I scoffed and poo-pooed (did I mention deposits of soft brown nuggets) at one of the friends in Thame when she mentioned puppy school for her dog. I threw my head back and laughed heartily...Ah Jaysus, yer not serious! Now I see the merits of outsourcing same, especially if you’re sure of your breed of dog. But for our bundle of joy its heritage is questionable. A doggy Who Do You Think You Are would have its work well cut out on our fella. Surprise! It’s a half terrier half donkey. Now, there is allegedly a look of a Spaniel to Monster, so I’ve been told by those more up to speed on canine physiology. He'll be a challenge for the tofts at Crufts this year. He's our little Monster, and we're mad about him.
Things he likes...socks, feet, clothes pegs, piddling, runners, the sweeping brush, whaling and whining like a Banshee, lying in the sun, piddling everywhere OTHER than on requisite scattered newspaper, leaving squishy smelly quelque chose under the kitchen table, dried up pigs ears, the radio, the dishwasher, the belt from The Middle’s dressing gown, chewing rugs, chewing the kitchen chairs, dandelions, daisies, chewing (did I say that already?), piddling (did I say that already?), licking my toes, stones, dust. Yes, his name is Monster, the new addition/nuisance to the household. Why, oh why in the name of all that’s good and holy, did I agree to it? The kids had us plagued so we acquiesced. Presently eau de wet dog wafts up from the floor where he assumes his position, throwin out the zzzzs on top of my feet. An old t-shirt of mine is now his blankie. Bowlby’s psychology attachment theory is certainly true for dogs, cause this little monster won’t leave my side. I keep standing on him, hitting him on the head with the dishwasher door, forgetting he is there. He never forgets though, whines when I leave his side. Now there's one for Dragons Den, puppy soothers. The Middle is great with him, The Youngest gets upset when he disturbs her beauty sleep and The Small Man will rub his belly in between Euro matches. The house has gone to rack and ruin with our four legged adoptee. It’s all that I have been warned, like having a baby in the house again. I was more nervous bringing the dog home than I was leaving the Coombe in Dublin nearly 13 years ago with our Small Man. I didn’t have a dog as a young wan growing up, there was no space. Thus my canine schema is nil, nada, I haven’t the foggiest. I do recollect the dogs being a tad looper on our road, they wouldn’t know what a leash looked like, don’t mind a pooper scooper. Footballs lobbed into gardens of cranky old dears with cantankerous dogs were dinner. Tennis balls during games of Rounders were made short work of when the mutts got hold of them. There was forever a chorus of mothers roarin at the kids to mind the dog shite on the green area supposedly allocated for children to play in.
I scoffed and poo-pooed (did I mention deposits of soft brown nuggets) at one of the friends in Thame when she mentioned puppy school for her dog. I threw my head back and laughed heartily...Ah Jaysus, yer not serious! Now I see the merits of outsourcing same, especially if you’re sure of your breed of dog. But for our bundle of joy its heritage is questionable. A doggy Who Do You Think You Are would have its work well cut out on our fella. Surprise! It’s a half terrier half donkey. Now, there is allegedly a look of a Spaniel to Monster, so I’ve been told by those more up to speed on canine physiology. He'll be a challenge for the tofts at Crufts this year. He's our little Monster, and we're mad about him.
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For one weekend I pretended I had a life. A couple of weeks ago, I flew on the green plane, all by my own self, uninterrupted by any of them doing gymnastics under the seats looking for a lost pencil or hounding me for overpriced trolley snacks. I read and slept and before I knew it I was in Heathrow. I was gratefully picked up by a friend and driven right into the heart of London. What a treat. Along the Thames we went, to the South Bank where a Cockney block on a bike told us where to park. All in leathers, his wheels were savage and in my head I was sayin’ Room on yo’ Dick Van Dyke for one mo’ love, eh?. We loitered underneath Waterloo Bridge late in the afternoon and nursed some nice wine in front of the BFI, and people watched the trendy whilst waiting for the rest of the ladies to make their way. Now I was amazed that they let any of us in given that none of us had the following; an acute fringe, pink hair, prodigious piercings, humungous glasses. The buzz on a Friday evening in that part of London is refreshing and we chatted and giggled our way through a titeann of Prosecco accompanied by scampi and chips. Juno and The Paycock in the National Theatre awaited, and we took our seats for the performance, not a fringe in sight. That was Friday night. On Saturday evening, the women got together again, played a few chords, sang a couple of tunes, more wine with more craic.
Upon return and when humdrum kicked in I thought of Juno and her Paycock. Around the same time I heard the tale of Melusine. Juno could have taken a leaf out of her book. The supernatural lady didn’t tolerate any messin’ from her other half. This ‘spinning yarn’ is one of many tales women used to tell each other whilst, yes you’ve guessed, spinning. Come to think of it, that’s where the saying ‘spinning a yarn’ may originate. Anyhow, I digress. Melusine (of the fairy folk), legend has it, was a triplet, daughter of Pressyne. Pressyne put a curse on her, for bad behaviour towards her father, the King of Albania, and this curse could only be lifted if she married a not so curious knight. So, one day in the forest of Coulombiers, Raymond of Poitiers was out hunting boar, as you do, when didn’t he go and accidentally kill his uncle with an arrow, mistaking him for a boar rustling in the bushes. Could easily happen. So poor aul’ Raymond of Poitiers was all in a heap, gone wrong with guilt and remorse, when on his way to confess to sending his uncle to an early grave, he got distracted (as a young lad would) by three fairy maidens. Melusine, hangin out with her sisters, coiffing her hair by her magic fountain, lured Raymond over and he all mithered. Melusine puts down the GHD and says ‘You’ll be alright luveen. Tell ya what now Raymond, marry me and I’ll sort out your conscience forever. You’ll be sound’, followed possibly by an evil guttural guffaw. But, there was a catch, as often the case between the mystical and the mortal. He was never to enter her boudoir of a Saturday night. What he didn’t know is that this woman wasn’t just all woman. The curse had bedecked her with added extras, namely a set of wings and a scaly fishy dragony tail. How yer man didn’t see the wings stickin up out of her frock or the tail below the hem, I don’t know. So, off they went, had the beef and salmon and the flash mob first dance and the years rolled on. They dabbled in property development, well, she did, building castles, churches and fortresses here, there and everywhere, cause yer man hadn’t a bob. She had ten sons by him, but God help us, none of the gasúns were knittin with the two needles. One poor divil had a lion’s claw on the side of his face, the other lad one red and one blue eye, the most wicked had an gargantuan tooth protruding from his mouth. I’m sure the health service in the 1300s was in disarray then too. Anyhow, back at the castle Raymond pondered inquisitively the physicality of his sons, the whys and wherefores. His jealous brother put thoughts into his head as to why she shut herself away each Saturday night? Why she didn’t want to partake with him of a bottle of red and a packet of Kettles in front of whatever scour was on the telly? Curiousity got the better of him, despite his promise. He decided to sneak a peak through the keyhole and lo and behold there she was, tail hangin out over the side of the bath. She shrieked, shook off her wings, flew out the window, putting a curse on the castles and fortresses she had built whilst taking half the roof tops with her. She was never seen again, left him with ten young lads. Her wailing can be heard as she haunts the Vendee. So, embrace the boudoir. Creams, powders, lotions and scrubs do as you will. And wo betide the mortals who disturb the peeling, preening and plucking, or we’ll be out the gap, take the hinges with us. We’re taking back Saturday nights by order of Melusine. My week was made, nay my month was made, perhaps even my year. A mundane trip to Tesco for the usual same ole same ole saw me meet one of my favourite writers. And yes I did follow him into the fruit n veg and interrupt him choosing a watermelon. I am a fan, a massive fan of Ken Bruen for many years. I fly the flag for his books wherever I go and to whoever I meet. The Galway man, the godfather of Irish crime fiction, is highly revered, particularly in the US. This white haired debonair prolific writer, who created the inveterate Jack Taylor character, writes pacy, gripping stories sprinkled with quotes from Yeats and Nietzsche. Well, they would be, Jack Taylor is a hard drinkin’, literature lovin’, throw-the-rule-book-out-the-window ex-Garda, with a nose for trouble. So, there I was, face on me like a chewed toffee pushin my wonky trolley, laden with washing powder and Cheerios, the three knockin lumps out of each other, when Himself gasps ‘There’s Ken Bruen!’. Sure enough, there he was in a black coat, lap top bag on shoulder, white hair unmistakeable, heading into the shop.
I didn’t want to approach him initially, thought it a bit naff but feck it, knew I’d regret it if I didn’t. Hesitantly I walked towards him, perhaps he would get all narky if I interrupted him doin his messages. I apologised for intruding on his shopping and said ‘It’s Ken Bruen...isn’t it?’. I think that’s what I said, to be honest, it sounded gobbledegook to me. I may have said ‘I’m your number one fan...you Dirty Bird’ but really hope I didn’t. I continued to tell him I had all his books, was looking forward to the new one (Headstone) and enquired as to when it was available in Ireland. He shook my hand, held my upper arm with his other hand and said ‘D’ya know, you’ve really made my day’. We chatted about the new book, said he wasn’t too sure about it but that it had got rave reviews in the US. I told him that I, like he, was also a lover of the metaphysical poets (which is true...ya I know, tis far I was reared and all that). I looked at his warm face and held his cold hand (it was freezing). He asked my name, I told him, and he said again, ‘You made my day, I’m delighted you came up to me’. I bet he says that to all the girls. He was most friendly and ever so charming. Off he went into the dairy section I think. I didn’t follow him around the aisles, my fake moustache kept coming unstuck. I could have asked for a lock of his hair, might have freaked him out a bit. I could have asked was he free for a pint and bribed Himself and the three to belt off away somewhere, anywhere. I should have asked for his autograph but did not. I felt he had been more than generous with his time. I walked back to the crew and wondered what was on his laptop, what he was working on at the moment. Off then to Charlie Byrne’s with us, a spring in our step to seek out the latest book, but lo and behold Vinny informed us it was sold out. I recounted my tale to Vinny who said Ken had told him that Headstone, the ninth in the series, was to be the last Jack Taylor book. Shock. But given that he had not read it himself, he couldn’t say definitively if this was the case. So, I now await my order. If it is the last of Jack Taylor, am I going to have to entice him over and cajole him to write another, a la Cathy Bates Misery. ‘How ya goin’ on Ken, luveen. See, God came to me last night Ken and told me the purpose of you being here. I’m going to help you write a new book...Mr. MAN!’ He’d have to make do with whatever paper SuperValu had but no, I couldn’t break his knees. That job would have to be outsourced. This Valentine’s Day I was Billy-No-Mates. And it’s not the first time nor will it be the last, me thinks. Ya, ya, I know, that’s the sound of the smallest violin in the world. Such is life with an absentee other half. Ditto for Himself trasna an uisce or so he tells me. We never liked the overpriced restaurants with tables of couples forcing themselves to look all romantic as the waiting staff fire out the tiramisus. My amorous evening consisted of homework, three parent teacher meetings, dinner and counselling one of the many pre-teen meltdowns that are a regular occurrence at present (damn thee to hell hormones!). So any sniff of calmness and a dinner they all like, is a bonus really and if I get both on the same night, well, I’m made.
A trip earlier in the day to my folks saw Nana snipping the ends of a nice bunch of flowers followed by an attempt to squeeze them in to a vase far too small. ‘You got flowers I see. I’m still waiting on my bunch. I’d say the delivery man got lost, they always miss the turn’ , says I, tongue firmly in cheek. ‘They’re only Dunnes, ya know’ she retorts, as if it made a difference. Meanwhile Grandad pipes up ‘Sure don’t they all come off that truck from Holland. I do see it parked up around the place’ as if all the cut flowers in Ireland come from the one lorry. ‘And chocolates?’ I gasp at the large box of Milk Tray on the table. Now this lady doesn’t love Milk Tray (although I am partial to the orangey ones). My mind wanders, the imagination let loose. Maybe my man Denzel Washington will be waiting when I get home, looking all beardy and brave, a surprise Valentine visit, clutching a dozen red roses to his chest. ‘Are ya right? Get your gear. I’d like ya to come with me’ he’d say, or something to that effect. The words wouldn’t really matter that much. ‘Kids, I’m away off with Denzel. Don’t wait up and don’t forget to plug out the telly. Tell your father if he rings, I’m gone for a spin with Denzel. He’ll understand’. I am shook from my surrealist day dream. ‘Do ya want white or black pudding with that?’, asks Grandad. ‘And you’re cooking her lunch too?’ I tease. He pulled out all the stops. Forever the romantic. The bunch of daffodils, picked by The Middle, with a tender loving tug from the garden (and the neighbour’s garden), were my Valentine blossoms. The Youngest reckons it’s a crime against humanity that I did not get to celebrate Valentines, that I was hard done by. God help us when she gets older, she’ll be away off with the first spotty young fella who shows her any bit of interest. With the blather of all things lovey dovey I pondered the origins of Valentine. Sources say he was one of the martyred saints of Rome. Valentinus wasn’t feeling the love of Emperor Claudius, when he attempted to convert him to Christianity and subsequently sent the heavies after him. Poor aul Saint Valentine was found marrying Christian couples on the sly, and worst of all gave the two fingers to the Emperor by refusing to give up his faith. Claudius ordered him to be clubbed, stoned and beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate in Rome around 269 AD. He was prolific, a busy man, and is now patron saint of love, lovers, plague, bee keepers, epilepsy, fainting, greetings, happy marriages (wonder could he banish negative equity?) and young people. He is represented by birds (of the plumage variety) and roses (not of the Cadburys kind). So, was his last meal not just an ordinary meal, but an M&S Valentines meal, with the squidgy chocolate dessert and sparkly quelque chose? Did he receive any anonymous cards adorned with requisite teddy and hearts? And guess where his alleged relics were placed following exhumation from the catacombs in Italy ? Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin no less. Thus on any given 14th February all the bee keeping epileptic lovers can be found fainting from flagellation at the foot of his casket. At least they’re in the right spot. The tree is up, bedazzled and bedraggled with all class of crepe paper and glitter brought home from school over the years. Our grunge angel sits crooked but proud on top. She’s nearing legal drinking age now, that old. The decorations are nearing the summit, a couple of inches on last year. The Small Man will always be our Small Man, but I will be raising my eyes to him soon. There is no other more physical and tangible in your face way of time passing than watching the children get taller. The puddings are set like a decent bit of concrete and the mince pies were made with tender loving effin and blindin. I can honestly say that any of those cooks from Rochel-confused-with-her-vowels-Allen to Nigella-Himself-wipes-drool-from-chin-Lawson are gritting their teeth behind those nonchalant smiles whilst spooning mincemeat into little pastry cases. Time consuming and tedious, a pain in the arse to make but worth it, Christmas wouldn’t be the same without them. I was industrious this year and also made my own mincemeat. Not half bad either.
Yer head would be mithered what with all the Christmas cookery programmes on the box. Even though I use the same Christmas recipes year in year out I’m a sucker for them and not ashamed to admit it either. And let’s be honest, half the time we’re salivating at the trendy kitchens and big red food mixers more so than the culinary delights. Take for example, the goddess herself, Nigella. She’s throwin a late night suppa party for friends (it would appear she has quite a few). She talks of the ‘waumth’ of cinnamon, the ‘shaupness’ of lime and the jewels of a pomegranate. I didn’t know what a pomegranate was until I got a part-time job as a teen in Quinnsworth. Soooo exotic to a young wan from Westside. And the way she annunciates thhhhick when the camera pans in closely to her, she works it. But check out the white book shelves adorned with hard backs and drapped in fairy lights. What about that wonderful staircase and elegant hallway of her London townhouse. House envy at its best. And as for that pantry, well, in fairness, you wouldn’t see it in L’Ecrivain. How many does she be feedin on a regular basis? It’s like a mini McCambridges off her kitchen. She had a bit of left over ostrich in her fridge in one episode (I know, I mean, what does one do?). Herself and Billy Connolly should get together, she’d know for sure what to do with his leftover venison. Now what she really needs is a trip down to Hugh Fearnely-Gearnely-Whearnely-Whittingstall’s River Cottage. Everything is sourced and prepared with steadfast intensity and infuriating puns. She could share tips on how to seductively eyeball the camera. He could advise on the meatiest road kill. He’d show her what’s what with an ostrich and tut-tut about the outrageous idea of leftovers given that he endeavours to utilise every piece of whatever has been killed for consumption. He’s a mighty man for foraging too. Nettles, briars, mushrooms, dock leaves and belly busters, boiled and bruised, bish bash bosh (oh that’s the other lad, Jamie...told ya I liked cookery programmes!) and voile...a hearty soup. There are all manner of berries and nettles down my laneway which I’m assured can be used for tinctures and tonics. If it can be demonstrated that such vegetation combined has the elusive effects of ayahuasca, then I’m game ball. Otherwise, I’ll just stick to blackberries. As for the turkey and ham there are a thousand and one ways to stuff and glaze same. If I try anything new there will be cries of dissent. I am Billy-No-Mates in this house when it comes to mushy peas and Brussel sprouts on Christmas Day. I have tried every which way to jazz the sprouts up but to no avail. No amount of accessories like maple syrup, bacon or chestnuts will convert, they’re still sprouts. Don’t care, I will be Billy and enjoy the little green gems on the day. Not a hope for the mushy pea. Ah well, more for me. Nollaig Shona. The machinations of my head over the past few days are much ado about feminism. I refer in the main to the opinions of two journalists namely Emer O’Kelly and Caitlin Moran. I partially watched RTE’s programme ‘Now it’s Personal’ featuring The Irish Independent’s Emer O’Kelly. I hadn’t clapped eyes on the woman since she did the news, back in the day, so whilst flicking I watched with interest. Apparently, the journalist wrote an article about women, and claimed those who give up their careers after having children are a drain on society. She’s entitled to her views. We all are, free speech and all that. She appeared on the programme in an effort to explain her principles. Given that she does not have children, any form of empathy with mothers working inside, outside, on top of or underneath the home was never on the agenda. This lady was not for turning, from the get go, on her attitude toward those who choose to stay at home. As for the baby simulator thingy, this took the biscuit. It was, after all, distracting her from her fireside embroidery and best placed in her utility room. We, the tax payers, paid for this clap trap feeble effort at any real exploration of what is such an important topic. For those of you who suffered through O’Kelly’s supercilious condescending performance I’ll rant no more. Suffice to say, women, work and childcare will forever be a heated debate but not one we can afford to shy away from. Clearly, there are many variables to contend with; emotional, social, physical, financial, family dynamics, educational, geographical and the rest. We all know the difficulties and constraints there can be for both parents to have a fulfilling career whilst trying their damndest not to f...k the kids up too much. For those who cannot choose, the big fluffy elephant in the room is money. For those who step down off the career ladder the women ahead of them pull the ladder right back up again. It’s a risky business for sure. I couldn’t help but wonder why not make a programme more befitting to our present times, on stay at home dads given that roles are changing increasingly, or what about carers, who are predominantly women. Are they also a drain on society as they care for the aged who helped create our society? Whilst Emer O’Kelly claims to be feministic in her views, Caitlin Moran in her book How to be a Woman calls on all the mná in the hood to stand on our well worn kitchen chairs and shout ‘I AM A FEMINIST’ (she likes the aul block capitals). The book has been reviewed and talked about by those far more learned than I. Agree with Moran or not, this is an in your face, honest and funny exploration and account of feminism as she sees it, one that should be read by men and women alike. She calls a spade a spade or in her case, her c...t a foof. Now, I don’t live in North London, have a successful journalistic career nor am I married to a rock critic (though when it comes to Bruce, Himself thinks he is). When it comes to feminist ideologies I’m not well read and our circumstances and lifestyles differ but I share her views on certain matters; heels, handbags, capsule wardrobes and children. The former I don’t understand or have, the latter I have, should understand, but mostly I don’t. She can take particular topics for granted. For example, that you have your career sorted by the time you are 35. Not I. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up (hence the lack of a capsule wardrobe) and I know of many other women, and men, who are in the same boat. Does this lessen our value to feminist culture? Should we promptly jump down from our chairs if we do not have careers under our belts? With Caitlin Moran it’s a given that you keep your career after you have children. It would be, in her case, as such a career lends itself to flexibility for her and her husband. She does not pass comment on those who are a drain on society. She commendably just wants us all to be ‘The Guys’. So, to stoke up the feminist fire why not put these two ladies in a room together, over a pot of tay and a few buns (no...not fairy cakes, buns). Each woman is articulate, intelligent, learned and opinionated in their own way. They can thus discuss the real issues like waxing, botox, hairstyles and handbags and accordingly put the world to rights. |
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