mind, it might help to anchor my sanity. I’ve noticed in previous weeks that the uber-competitive members, i.e. my nephew, Sean and brother, Stephen seem to switch off. I am assuming that because they are so far out the other side of competitiveness, they only hang in there to humour the rest of us. And because they don’t take it seriously, it leads the rest of us scrabbling around in the mud for looking for cheap glory. To keep them interested, I have created a Wayne Rooney round for Sean and a Michael Schumacher one for Stephen.

I’m on chapter 22 of Amy and Isabelle. It’s so slow moving. I’m struggling to see the point of the book but last night, it dawned on me. The theme of the book is the mother and daughter relationship. What the two characters actually get up to is not that big of a deal. It is set in the 1960 and what is scandalous then in small town America barely raises an eyebrow today. So, while the pace is slow, it’s beautifully written. I think she has captured the push/pull nature of the mother and daughter relationship very well.

There will be three mother/daughter relationships in the mix tonight. Louise takes the ‘Honour thy mother and thy father approach’ and everything my mother says is water off a duck’s back. I’ve tried that approach before lockdown but sullen silence in her presence isn’t working. Catherine, the youngest of us, treats Mum like an invalid. She seems to be on this crusade of answering all Mum’s ‘needs’ where it doesn’t even occur to anyone else – including Mum – that she has needs. Mum has moments of brilliance especially with questions around WWII. I have a special Winton Churchill section for her. The irritation begins once Catherine is comfortably ahead on points. She then starts to wheedle the quiz master for extra half points for Mum, so she doesn’t ‘feel left out.’ Mum is, I suspect, just happy to listen to the banter but does admit she likes the attention and doesn’t correct Catherine. Last week, it got beyond ridiculous when Catherine asked for an extra point for Mum on a question where she made no attempt to answer it.  It grates on my nerves: she’s my mum too and she’s not an imbecile. If we were cats, we would emerge from these meetings bloodied with missing claws and bald patches on our fur.

Tommy, my brother who lives in London has been missing for the last two Sundays but yesterday confirmed his availability for tonight. He’s a well-liked, happy-go-lucky moron who gets a great kick out of goading me. And I sense, he is secretly egged on by Mum and Catherine. For the most part, I don’t bite the hook but when I lash out, they all recoil in horror like nervous kittens. 

I know the pattern: it’s been happening all my life. Hubbie, my fiancé then, first identified it back in 1989. At the time, I shared a flat in King’s Cross, London with Tommy and this parasite called Fergus. Tommy knew him from school and for the first few weeks of our living together I barely noticed Fergus.   Fergus was planning this big trip to Africa and was saving every single penny of his data clerk earnings to get there. Every night, he'd pull out this massive map of Africa, spread it all out on the living room floor and then with a packet of custard creams by his feet, he’d study that map for hours. 

At the time I was in my mid-twenties and full of energy. Being the eighties, most of the brain drain out of Ireland headed to London and our apartment in King's Cross being so central to the city centre, became the focal point for our friends popping in. Every evening, I would cook up a massive spaghetti bolognaise or a chilli con carne and sometimes end up feeding up to 13 people. Friday nights were particularly busy. They in turn would bring along cans of beer or bottles of Lambrusco. Those nights were pure fun. Fergus ate with us.   

After several weeks of this, on a rare quiet night in - it must have been a Monday - it was just Tommy, Fergus and me. Tommy, a teacher was marking stacks of homework at the dining table, I was on the other side of that table reading a book, we had no TV and Fergus, as usual, was hunkered down over his map. I noticed the custard creams.  Fergus hadn’t offered one. In fact, I realised in that moment, he has never offered a biscuit to anyone ever. All these weeks he was getting his dinner, cooked and paid for by me, and he never once offered a lousy biscuit.

“Fergus,” I said, “give me a biscuit.”

Fergus, looked up, looking slightly annoyed at the disturbance. “What?” he said.

“I said, ‘give me a biscuit.'”

Fergus looked down at the packet of custard creams. He slowly picked them up and held out the packet. I got off my seat and took one. Sitting down again I said to Tommy, “Tommy, you would like a biscuit, too, wouldn’t you?”

Tommy laughed. Fergus slowly turned to Tommy and begrudging said, “Do you want one?”

Tommy laughed again and said, “I don’t mind if I do.”

I was baffled. Fergus is supposed to be Tommy’s friend and yet he seemed reluctant to share his biscuits even with him. In fact, he had to be forced to share. It dawned on me that Fergus was so hell bent on saving money, it suited him to feed off everyone else but when he had the opportunity to share, he didn’t. From that moment, I hated Fergus. The rows with Fergus became a nightly occurrence until one evening, Hubbie took a break from his accountancy studies and we went for a drink. My hatred for Fergus was the topic of our conversation.  Hubbie shook his head and said, Fergus is not your problem, it’s Tommy. I looked at him surprised, “What are you talking about? Fergus is a parasitic prick.”

Hubbie carefully explained that we were like the three elements of fire: Fergus was the firewood, I was the air and Tommy the match. If Fergus and I were alone, we ignored each other. But then Tommy would enter the room and say something like, ‘All woman are useless,’ to which Fergus would heartily agree. I would then pounce on Fergus and rip him verbally to shreds. As the penny slowly dropped, I remembered a recent row. The same scenario, Tommy entered the room, made one of his inflammatory remarks and once he had us at each other’s throats, he left the room a few minutes later and he was smiling. I noticed this at the time but did not join the dots.

“But why would he do that?” I said bewildered.

“Because he can,”

“But he’s my brother, why would he do that?”

“He does it for entertainment,” said Hubbie. He went on to explain, “It’s like the question, ‘Who do dogs lick their balls? Because they can.”

A few ciders later, consumed in self-pity, I reluctantly saw my role in this. If I wasn’t so inflammable, the rows wouldn’t even get off the ground in the first place. Still, this insight into the dynamics of our relationship hurt.  I even started to feel sorry for Fergus.

We left the pub at closing time and walked the 100 yards home. We climbed the steps to our front door. It was only then we discovered that neither of us had a key. I pressed the doorbell. Seconds later, a smiling Tommy answered the door. That was the last straw. That fucking smile. I lunged for his throat. I got a good grip and pressed my thumbs hard. Tommy managed to wrestle free and backing away laughing, dashed into the living room. I kicked the door in. “Call her off,” Tommy cried.  Hubbie attempted to reason with me but it was too late: the red mist had come down and I was in full flight.   Hubbie called out to Tommy who, by now had taken refuge behind the couch, “I’ve tried, you’re on your own.” I picked up the eleven copies of the London North Yellow Pages, and one by one, lobbed them like grenades over the barricade. These were followed by his entire Penguin Classic book collection from the bookshelves over the phone. I smashed my fists through the plastic cover of his stereo. I kicked the plug-in heater clear across the room. Tommy laughed helplessly but continue to keep his head below the parapet. If it wasn’t nailed down, I threw it in his direction including his jar of Little Chip marmalade which smashed against the wall over his head leaving trails of orange jelly dribble down the wall.  Finally, out of ammunition, my final act of destruction was to kick the land-line phone clean off the wall. All that was left were two wires dangling uselessly where the phone used to be.    It helped that I was wearing my Doc Marten boots and when I’m in them, I am unstoppable. Tommy, sensing a lull in the firing, peered out from the pyramid of broken debris that had piled up around him.

“Wait ‘till I tell Mum about this!” he said wagging his finger at me.

I don’t give a fuck what you do,” I said, “nothing you do will ever upset me again, you prick." 

The next day morning, Tommy took photographs of the destruction to send home while I went to Formes book shop on Tottenham Court Road and bought my first self-help book.

As a wise friend once said, “Your family push your buttons because they put them there in the first place.”    Ram Dass said, “If you think you’ve reach enlightenment go spend a week with your family.”

So yeah, I’m dreading tonight. To keep it ruthlessly fair and emotion free, Son (20) has agreed, for a small fee, to sit with me – off camera – and keep a record of the scores.

I’ve just remembered Tommy has four daughters. Maybe I should share with them their father’s observation that, ‘All women are useless,’.…

Lockdown - Day 58 A-May-zing May

It's gearing up to be a beautiful day. Met Eireann forecast it to be the hottest day this year so far - 19 degrees.  Finally, the sun that Dublin has been hogging all week is being shared with Cork.  My Dublin-based 'friends', Liz, Deirdre and Jennifer had no sympathy with me when we 'WhatsApp-ed' on Wednesday as they bragged about sitting in their gardens for two hours in dazzling sunshine - I could see it through Deidre's kitchen window - while I huddled in bed in a hoodie with the lashing rain pounding on the window as my 'background'.  All is forgiven.  I'm awake since seven, I'm on my 3rd coffee and raring to go.

The garden is gagging for a cutting but Son (22) has asked me not to for the sake of the bees.  It seems bees are particularly partial to dandelions and right now our lawn is choked with them.  Maybe I could persuade him to shave a patch in the middle, just big enough for me sit in a chair with my hat, factor 50 and Ironman shades so I can listen to my book.  I'm making very poor progress with it.  I keep falling asleep but I've reached chapter 13 and Amy is making moves on her maths teacher.  That might keep me awake.  I have to avoid the sun but I don't have to go into hiding.  If I only had a massive apple tree to sit under like my mother does.  I'll have to make do with a towel.

The front page of the Irish Times this morning claims, 'New measures for reopening will see work places change beyond recognition.'  YES!  I look forward to reading that later.  The other front page news explains the government's decision to cancel the exams for the Leaving Cert and allocate college places based on 'predicted results' which is, I think, awful.  That puts a huge burden on the teachers and, what about those students who planned to cram at the last minute as I did for mine.  I wouldn't have passed anything only for last minute cramming.  The Times predicts legal actions from students who fail to get their desired college choices.

I'm all set to host the family quiz tomorrow night.  I down loaded Zoom on my laptop and paid for it.  I don't want to be cut off in the middle just as people are getting into the flow or use it as an excuse to bomb out.  I've put a lot of thought into the questions and they better damn well hang in there.   I tested it last night by setting up a meeting with my sister, Louise and it worked.  Louise loves quizzes as much as I do.  

"How many rounds have you?" she said. 
"Twelve," I replied smugly.  
"Ah, that's ok, I have four left over from last week if you run out."  
"Run out?!? I have four rounds of 'Who Am I?"
"Let me guess, one of them is Roy Keane?"
"Ok, I'll scratch that one but within the rounds, I have 33 questions in the 'Film Quotes' section, 30 on 'Who said this?" and no offence, but neither Abraham Lincoln or Mark Twain are in there."
"None taken." She yawned sleepily. "See you Sunday so."

I omitted to tell her about the final round, 'Which is the odd one out?' I have 22 questions on this and to 'make it interesting', the last six relate to my family.  It may end in tears.   This was Son's (20) suggestion but I declined to use his contributions.  The first of which is, 'Which one of the following is over 40 but not married yet?'  He sniggered.  

"Go away," I said, "if you're not going to take this seriously." 
He was on a roll however and offered, "Or your holiday destinations; Baltimore, Kilkee, Allihies or Lanzarote?"  "That's too obvious," I said, "Lanzarote is not in Ireland?"  "No," he replied, "Lanzarote is not a shit hole.  
"How would you know," I said, "you've never been there."     "Yeah," he replied hot, with indignation, "but I've been to Magaluff, and Kilkee doesn't compare to Magaluff."

I went for a walk yesterday during my lunch break with Hilary.  We met at the Centra on the Rochestown Road.  She told me the fat arse mile was too busy and so we walked 'the line' instead.  The line was clogged with cyclists.  Why didn't they stick to the roads, there's less chance of running into someone?   There was a security man at the beginning of the line no taller than me.  What was he going to do?  He smiled at us.  Maybe he's there to raise awareness on social distancing although with all the cyclists we were forced to move aside and stand less than a metre apart to avoid them.  I had completed an on-line change management course through work that morning with Reginald Friddle.  He talked about the 'Wheel Of Life and within each section he asked us to mark the sections; Career, Health, Family etc, and rate them out of 10.  Health for me rated two.    All the ice-cream, crisps, cider and chocolate I've consumed these past eight weeks are lodged in my bum.  The future looked bleak.  But then Reginald continued, if you could increase your current rate by one, make that your goal for today, what would that look like?  My mood instantly improved.  So, when Hilary rang just before lunch and asked if I wanted to go for a walk, I jumped at the chance.  She didn't see me at first.  With my ankle-length green skirt, pink runners with a hint of black, dark hat and glasses, I felt like a pervert.  We commented on the fabulous greenery; the sheer volume of growth in this past week alone is astonishing.  We couldn't identify them but several bushes with white blossoms gave off such an exquisite scent that it caused to stop us in our tracks and inhale deeply.  May has that effect on people.  The difference a little bit of sun makes to Ireland is breathtaking.  If it was like this all the time, I would never leave but then I remember, years ago, someone saying that if Ireland had decent weather all the time it would become like Spain i.e. dried out landscape with drunken tourists.  Instead we are wet with drunken natives.  I parked near the Cinnamon Cottage and had a hankering for a curly wurly cake but the queue was too long. 

Our tap water turned strange yesterday.  It comes out slightly dark and cloudy.  Rather than queue for bottled water in the shops, I'm boiling it for my coffee.   I asked Son (22) to check the Cork County Council's website.  He duly checked his laptop and reported that, "The council are doing a taste experiment; today it's lemon flavoured and tomorrow they'll be trying blackcurrant." Hubbie googled it.  Apparently the water 'has too much air in it'.  If you leave it stand and it clears from the bottom up, that's evidence that the water is ok.  I'll stick to boiled water for now.

Son (22) has just woken up.  "It's the hottest day of the year," he announced, "let's see if we can fry an egg on the car. I vote we use yours."   

Now for that garden.  I soaked nettles in a jug last week.  It should be putrid but extremely nutritious by now.  Where to pour this potent broth?  The possibilities are endless.  Whole pages are given over in the Irish Times today about what veg seeds to plant and profiles on butterflies.  I wonder are Lidl doing flat packed greenhouses again this year?  There'll be bronzed bodies and babies made out of this day yet.  Enjoy this rare beautiful day. I am certainly going to give it a fair crack.

Dead Fish

My stitches came out yesterday. My appointment was at 8.45am. I got there half an hour early. Usually the parking at the South Infirmary is brutal and expensive. I first tried the road outside but could not find a space. I chanced the hospital carpark. The barriers were up. I didn’t have to pay and there were plenty of spaces. 

After checking in with reception I made my way down the one-way system to the Outpatient clinic. The rows of fixed seating in the waiting room has been ripped up and replaced by a sprinkling of chairs. Where was everybody? Where are all the patients that usually throng waiting rooms? I just had enough time to watch a video on the origins of Covid-19 when I was called by the nurse. Using a tweezers she murmured approvingly as she eased back the bandages. Then using a blade with the tweezers she gently snipped and plucked out the blue stitching.  She then handed me a small hand mirror.  The scar is bigger than I expected.  It's over an inch long and runs east west across my cheek. The nurse reassured me that it would fade and over time would, “take on the colour of the rest of your face.”

When I got home, Hubbie came bustling into the hall to inspect the damage. He looked at my face and quickly drew back. “Wow, it’s big,” he said.  Then on closer inspection said, “It looks grand. It’s sealed well and it’s smooth. He did a good job.” I logged in for work.

My friend Margaret doesn’t have Wi-Fi at home and so bought a dongle for her computer. She accidentally racked up a huge phone bill and only realised this when she attempted to log in for work and found herself disconnected. She rang the phone company. She was told she had exceeded her data and, “By the way, do you realise your balance now stands at 700+ Euros.” I’m a customer of this company too and a few years ago, I accidentally ran up a huge bill. Despite pleadings they did not budge, and I had to pay. I didn’t hold out much hope.    Margaret appealed. Drawing on her years of customer service skills, she emailed and telephoned and kept a record of everyone she spoke to in customer service; the dates, times and their names.   When I rang her yesterday morning, she was making progress. The company had gone from giving her a 20% off as a ‘goodwill gesture’ to 70% off but only if she signed up for another package. Margaret refused these and planned to keep going.  She sounded upbeat.   

My friend Susie, who is a nurse and also has skin cancer, rang me on Wednesday evening.  We got on to the topic of surrender. Neither of us liked the word as it implied giving up and being weak. I told her about the time I was on holiday with my sister in her mobile home in Ventry. Tucked into the sand dunes bordering the beach, the mobile home had no electricity and at night it was utterly black. Joe, then eight months old, woke up for a feed. The blackness was so dense, I couldn’t see him and so I guided my way towards him by his crying. As I lay in the pitch black feeding my son, the complete darkness unnerved me. I sensed the devil tapping me on the shoulder saying, “I can take you away from all of this.” In my terror, I prayed saying, “I can’t fight this God. I surrender.” In that minute, an incredible peace settled over me and I wasn’t afraid anymore. From that moment on, everything just seemed to flow. I stopped complaining about the rain, the inconvenience of the mobile home and the swarms of locust like children tormenting us to be fed. Just saying the words, and meaning it, seemed to flip the filter in my mind from bleak to mellow.

Speaking of flow, I am the quiz master for the family Zoom meeting this week and have to come up with original but witty questions by Sunday. I love quotes but had to dig deep to go beyond the usual stock of Abraham Lincoln/Mark Twain and Marilyn Monroe. Son (20) introduced me to Homer Simpson – an absolute goldmine of wisdom - “Trying is the first step to failure,” and “Operator, give me the number for 911,” – and my favourite Cork man, Roy Keane who said, “People tell me, 'go with the flow.'  You know what goes with the flow? Dead fish.”

Yesterday evening, just as I was heading to bed, Margaret sent me a text; the phone company agreed to waive the entire fee. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet, but I’m astonished and intrigued. How did she do it? Did she surrender or go with the flow? Whatever she did, she did not back down.  She persevered in the face of the seemingly impossible.  She did not play the dead fish. Roy would approve.

Email to Nora - July 2009

On 17 Jul 2009 02:15, Geraldine Blake <geraldine.blake@gmail.com> wrote:

Hiya Nora,

Thanks for your text.  Sorry I didn't reply but I don't have credit and Vodafone don't cover New Zealand.  Are you sure about the Douglas Post going bust?  I hope it hasn't.  I'm quite fond of it but it might explain why I haven't heard anything from them in a while despite the fact that I'm sending stuff every week.

London was great.  Much more interesting than I expected.  We found a hotel on Priceline.com for 60 quid a night off High Street Ken.  The hotel is naff, but the location was superb.  Again, fabulous weather.  The first morning we decided to do a little fitness and walked down the high street drooling at all the shops, then veered into Kensington Gardens which merges into Hyde Park.  We found ourselves on Hyde Park corner and I very cheekily asked a lovely copper whether there was anything to do around here.  He airily replied that it happened to be the Queen's birthday and if waited a minute or two I would hear the 41-gun salute.  I wouldn't normally cross the road for that sort of thing but sure enough we were surrounded by rows of horses pulling heavy artillery with soldiers in full colours.  The noise of the guns, the whiff of dung and the sheer spectacle was intoxicating.  The first gun nearly gave me a heart attack and set off several small children and babies.  The fly over of military jets was exhilarating. 

Neil wants to go into every Hard Rock cafe of every country we visit.  When we lived here, the Hard Rock cafe used to have queues at least 30 feet long so I had no real appetite for it, but the lustre must have worn off since because we had no problem getting in.   They were celebrating their 30th birthday and who should come in as we were leaving but Robbie Coltrane who plays Hagrid in Harry Potter.  He walks just like Hagrid too.  The waitress was super bubbly and she introduced us to Bernie from Dublin who was one of the original waitresses when they opened in 1979.  Bernie is now 70 and travels the world as their ambassador. 

We went up to Lords cricket ground to cheer on Ireland against Sri Lanka but since the match was the warmup to England v India, there wasn't a hope of getting in. 

Singapore was lovely but dull.  One week was far too long.  Because of swine flu, the schools closed early and most of our friends were heading home.  We managed to catch most of them in the first three days.  The jet lag kills me.  Whether I fight it or succumb I am robotic for a week.  But I battled on drinking jugs of coffee and then taking Melatonin at night.   One friend, I met up with had just lost his job.  The recession is affecting everyone and if even if you do live in paradise, discontent nibbles at your toes too.  Three days in paradise was more than enough.  Neil would love to move back there, and we had several discussions bordering on fights as to the merits of living there.  I think it's unnatural to live in such a bland, antiseptic place.  He argues what's wrong in living in a crime free country.  Several of our friends’ children attend university in Australia or England having had their entire education in Singapore and they get mugged.  This is because they are brought up without street awareness and are not equipped with the body language and antennae needed to fend off would be beasties. 

Hong Kong was fantastic.  There is a certain serendipity to the place: my mobile doesn't work there (Vodafone don't have coverage there) but you still manage to bump into people, who tell you where the other people are and next thing you've met everyone.  Via Facebook,  we tracked down two of Conor's friends, but we could not find Colin who was Conor's absolute best friend but has the most shocking attitude problem.  When he was five years old his surliness was cute, but now that he’s 12, it's worrying.  In order to absorb the complete HK experience, we travelled as much as possible in the rattle trams that shuttle East to West all day long.  20 cents a ride it's the best value for money.    We were on the tram and coming down the stairs for our stop when Colin's mother, who was downstairs and was also disembarking, recognised Conor.  Colin and Conor were reunited for one afternoon and my little Buddha was happy again.  Joe (9) has sleepovers, Tom is 15 and independent, Conor at 11 is caught in the middle. Hong Kong was hot and very rainy.  It's their rainy season but I love the rain there: it's so dramatic.  We got caught in several downpours and lived through a typhoon warning.  Lots of wind and lightning. 

On Sunday we went to Ocean Park which is HK's answer to Disney land.  No one in their right mind goes to Ocean Park on a Sunday but we were tourists and so weren't thinking!!  It was packed with mainland Chinese which HK’ers are determined to distinguish from their sophisticated non-crime committing selves.  It poured rain and every ride had 40-minute queues, but it must be a measure as to how mellow we are becoming.  We, or certainly I, surrendered to that over which we have no control and we had a great afternoon.

We stayed in a family room clearly meant for mice.  I thought I would explode with cabin fever.  Neil said to stop complaining.  I told him I was merely expressing my feelings! The feeling passed and the benefits came through.  The room consisted of two queen sized beds jammed together with barely tip toeing room to get around.  Since Joe was so popular with all his sleepovers that gave us less bodies to step over.  One night the boys stole our pillows, so we stole their duvet and all hell broke out.  The rooms must be very well insulated: we've had no complaints.  My sons are little bastards when they gang up on me which happens a lot.  They wouldn't dare do it Neil, but I seem to say things that set them off.  In the crush of bodies, the little gangsters pinch, tickle and pull hair and I've no idea where it's coming from.  Tempers deteriorate very rapidly.  If I pinch, I'm a terrible mummy.  If they pinch, I have no sense of humour.  Tom has snapped out of his grumpy-passive-aggressive-I'm-a-teenager mode and is exposing his sunny side.  I still don't know what he says though.  Joe is a showman who just loves this undiluted attention from his family.  Conor fluctuates between black moods to debonair wit.  A week was enough for me.  The boys could have had more.  I love the moodiness of Hong Kong.  At this time of year, the clouds hang low over the mountains, the humidity and the rain make for quite a sensual atmosphere.  Our last day was bright and clear.  At the airport I told the boys to say goodbye as I doubted, we would be this way again.  They got upset. Thoughtless me.  I told them when they're adults they could come back independently.  That didn't console them.  They either like me or they expect me to fund them....

We got into Sydney at 7am.  The immigration lady told us it had been raining for a month and it was 6 degrees.  My heart sank.  We left behind a heatwave in Cork only to arrive into winter down under.  But we got lucky.  By the time we emerged from the terminal building, it was clearly gearing up for a bright day, but it was definitely cold.  Thank God for my Aran cardigan.  I may look like a yankee tourist in Killarney, but it is my new best friend in Sydney.  We couldn't check into our room in the Holiday Inn in Darling Harbour, so we dumped our bags and walked through rush hour traffic, through the parks down to the opera house and Circular Quay.  The air is so bright and clear here, it's like it went through the spin cycle and an Ariel wash the night before.  The harbour just sparkles.  It's busy and lived in and still manages to be clean.  When I was 21, I was hungry to get to New York.  If I had my time over, I would head south instead.  Sydney is friendly and as casual as any small town but with all the big city benefits.  It is staggeringly expensive though.  Everything costs as much as if you were in Ireland. 

We have been in New Zealand since last Saturday. We hired a camper van from Auckland. Talk about bloody winter.  What retards go from their summer to someone else's winter????   I can't complain as it was my suggestion to come down here since we were in the region.

We got to the airport in Sydney super early which was just as well because the flight was leaving at 9.30 am and not at 11.30 am as we were told by the travel agent. The check-in clerk clearly hated us: after reading our forward schedule he commented "It must be nice to have loads of money" and seemed more inclined to bump us off the flight.  But his supervisor kicked in and made sure we got there with minutes to spare.  

We got into Auckland at 2.30pm but by the time we got possession of the camper van and got going on the road, it was almost dark.  After several wrong turns and some tense periods - Neil was driving and I'm a terrible back seat driver - we eventually found the caravan park.  The rain yammered down all night and the caravan swayed in the wind.  By morning, the rain had slowed down to a steady drizzle and we heard on the radio that we had just survived a storm with 240 km winds.  It was a relief that this wasn't normal winter weather.  In fact, it hasn't rained since and while it is cold, it's very manageable.  I bought my first beanie hat yesterday and now I understand why everyone wears them.

People are incredibly nice and friendly.  They are very keen to chat and when you make an enquiry, they not only answer the question but volunteer more stuff too and the next thing you are having a conversation.  It's lovely.  Last night we went to a hotel to have dinner and watch a Maori performance.  The women came into the audience looking for 'volunteers' and I was one of those picked.  I had three ciders, and this did nothing to enhance my performance.  I had one hand on hip and the other held out in gentle reflection as instructed but when I attempted to sway my hips in time to the music, Conor said I looked like a tea pot about to tip over.  We got chatting to this very nice couple from Auckland who were there with their young daughters.  I was saying that I thought possum wool was nicer than I expected and not at all like roadkill.  The dad told us that possums are hated here because they have no natural predators and therefore grow to four times the size of Australian ones and they destroy the vegetation.  When drivers see them on the road, they go out of their way to run them down.  He also told us that at their daughter's school fair, the principal herself had a stall – ‘How Fast Can You Skin a Possum?’ and ‘How Far Can You Throw One?’

On Sunday, the boys and Neil hired bikes and went mini golfing while I volunteered to stay behind and 'clean the caravan and do laundry'.  Joe loves golf but has no etiquette.  He insists on being the first to tee off but then marches off to find his ball before the rest of us are ready.  He has no qualms about having his head cracked open by a stray ball.   There is a park and playground behind the caravan park full of geothermal activity.  We are going to a living thermal village this afternoon, but we decided to look at these boiling pools of mud as well.  The boys can't comprehend that the heat of these pools comes from below the earth's crust.  Tom studied the earth's plates for his geography exam and this information makes him nervous.

Motor homes are big business here.  Last night the caravan park was full so it's good to know that we are not the only lunatics who go on holidays in winter.  We attempted to go 'Zorbing' yesterday, but it was too windy.  The boys are very keen to do as many challenging and dangerous things as possible.  We might try again this afternoon after the thermal village.  Neil and I are taking it in turns to drive the camper van.  I love driving so I'm a terrible passenger.  After the first night - Neil drove - I was in a shocking mood.  I drove yesterday after we stopped at the Ultimate Cafe for the most gorgeous coffee and divine brownies.  Driving a campervan is like driving a train and I love being so high up.     The engine is diesel which makes it very noisy and casual conversation is an effort.  You are bigger and wider than most other vehicles on the road and you have to take corners very carefully so no sudden moves.  It's like getting older really.   I think you can judge the patience of a country by how many times you are honked on the road and despite the engine cutting out several times while in mid traffic, not moving when we have the right of way and not being the fastest off at the traffic lights.   One lady was even kind enough to get out of her car, tap on our window and explain the right of way system at that particular junction so despite all those gaffes not once has anyone beeped us and for that we are grateful.

Today is Friday.  Sorry I started this on Wednesday (you are a day behind us - no offence!) and I can only do it in Internet cafes. It's not as cold as it was or maybe I'm surrendering to the inevitable and not being so uptight.  Joe is angry with me all the time.  He reminds me of how I am with my mother so that's scary and needs to be nipped in the bud.  Last night, Neil told me, after much probing from me, that I was bossy.  So, is he!! dammit?  Anyway, I took the insight on board and deliberately chilled and the effects were astonishing.  The boys were friendlier to me and Neil relaxed.  Joe still keeps screaming 'Child Abuse' at every opportunity so I am going to have to take him down to the police station when we get home and hand him over.  I'm only half kidding.  If he keeps that racket up, I'll withdraw basketball classes, daily ice creams, round the world trips and such like..........

We went to see the new Harry Potter film last night.  It's on every hour, but we could only get the 9pm show and that's with advance booking.  It's different from the previous in that it is funnier and less death threatening.  The boys loved it and Ron Weasley being lovesick was amusing.

We drove from Rotorua to Napier on the east coast of New Zealand two days ago.  Neil lost his glasses, so I did most of the driving.  With the driving rain, fog and at night-time in a country I don't know, I was as tense as a cat when we finally got there after four hours of driving.  The next morning dawned bright and beautiful.  Only then did I read the guidebook on Napier.  It gets more sunshine than any other part of the country and thus it's the wine growing region.  Duh!  My kind of city.  My reason for wanting to go there, I read that it had an earthquake in 1931 and the entire city was rebuilt in Art Deco style which I thought was pretty cool.  At 9 am I set off - alone - for the city tour.  The guide was a retired gent named Brian who was a gentle soul and I was accompanied by three others, one Scot, one native and one wee lassie from California who was surprisingly shy.  The city is full on symbolism which I would have completely missed only that it was pointed out to me.  I walked back to the camp site - it took an hour - but I needed the exercise and a break from the men in my life.  When I got back, they were very happy - for a change - to see me: they wanted to head back to Rotorua.  I agreed.  We arrived back in Rotorua two nights ago and yesterday morning the boys went Zorbing.  You are put inside a giant inflatable ball quarter filled with water and pushed down a hill.  The boys loved it.  At the end they pop out again with a whoosh of warm water.  It’s like being born really.  The boys didn't appreciate the analogy.  There was a teenage French girl with a fabulous figure doing it, she got a lot of attention from everyone!  Then the boys and Neil went Sweebing which is cycling on your back in a plastic bubble suspended from a monorail.  Conor went 'swooping' which is like bungee jumping only you are harnessed in a body sack and are upright.  It’s utterly mad but he's our adrenalin junkie.  He begged to go on the bungee, but I said he could take his life in his own hands when he's 18.  Neil, the-uber cautious upped the thresh hold to 21.  I went for a coffee and a browse in the knit wear shop while they boys went paragliding.  All these activities cost an absolute fortune, but Neil is indulging them since this is what New Zealand is famous for.  This morning they have gone mountain biking again.  We did it in our first stint last Monday.  I went too.  It was the second day of my periods, so I surprised myself: I'm a real ball of misery during those tender days.  I don't mind plunging down hills on a fast bike, but I get nervous doing it in between trees.  I'm afraid I'm going to go over the top and lose my teeth.  Besides my arse is still aching from the last time. When we did the baby route, I tried to avoid a particularly muddy rut in the path and ended ploughing into a bunch of ferns but at least I missed the tree.  Tom laughed his ass off.  I now know why the fern is the symbol of New Zealand; it grows rampantly everywhere. 

We drive back to Auckland today.  On the way we're visiting Hobbiton to see where the opening scenes of Lord of the Rings was filmed. Tomorrow we're going to Eden Park to watch the Aussie v All Blacks match.  Neil wants to support the All Blacks and annoy the Aussies.   Munster is really well known here.  Loads of men have commented on Tom's Munster top which is a real compliment since they take their rugby seriously here.  I bet they never heard of Leinster rugby.

New Zealanders wear a lot of black too.  I thought only Cork office workers wore so much black.  It explains the name of their rugby team, they really like that colour.  Of course, it is their winter but honest to God, everybody wears black.

Must go now and meet my family.  I'm a nice mummy.  They should be well muddy and sore after the biking.  Neil still hasn't found his glasses, so I'll be driving.  I love the power.  Call me bossy now!

Keep sending me texts or emails.  I try and check the emails at least every second day.

Your pal down under

Geraldine