lamented its passing back in June 2014. Soooo last year, guys. Lunch was superb, the boy Jamie might even have cheered on from his foody heights as I savoured my quinoa salad with all the pomegranate jewels, seeds and tasty greens. At least I didn’t get lunch served in a welly or on an ironing board as has been gastronomically à la mode recently. That’s great, guys, I’ll have that old style on a plate, thanks. When next I darken its door I will sport one said Hipster by the neck, drag it to the counter and inform management Pythonesque that ‘E’s not pinin’ for the fjords! E’s passed on! He has ceased to be! E’s expired…’is metabolic processes are now ‘istory! ‘E’s off the twig! ‘E’s kicked the bucket, ‘e’s shuffled off ‘is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible! I recently went to a local quirky eater for lunch. You know it; white washed uneven walls adorned with mediocre badly framed photos of austere 1960s bathing shelters, chipped enamel milk jugs with indigenous fresh flowers? That’s the one. The food was great, up to its usual standard so not an issue there. Alas, I came out of the place with a form of tinnitus, the word ‘guys’ ringing in my ears. Ok guys, what can I get you?, Everything ok for you guys? Thanks guys, have a great day! Well hey, guys, that drives me spare. Enough I say. Not only that, and this really wrecked my buzz, the majority of the waiting staff were bearded, pierced and inked to the last. I have no problem with tats, rings or indeed beards. In fact I’m married to a beard who, much to my horror, ordered a flat white (slippery regressive slope there, just saying). When it opened first this eatery prided itself on being the ‘Other’ to the rest of Galway restaurants i.e. hip, trendy, vintagey cottagey, artisanal (oh I don’t know, I’m not an interior decorator) as opposed to the GBC with stainless steel milk jugs, matching chairs and beans on toast. Not a thing wrong with that either, we were reared on it. But seriously, someone needs to pen a sharply worded letter and inform the powers that be of the demise of The Hipster. Indeed The Guardian the stalwart liberal voice on all things broguey, beardy and tweedy
0 Comments
According to Aristotle, never knew him but I’d say he was sound enough ‘it is the nature of desire not to be satisfied and most men live only for the gratification of it’. Well that’s comforting. Whatever floats your boat, where you get your kicks it’s horses for courses really. If pleasure is a tenuous thing, it will always be fleeting. Here’s the thing though, the great scientific minds of our insatiable world, in particular Dr Kent Berridge suggest intense pleasures are rare and less prolonged than intense desires. So unfortunately we are hardwired to be unappeasable, always wanting, doomed to never be satisfied. Again, consoling. Desire and pleasure are complex yokes, a mix of psychology and neuroscience driven by media and envy. The best-arse jeans, that perfect sized handbag, the coolest boots, the perfect relationship, content children, the pithiest comments, the best burger, the best holiday evvverrr – all will-o’-the-wisp. Fundamentally it’s the old reliable chemicals, based on a reward system, doing their thing in the brain – we look for what we think we need, endeavour to obtain it and if it brings us pleasure then we want more. Dopamine, the kingpin, the chemical honcho is at the eye of the pleasure/desire neuroscience storm. Take food, for example; when it comes to eating, sugar, fat or salt triggers the happy chemicals in the brain, in the dopamine pathways, resulting in a craving for more. For research and reference purposes try Boychicks doughnuts at the Saturday market in Galway and have all three; sugar, salt and fat together...OMG soooo good. Same for nicotine, blood nicotine levels low, brain signals craving, smoke a cigarette, brain releases dopamine, creating further pleasure, resulting in further cravings. Genius. So this push and pull of wanting and liking comes and goes like the tide.
Science is behind everything, this we know. There is psychology behind the whys and wherefores of listening to music. It too has an effect on the dopamine system. The big brains in the pleasure/desire research world have analysed music and suggest there may be a song with an exact balance of syncopation and length to satiate the pleasure of listening with the desire for more. The funk equivalent of a pint, in the snug, in Neachtains, on a Friday afternoon. ‘Good Old Music’ (1970) by Funkadelic is allegedly said song. Download it, listen to it, move to it, run or walk to it. Trust me, it’s a spotless, funky tune. What is also interesting, is that sometimes the anticipation of the pleasure is as powerful as the action – the pop of a wine cork, getting ready to go out, booking a holiday. If you’re lucky enough to be heading off to somewhere nice, as you stock up on flip flops & bikinis, shorts & maxis and all the accoutrement that you don’t wear, perish the thought, but could this be the best part of the holiday? The anticipation, the craving, the desire to go. Is this why when we come back we feel like we could do with another one, the pleasure unappeased, already thinking about next year. Or perhaps the weather was just shite and you were transformed into the Elephant Man by mutant mozzies. Next time will be better… Just keep them fed. Always buy bread, even if you don’t think you need it, buy it. Buy two loaves at a time. Such was the advice from the elders about raising teenagers. Especially teenage boys; they inhale bread. Most homes have their own smell, our signature note is toast. First question in the morning sometimes, from the now 6ft Small Man, before I’ve had a sniff of coffee, is What’s for dinner? Later, if the aroma of dinner is not to his liking it sets the tone. What’s not to like about a home cooked meal? Liberties. It has to be said I recollect turning the key in the house I grew up in, and the waft of stew with the covert parsnips hitting me full on. Double Latin on a Monday morning would have been preferable. Thus there was a causal correlation between what was for dinner and mood rating on the stroppyness scale. Now it’s the reverse, the tables have turned and my children are doing the same to me. Bloody karma.
There is a corner in our kitchen that’s magnetic, where the fridge and food press reside. The physicists in Cern should come and have a gander at it. Like moths to a flame the kids stand staring, fridge door ajar, the light hypnotizing them, like it's a portal to another world. Then they chant their mantra There’s never anything to eat in this house. They move to the press. Again, standing, staring. What they really mean is that they have eaten, but have forgotten they ate all the bread, cream crackers, Nutella, peanut butter, biscuits, ham and cheese (actually I eat all the cheese). I should have shares in Tesco and Lidl. I half expected I might have even received a call at the reading of the will from Mr Ferrero’s solicitor, he of the Nutella dynasty, given the copious quantities they go through each week. There’s never anything to eat, they say, as they grow like weeds. Their bones waving hasta luego to their achy muscles and joints. I feel like a Bean an Tí running a B&B, feeding and washing. With their ever changing moods they are like visitors, going into their rooms one person but you don’t know who you are going to meet when them come out, especially the girls. All three will be in secondary school in September. I feel as time goes on I may need to employ a transcendental shamanistic approach to try and retrieve their child spirits. That or just increase my running and red wine intake, potentially simultaneously. The child essence that used to look up and smile and wonder at our perceived knowledge, has vanished. Now, I feel like John Snow from Game of Thrones. Not cause I’m partial to sporting a wildebeest around my shoulders but because I’m told you know nothin on a daily basis. Their levels of frustration and annoyance could power a small village if you bottled it. Resistance on their part is no longer futile as the balance must shift to give them a little more autonomy. I need a ‘negotiations’ skills class from the queen mother herself Cersei Lannister (too much?). Let the games begin. As the year closes in and Christmas approaches it heralds for Himself, the ‘semigrant’, his longest yearly period at home in Galway. Thus it’s time to reflect on all things Swiss given the connection. In my youth I believed Switzerland was home to Heidi, chocolate, snow, cows with bells and…well that was it. And that is it, mostly. And cheese. I was 18 the first time I was in Geneva whilst Inter-railing around Europe with my best friend. Sans mobile phone, sans credit card, equipped with flashy new rucksacks, travellers’ cheques and a European train timetable we had places to see and manky hostels to stay in. My memory of Geneva was the cost of the hostel being the price of a small village. The rest is hazey, due in no small part to the cheap rosé coiffed whilst on the raz with an Austrailian lady who subsequently came to stay with me in Galway. My father can recount her being ‘a mighty woman for the Jameson’. Thus, all my friend and I further assimilated to our knowledge of Swiss stuff was ludicrously expensive watches, hookers and how to say ‘cin I haeve anotha rosé ploise’ not in French but with an Aussie cadence.
Over the past year or so I have learned a tad more. Just like their famous watches the country runs accurately. Sometimes Himself goes all Swiss on us, all anoraky about things. Especially punctuality. Aesthetically, the Swiss get it right, every time. They look well, act appropriately and are partial to formalities. On the surface it would appear that way. There is correct attire for specific social occasions. I’ve been over and back quite a few times with the kids and sometimes we don’t have the right accouterments with us. Like gear bags. There’s something about a middle-aged man wearing runners with jeans, lugging a blue IKEA bag filled with towels and sandwiches that screams refugee. Such was the state of us at a Swiss waterpark last mid-term trip. Any wonder we were getting dirty looks. Furthermore, an anniversary dinner in a posh restaurant the night before with far too much vin rouge (just couldn’t leave it at the wan bottle, ah no, sure that’d be pure Swiss) resulted in morning after ropeyness. A trip to a waterpark had been promised, so no getting out of that one. Suffice to say red wine sweats are nasty at the best of times especially queuing on a Baltic waterslide stairs. Having said that flinging oneself from a height and skimming at GForce down a slide works does the same job as a rasher and brown sauce sandwich. A sauna seemed like a better idea but we forgot to bring our towels. Now it has to be said, we were wearing togs as were the other people in the sauna. But there are rules. An elderly couple took great pleasure in ratting on us and we were asked politely to leave. Towels were requisite, we didn’t have same. Knuckles rapped. Here are some more of their rules… No shops open on a Sunday. Everybody does their family-leisure-walking with those stupid poles-thing on a Sunday. Or if you’re a middle-aged man you cycle (same as here, that bit). You cannot mow your lawn on a Sunday in some cantons (sort of like our counties). Only if you’re minted enough to rent a house with a lawn. If it’s not your scheduled day and you’re bold enough to do your washing off timetable, in the apartment building communal machine - even if it’s empty and there are no other loads waiting - you may find your clothes removed and scattered in the Alps by the Lady Who Guards The Washing Machine (usually late 50s, single, rotund, speaks no English and smells of stew and cheese). FYI… The country has a navy though it is landlocked. It’s true, everything is expensive over there, except public transport and electronic equipment. Everybody skiis. Everybody likes cheese, especially fondue which smells rank. Whilst a hub for cancer and medical research, they like to smoke. Voters rejected a nationwide smoking ban in all enclosed public places in 2012. Many cantons have fumoirs, special smoking rooms that are sometimes staffed. Phillip Morris employs 3,000 people with a manufacturing and large R&D facility in Neuchâtel and Lausanne. Yes, the chocolate is only massive. If you’re invited to a Swiss dinner wo-betide the numptee who brings a box of Milktray, even if it’s all because the lady loves them. It’s rude to bring anything other than Swiss chocolate. And now for something completely different… The country is unique for having enough nuclear fallout shelters to accommodate its entire human population. Great for storing wine and unruly children. Often praised as a model for direct democracy, the country did not grant women the right to vote in any of the elections until 1990. Sure they were flat out protecting the washing machines. Amongst industrialized nations, Switzerland has one of the highest rates of gun ownership, but has nearly half the rate of gun-related deaths that the US has. Men in are required to keep the firearms they are issued during their military service at home even after they leave the military. That’s mad Ted! All those little Nespresso pods that you spend a small fortune on are all manufactured in Switzerland. Nespresso an operating unit of the Nestlé Group is based in Lausanne. The scenery is breathtaking, the Alps spectacular. The towns on Lake Geneva are cosmopolitan and vibrant compared to the archaic rural villages. Finally, bear in mind your cat or dog when you tucking into your Christmas dinner and think of Switzerland. The moonshine folk in the Alpine hills are partial to les animaux domestiques especially at Christmas time. All is not what it seems. With bulging blackberries and new blank hard backs announcing the end of the summer, I contemplate this years forced family togetherness, I mean holiday. Yes we were lucky to have one and I never take them for granted. Perhaps that has something to do with us being a ‘euro commuter’ family with Himself over and back to Switzerland to work, every week. Holidays are ever evolving as each year passes, especially as the kids get older. Time to be together, to regroup, reconnect, to throw schedules, drop-offs, pick-ups, work, study, early mornings out the window. There’s nothing like a bit of forced togetherness and a lack of wifi to bring out the best in people (insert tongue firmly in cheek here), especially when you have teenagers. That said, we normally do them well after the requisite 4 days to completely unwind and stop taking the heads of each other. Then, by the time the 2 weeks are up, we’ve had enough of each other’s nuances and are relieved that it’s back to routine and your own bed. That’s not just us. Psychologists say when it comes to the jo-holiers the anticipation and looking forward is more enjoyable than the thing itself and, most importantly, we remember primarily the good bits, rose tinted as it were. We post photos on Facebook and Instagram, these also tinted, literally. With all of this in mind here are a few of our highs and lows for August 2014:
Terrifing alarme volant zip lining with mucky hill walking in unsuitable attire resulting in up close and personal encounter with electric fence. Tears of terror and laughter still echoing in the mountains of Lausanne. Enroute to Italy epic traffic in Zurich adding 2 hours to car journey. 7 hours in the car but did get to drive through 17km tunnel. Rain on arrival to Porlezza, Italy. Teenage givey-outty-ness at the highest level. Fever and code red moaning results in first trip to doctor, Italy. Eldest on antibiotics. Heroic nose blowing with loud sinus sufferance. Flying ants. Himself on anti-histamines. More rain. WiFi ONLY in hotel bar. Shame. Trip to Foxtown Factory Outlet, Mendrisio, Switzerland. Experienced outlandish displays of wealth by minted men for burka covered wives and daughters. Surreal. Did I mention the rain? The Middle pukes on steps of really old, important church in Milan. Race out of Leonard De Vinci’s Last Supper (universally the most famous mural painting, ever, in art history) due to Middle's second impending vomit. Sebastiäo Salgado exhibition, Milan. Inspiring. Leads to middle age occupation envy. Nerve shattering drive OVER the Alps, through Simplon Pass. Scenery spectacular to back seat chorus of ‘we’re hungry, OMG there is no food! We’re all goin to die!!’ for 5 hours. Jaysus, are we still climbing? I just want to get off this f….n mountain! The true art of the art of head banging is shared with the girls at beach party, Porlezza, Italy. The Eldest, MORTO! The Middle has swollen eye and ear ache. Second trip to doctor, Lausanne, Switzerland. Another round of anti-biotics. Le Musée Olympique, Lausanne, Switzerland. Superb. With all of that in mind I share with you some of the writer Tim Lott’s real family mottoes, not the saccharine fridge magnet ones or those hanging on the back of toilet doors, cause that’s the place for them: For the teens ‘Most of the shit you’re going through now, you won’t remember and if you do, it will be useful ammunition after things go wrong when you’re grown up’. For parents ‘Remember that person you married? They’re still IN THERE, somewhere.’ Lastly, and hard to top this one, in the words of Matt Groening ‘Families are about love overcoming emotional torture’. I concur. Hormones have hijacked my Small Man.
Things a 14 year old boy cannot do... Close a door Open a blind Switch off a light Take bowl from arm of couch Find the dishwasher Put empty Tayto bag in bin Pull toe out of sock Have socks in drawer Pick things up Stay out of fridge Wear a jacket Bring dog for a walk Things a 14 year old can do proficiently... Sigh Shrug Grunt Fart Shuffle behind you Quadratic equations Eat mountains of toast Eat earphone wires Eat Maintain monosyllabic conversation Media stack Spend hours messaging on Facebook Explain floordrobe system Grow taller, audibly Switch moods faster than the speed of light Be obnoxious Be genuinely, hilariously funny Current Top Ten most used utterances ‘Grand’ ‘I dunno’ ‘What’s for dinner’ ‘There’s never anything to eat in this house’ ‘Where's my....[insert any article of clothing/footwear or just any word here]’ ‘Do I look alright?’ ‘I need a fiver for a chicken roll’ ‘What’s the point of learning Irish?’ ‘Oh my God!!! Who ate all the biscuits?!!!’ ‘For f.... sake’ We are of an age. Yes, it has come to it. We are now the boring saddos who sit up, waiting for our Small Man to come in from a CGD. Or worse, following industrial relations talks with regard to abstinence, which would defy any union, have to stay up flicking channels without the requisite Friday night glass of wine, in order to taxi them home through the byroads of Cregmore and Claregalway.
For the purposes of those who have a life at the weekend and from a wan who doesn’t, I will endeavour to paint a picture. CGDs are no alcohol events for 13 to 15 year olds held in the Claregalway Community Centre a number of times a year. From 7pm of a given Friday night the good decent men from the locality kit themselves out in the requisite high viz uniform to coral what can only be called a mass Desert Storm like invasion of standard vehicles i.e. people carriers, into the carpark. We want them on that wall, we need them on that wall, cause we can't handle the truth. They are the eyes and ears of the phenomenom. From here the car doors slide back, the platoons embark, to form an orderly queue. Jackets are surplus to requirements, regardless of weather. Standard kit for male troops include beige chinos (the ones with the arse hangin down), Jack & Jones collared T-shirt, various colours permitted, except pink and high tops. Laces on the outside are grounds for honourable discharge. Uniform for ladies, well... let’s just say short, unless you’re one of the infantry who done the sartorial oddity that is a Onesie. Make-up must be plastered on with a trowel. Weaponry is chemical warfare at a high level...Lynx. Yes, tonnes of the stuff, enough to take out a small country and coupled with smart phones they are armed to obliterate, or I mean, ‘get with’ the enemy. At the end of the night decoding of FB page is necessary to ascertain whether or not mission was accomplished. Shell shocked weary soldiers with ringing ears drag themselves through the door, straight to the press for cereal or fridge for cold pizza (if I haven’t eaten it). I can’t help but think that a CGD for us 80s crew is in order. I mean, we are the veterans after all, surely? It’d have to be in the Warwick, no question. We would have to make like Dr Who and go back in time for attire. For fellas, rolled up jeans, denim jacket, why not double denim, for old times’ sake. Ladies, quelque chose bat winged, stone washed denims, leg warmers and bangles, topped with bad perm and blue eye shadow. Armed with a can of Bulmers in one hand and a cigarette in the other we would shuffle our way around the floor to The Cure, The Doors and The Smiths. No amphibious vehicle to pick us up (cause you’d have spent the taxi money) but rather a burger in Salthill and a long walk home. No phones. If your squadron got split up, rendezvous at the cloakroom or the corner where you threw your jacket. And the circle goes around again, the same questions are asked but now I’m doing the asking. How’d ya get on?, Any good tunes?, Who was there? followed by the same answers Grand, The usual, The usual. Interrogation complete. School’s out, sleeps in,
Spanish students, crawlin with tourists. Film Fleadhers pour from screens, pale faced, Mesmerised, squinty eyed. Clather of tractors, windows wide open, Beds all stripped, ‘great bit a’ dryin’. Scrapin paint, powerhosin walls Ronsealin fences, strimmin hedges. Balin hay, weedin beds, Swarmin with midges, pollen eyes. Hard boiled eggs, jars of beetroot BBQ burgers, pint bottle Bulmers. Blackrock bravado Tower tumbles_ Biceps and tri swimmers, Prom prowlers. Tattoos galore, queues at The Galleon, Sliotars pelted on hard sand. Paddlin in pools, HB in wafers, Scalded shoulders, squintin at matches. Longue tongued dogs, sleepless nights, All-Ireland final out of sights. Horses and hats, rain pissin down, Tall heeled ladies in maxis Queues for buses, ne’er a taxi Races all over, ‘won’t feel it till Christmas!’. Students come, tourists go, Booklists, bus tickets, Oysters and traffic. Dark early morning, rusty eyes, Routine deployed, Winter is nigh. My pins have almost returned to normal, I can successfully navigate the stairs again and get out of the chair and into the car, in a manner that is age specific. They say to get to the start line is an achievement, the training a triumph. Of course there is the pre-marathon weekend. Symptomatic of taper-down madness it culminates in restlessness, tears and doubt, vexations at counter crumbs and Himself enjoying his Friday and Saturday glass of wine. The body craves those juicy endorphins from the long runs of a Friday evening. My great friend and long time putting-the-world-to-right-whilst-running-partner suggested coming up the night before to avoid any stress, morning of. So off I go on the GoBus, try to tune out but tune in to the group of lads down the back, watching porn on their iPad, bless their cotton socks. D-day. Alarm goes, ten to six. Running gear on, numbers pinned, laces tied and re-tied, thrice knotted. Nerves begin to build. Our lovely host and fellow runner fed us with requisite bagels and strong coffee, get things moving in the basement section, to avoid any unwelcome Paula Radcliffees en route.
The Dublin City Marathon is akin to childbirth, no two ways about it. The first, five years ago, was a natural delivery, with smelly Jo Malone candles. Ignorance is bliss. The second, you know what lies ahead, was torturous. Tears, snot, pushing, episiotomy, forceps, section, kitchen sink, skin n hair flying, you name it, a war of attrition to delivery. Just like the mid wives down the business end cajole you along, come on, one more push, you’re almost there...the same words are shouted from the enthusiastic crowds lining the streets of Dublin...come on now, one more push, you’re nearly there...liers the lot a yiz! The 4.30 pink pacers were in my sights for 20 miles. I sucked my gels, drank my water, was in the zone. I sang loud with Jerry Fish, raised my hands to Beth Ditto, whaled with The Boss, rocked it out with ACDC, frowned with Radiohead, boogied with the Bee Gees, yeah-yeahed with Willy Moon, rock-a-billyed with Richard Hawley. As you tune in to your rhythm and run your race, surreally around you, all dignity goes out the window, just like the labour ward. Those not wishing to lose time or chance the loos (nightmare!) get down with nature, arses swinging in the wind behind the nearest tree trunk, not a dock leaf in sight. All was well in the camp till I rendezvoused with the ‘Wall’ at 20. Nay, not only did I hit the wall my friends, I dragged the wall along with me, the rest of the runners sitting on it, for the last 6.2 miles. The chest pain started and the voices in my head out shouted the supporters. Stop, they shouted, just stop here, on the ground, on this bit of an aul footpath, just beside that bin there, see..,you can just curl up and well, die. I dug deep. I hit rock at 22. The Kango Hammer came out, I could dig no more. I counted steps, recited whatever class of poetry I could think of. Our Fathers, Hail Marys, Glory Bes were muttered. Anyone sick, infirm, depressed, under the weather, struggling, the last 3 miles were for them. In the end, I said to myself, over and over, I can, so I will...I can, so I will. I can run, I can finish. There are plenty who cannot. From 23 to 25 was a blur as I weaved my way along, shuffling, inch by inch, noises emanating from me like a cow calvin’ in a field. As I crossed the line the tears flowed, long and hard, and the chest pain continued. The steward put the medal around me, gave me a big hug, asked was it my first. No, I cried, it’s my second. I didn’t say it would be my last. My legs did their own thing, I no longer controlled their movement and the tears continued to flow. This running business brings up stuff, a whole lot of stuff, a release valve for all that emotion we carry around with us. So I let it all go, left it on the streets of Dublin. So, given the chest pain, disorientation, breathlessness and blurred vision, coupled with the presence of a heart murmur, I was advised get it checked out. I did think, it mightn’t be a bad way to go, marathon delivered and my shorts clean as a whistle! Off to the St John’s Ambulance tent I went, in a wheelchair and as I passed the other veterans just out of their trenches, we exchanged thumbs up. Next of kin?...any medication?...when did it start?....at what mile?...scale of one to ten?...and why didn’t you stop! A whack of an oxygen mask, two ECG’s later, I was given the all clear and off to McGrattans with me to meet with the women for a pint of the black stuff and a feed of fish and chips. Like Manna from heaven. We wore our Finisher t-shirts and medals with pride and regaled each other with our birthing stories. Later, I boarded the bus to Galway, folded my aching limbs into a seat and arrived home to the crew waiting with a welcoming banner ‘Well done, Mum’. The ecstasy, after the agony. To the next one. Yon lad with glasses sings It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside...well my one smacks of guilt, holiday remorse. Well, it did for all of 5 mins. I experienced what the elders of the tribe used to recount. I assumed such stories were pisoegs. Fadó fadó, there once did exist a great ball of heat high up in a blue expanse above the grey clouds, oft occurring between May and September. It’s not a myth, it does exist. Just not here, not in these here parts. We were lucky to get away, to escape the weight of weather and woes. There was copious smatherings of factor 50, sun, turquoise sea, hot sand, ice cream, wine (mainly of the colour white), pigeon Italian, espressos, pizza, pasta, balmy evenings, steps, sweat, soccer in the piazza, pow wows with expressive locals over parking spaces, are we there yets, bites, antihistamines, snorkelling, rows, snoozing, fresh bread in the morning, realistically priced meals for five, reading, succulent tomatoes, church bells at 7, cherries, iced tea with gin and despite the teenage moaning, a major reluctance, particularly on my part, to return home. The beaches were occupied with packs of young Adonis like young fellas and their Abercrombie abs parading their peacock tails at the small waisted slips of girls in their perfect Mediterranean skin. There was the guy who looked like something from a Paco Rabane ad, toggin into his snorkelling gear at the little cove we frequented. Not just your Lidl Thursday special offer snorkelling gear, he had harpoon n’ all. Like a modern day caveman (no Neanderthal, back, sack and cracked I reckon) he left the missus to mind the umbrella while off he went to gather some fish. Maybe he’s the Milk Tray man and it was all because the luveen loves a few anemones. There were the little old ladies in black cleaning their steps, the men chatting in the cafes. There was the wonderful next door neighbour, Tore, a spritely elderly man, sharing his plums and cucumbers over the wall. We got on and off the Blue Plane and there was our holiday...gone.
And so we returned to the grey skies of Galway and to the accompanying ennui that ensues during the summer months. The Middle can turn off, she can chill, find things to occupy herself with. The Youngest is asking already about school books and uniforms. She’s done with the summer. Her head already back at school. Thus is the trajectory of her mind that when she returns in September her thoughts will then turn to Christmas. The Small Man is ticking all the teenage boxes. I cannot decide which of the Victorian greats he is morphing into. Dracula perhaps, with his aversion to opening the blinds in his bedroom but yet the deriding attacks, which are directed at guess who, denote a Jekyll and Hyde like scenario, Himself hence oblivious in the main, to his moods. Apparently, there’s a pair of us in it. Helpful that is. It’s all par for the course, the adolescent slalom we have to zigzag. Strange the way you can be threatened by your teenager assuring you of his extra month off next year. God help us all. I am planning my escape already. |
AnnieJMacArchives
June 2021
Categories
All
|