tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75258488787102741262024-03-14T09:17:18.253+00:00 From My Kitchen TableBarbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.comBlogger230125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-57301365513721998582016-02-22T17:47:00.003+00:002016-02-22T17:47:38.701+00:00THE LAST POSTThis is my last post here on blogger. My website is now sorted and my blog From My Kitchen Table will live there....<br />
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So all future posts can be found at www.barbarascully.com and link to Thoughts From My Kitchen Table.<br />
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Hope you will join me there..... <br />
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Barbara<br />
<br />Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-32903914704055713852016-02-17T12:43:00.000+00:002016-02-17T12:43:11.451+00:00UNIFORMITY<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pc5BfBrDhx8/Tm3xpLLsvqI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/nFHq6AmPEqk/s1600/jwt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pc5BfBrDhx8/Tm3xpLLsvqI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/nFHq6AmPEqk/s320/jwt.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yours truly - JWT Reservations early 1980s! (great hair!)</td></tr>
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Last week The Guardian Newspaper
reported that following a two-year battle, female British Airways cabin crew
had won the right to wear trousers. Later
in the week a young girl from a school in Dublin was interviewed on Newstalk
Lunchtime about petitioning her school to allow girls wear their tracksuits
every day should they wish to. Both
stories made me smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Uniforms are a great idea. Especially if they are good quality and look
smart and are appropriate to the job in hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wore a uniform in my first job
which was working for, what was then Ireland’s largest tour operator, JWT – ask
your ma, this was back in the early ‘80s.
Our uniform was a grey A line skirt, sharp white shirt (although mine
generally lacked sharpness prompting regular enquiries as to whether my iron
was broken), a red, white and navy scarf and a navy blazer. Footwear was a matter for ourselves but it
was generally agreed that navy court shoes were the way to go. Again it took me a while to get into wearing
what I considered to be ‘mammy shoes’ and so for my first summer as a sales
clerk I wore white clogs, yes the Dutch version – wooden and leather. Again – ask your Ma – they were all the rage
in the early ‘80s. In fact, there was an
actual clog shop on South King Street if my memory serves me correctly. But I digress.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Every so often the company (JWT,
whose tag line was ‘join the JWT set’) got a bit anxious about the fact that
being a very young workforce we socialised a lot and on occasion (read ‘very
often’) ended up in the basement nightclubs of Leeson Street with uniforms
looking slightly the worse for wear. Yes,
I know, I am a little ashamed now (no I am actually not).<o:p></o:p></div>
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My being six feet tall seemed to be
a much bigger deal way back then (you all seem to have gotten taller since) and
meant that when we went to get measured every year for our skirts, my order had
a note attached which said ‘add three inches to skirt’. Knees were kept out of sight – which in my
case was a very good thing, they’re a long way from being my best feature.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most of the time I wore my uniform
with pride and pretended I looked as good as the Aer Lingus girls who back in
those days were only seen at the Airport and on board flights, as <i>they</i> were transported to and from work
by minibus, ensuring they were never spotted in Leeson Street dens with
uniforms akimbo. They also got
regulation shoes, ensuring no clogs could spoil their lovely designer outfits. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Winter was very sartorially
challenging, particularly when one had no company minibus to get to work. The JWT set were reliant on shanks mare, bus
or in my case the train. Yes, the train
– the DART was not yet a twinkle in CIE’s eye!
Standing on the platform by the sea in Seapoint on a bitter winter
morning with bare legs would bring a tear to a glass eye. I mentioned my height already and hence
tights were not an option as I never got comfortable with the gusset swinging
down around my knees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But winters could be somewhat
circumvented by availing of Joe Walsh’s (he of JWT – clever isn’t it?) crafty
cost saving plan. In those days people
generally only went on Summer holidays which they booked in January which was
mad busy. But us sales people had very little
to do in October, November and December, so Joe offered us ‘winter leave’. We could take off for up to three months
unpaid and most of us who availed of this headed south to the Canary Islands
where we picked up some ad hoc rep work to keep body and soul together while we
holidayed and partied the winter away. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was on one such winter leave
that I fell in love with a pair of Spanish, thigh high, bright red, soft leather
boots. I thought they were made for me.
No heels, but long enough to go over my knee and so with my extra inches added skirt,
my legs would be sheltered from the worst excesses of an Irish winter and sure
weren’t they red – one of the uniform colours.
I parted with my cash and brought them home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Their inaugural outing was on my
first day back to work in early January.
As the train chugged its way towards Pearse Station I admired my
legs. As I glided out of the train with
hundreds of other morning commuters I noticed that the station had added a ramp
where the stairs used to be. So off I set, head held high, convinced that every
young fella must be admiring my red boots, my winter tan and my statuesque
height. I probably flicked my hair
too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The ramp was wet and my boots were
brand new. Yep, you guessed it. Feet
went from under me and down I went, landing very ungracefully on my arse in the
middle of Pearse Street Station. Various
people came to my aid and I muttered “no I am fine, thank you, I am fine, no
damage” and tried to reassemble myself and retrieve some of my shattered
pride. To make matters worse I then had
to endure the walk to Baggot Street with most of the commuters who had
witnessed my fall from grace. I was also
terrified that I would slip again. The
boots were lethal. The journey took
ages.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had somewhat recovered my
composure by the time I arrived at JWT HQ.
On the safer surface of carpet tiles, I once again flicked my hair as I
entered the office, one red booted foot after the other. And sure enough I was
greeted with comments like “Wow, some boots”,
“Great boots, Scully” although the remarks lacked envy or admiration and
carried a hint of mirth. Then my boss
came out of his office. In those days it
was OK for a man (boss or not) to pass remarks on a female colleague’s
appearance. “They are not appropriate
with the uniform. Don’t let me see them
again.” All in all, it was a dark day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So my tan faded and I went back to
having legs purple with the cold by the time I arrived at my desk for the rest
of that winter. School days all over
again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now we have a DART and a Luas into
town. JWT are no longer the giant of the
Travel Business they once were. Aer
Lingus have long since abandoned their staff mini bus. Bosses would be very reluctant to make
remarks on a female colleague’s appearance – uniform or not. But we still insist on some women wearing
skirts. I have never seen a female
member of Aer Lingus or Ryanair cabin crew wear trousers; although I have seen
some of the latter in bikinis. I should
be thankful for small mercies I suppose.<o:p></o:p></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-73791502168806879602016-02-08T17:09:00.001+00:002016-02-08T17:09:29.164+00:00HOMELESSNESS HAS TO BE THE ELECTION ISSUE<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The fastest growing economy in
Europe. New jobs being created every week. Cranes once again stalking the Dublin
skyline. Even Dun Laoghaire, poster town of the recession, has an air
of recovery about it with new shops opening regularly. Although many of us will be playing catch up
for decades to come, as we try to replace savings and pensions that were
decimated in the crash, until recently, I was relieved that the worst seemed to
be over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Micheal Noonan said the emergency is over. I knew things weren’t perfect. I was aware of a homeless crisis but thought
the government had it in hand with their plans for modular housing as an
emergency solution. I thought we were
doing alright, until I watched the recent RTE documentary “My Homeless
Family”. Rarely has a programme made me
so angry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Using their own voices and most
poignantly the voices and the tears of their children, these brave women (and
it was mainly women) clearly illustrated just who have paid the price for our
recovery. Living in self-described ‘posh
prisons or cages’ the pressure being exerted on these families every day is
incredible and the documentary made for surprisingly hard viewing. I wondered
why and then I realised it was because we were watching ourselves. These families are every family; just like us
they battled to keep their kids amused, they supervised homework and celebrated
birthdays in their collapsed tiny worlds.
It could so easily have been any of us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lone parent, Erica and her daughter
Emily have a bond that is strong and familiar.
I recognised it just I recognised Erica’s fear for the future as she
tries her best to provide for her child.
I was a lone parent for ten years and it was only a twist of fate that meant
I had a supportive family with room for me and my daughter to live at home
until I could afford to move out on my own.
But I know Erica’s dreams. I dreamed them too. A house we could call our own; where she could
have her own bedroom. Where she could
have more space to play. Where she could
invite her friends over after school. Erica’s
pain although sharper was familiar. I
was just lucky. But I could have easily
been in her situation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The women who generously let us
view their lives in an intimate way, instinctively understand that a secure,
safe, place to call home is essential to children’s development and to family
life. A home is not just a roof over
one’s head and a bed to sleep in, it’s much more. The writer and essayist, Samuel Johnson said <i>“to be happy at home is the ultimate result
of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labour tends, and of
which every desire prompts the prosecution”.</i> How can these families achieve any of their
ambitions living in such tiny spaces and with no security of tenure?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Over the coming fortnight we will
all be bombarded with how brilliant the Government were in rescuing this
country and dragging us back from the brink of disaster. Yes, they did take control of the finances
and restore some order to them. But the
recovery belongs to the people, all of us who suffered cuts to our incomes and
increases in our taxes. Austerity has been
very brutal and almost all of us have paid a heavy price. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But the highest price has been paid
by those who are vulnerable; families on very low incomes or social welfare and
lone parents. These people, families just like ours have been sacrificed in the
name of this recovery. Families who now have
nowhere to call home, through no fault of their own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The blame for this does not merely
lie with the current government. For decades’
successive governments abandoned the policy of building social houses.
Somewhere along the way our Governments went from running a country to merely
running an economy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For many (not all) involved in
politics it’s a game. It is a game
created by men and still dominated by men, with a very male energy running
through it and like any game it is all about winning. Keeping your seat at all
costs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But politics is not a game. It is the art of caring for the people of the
country. The women on My Homeless Family
knew that. Having been stripped of that
most basic right in life – a place to call home from which to build proper
lives for themselves and their children, they are now doubly
disadvantaged. If this republic means
anything, it falls to the rest of us, to be their voice at the election. Homelessness must be front and centre of the
next programme for government. Otherwise
we are all complicit in their misery.<o:p></o:p></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-35688698519323256292015-10-05T16:56:00.000+01:002015-10-05T16:57:11.788+01:00BELFAST TICKS ALL THE BOXES FOR A WEEKEND AWAYWe headed north in August for a wonderful weekend in Belfast. Can't believe I left it this long to visit.... I found a proud and friendly city with a great sense of humour. <br />
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My travel piece appeared in the Irish Examiner last weekend and you can read it<a href="http://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/travel/weekendbreak/weekend-break-belfast-city-ticks-all-the-boxes-357037.html"> here.</a></div>
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Here is a short photo essay of our time in the city which I thought you might enjoy too.....</div>
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The SS Nomad - tender to SS Titanic</div>
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Lovely spot for lunch just across from Titanic - Cast & Crew</div>
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A cool spot for dinner.... HADSKIS</div>
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BELFAST AT NIGHT..... </div>
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The wonderful St Georges Market</div>
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Hours of gorgeous browsing</div>
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LIVE MUSIC</div>
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AND LOTS OF COLOUR</div>
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THE VIEW OVER THE CITY FROM THE DOME AT VICTORIA SQUARE </div>
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HOTEL CHOCOLAT....... </div>
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CRUMLIN ROAD GAOL</div>
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NOT GEORGE BEST.... SOME FELLA CALLED CARSON</div>
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NOT ALL MURALS ARE POLITICAL</div>
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HIGHLY RECOMMEND A TAXI TOUR... WE TOOK ONE WITH VALUE CABS. Excellent</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w_7zMjr-2_k/VhKb-OgRi8I/AAAAAAAABDY/r6Z9Cs9d9Ps/s1600/079_Belfast%255B2%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w_7zMjr-2_k/VhKb-OgRi8I/AAAAAAAABDY/r6Z9Cs9d9Ps/s320/079_Belfast%255B2%255D.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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SIGNING THE PEACE WALL... AND UNDERSTAND A LITTLE MORE OF OUR HISTORY </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--AkydeZpDh4/VhKcBGRo02I/AAAAAAAABDg/RyVGOSxcHqM/s1600/089_Belfast%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--AkydeZpDh4/VhKcBGRo02I/AAAAAAAABDg/RyVGOSxcHqM/s320/089_Belfast%255B1%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div>
All photos by Paul Sherwood. www.sherwood,ie</div>
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Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-13317159990705202962015-07-23T17:57:00.000+01:002015-07-23T17:57:17.480+01:00"IRISH MEDIA IS A BIG MICKEY INDUSTRY"Back in April, The Media Show on RTE had a segment about the shocking level of sexism that exists in Irish Media. Dr Tom Cloonan and freelance journalist Alison O Connor presented research and personal experience to back up this fact. <br />
<br />
I have written before about the appalling state of Irish radio with regard to women's voices but the fact is that sexism exists across all media organisations in this country. <br />
<br />
Therefore not only is our political system totally skewed so also is the media that reports it. <br />
<br />
Gender balance in media is not some lofty aspiration to be achieved by a slow change of mindsets and culture, it is an urgent problem that needs to be fixed NOW.<br />
<br />
You can listen back to <a href="http://www.rte.ie/radio/utils/radioplayer/rteradioweb.html#!rii=9%3A20765873%3A0%3A%3A">The Media Show here</a> and below is the transcript of the broadcast.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Transcript of Media
programme Sunday 19 April 2015<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Presenter Conor
Brophy<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Are women getting a
raw deal in the media</b>?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Debate: Alison O Connor (Freelance journalist) and Dr Tom
Clonan (Security correspondent with the Irish Times)<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Is there sexism at
play in the how women are treated within media organisations</b>?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Q. <b>Tom, do you think
there is particular macho or masculine culture within the media</b>?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A. I suppose I am coming from military background. As an
army officer and as a captain I did my doctoral research (PHD) on the
experiences of women in Ireland’s armed forces. The military would be
constructed as a very hyper masculine environment with a very robust canteen
kind of culture in it. Unfortunately the research I conducted revealed unacceptably
high levels of discrimination, harassment and particularly bullying and sexual
violence against women in the army.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After I retired, quite by accident, with the twin tower
attacks and so on, I found myself working in the journalism space and, I
suppose, coming from the military, I had expected or I suppose I had this idea
that media would be progressive and would have an equality friendly environment
and would be very different from the military. In fact I found and find that
many workplace settings within the media would make the army’s eyes water in
terms of the masculine, casual sexism and quite a lot of bullying in this
environment. That was both an unexpected and disappointing finding on my part.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Q. <b>Would that be your experience Alison?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A. Absolutely Conor. To put it another way the media is a
big Mickey industry. It’s so male dominated. I did an informal ring around
today. If you take, for instance, each day a news conference takes place to
decide what sets the agenda what’s important, what’s setting the agenda for the
next day-80%-90% of the people at that are male. These are also the people who
would be writing editorials lecturing politicians or others in industry for
having a poor gender balance or for not doing their bit and I suppose the worst
is that they would often consider themselves to be pretty right on and if not a
feminist a friend to the feminist or to the female. I think it comes from the fact
that the media is a very competitive industry. It is quite a selfish industry
in that in many ways you are trying to get that scoop, you are working on your
own; the hours are very anti social. I work freelance now and I work from home
so I’m observing it a little bit from the other side. There’s very little
effort, from what I can see, to accommodate women with children who want to
stay in their jobs. It’s part of the macho culture to stay late and being seen
to stay late. It doesn’t make it easy and I see friends my age who really want
to stay in their jobs and who are immensely talented and would be a huge loss
to the industry and I see no effort whatsoever to accommodate them in any way in
terms of trying to mix both work and being a parent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Q Tom, you had a point to make there</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A. Sure. I’m a journalist in practice but I also do a lot of
radio and TV so I have a footprint in all the major Irish media organisations.
I have observed the workplace culture in each of those settings. The other
thing I will say is in my capacity, I am now regarded as a whistleblower. That
was not a term in use when I did my PhD. Over the years, whenever I appear in
the media, like when there is a TV documentary or a radio documentary as there
was here in RTE on the series Whistleblowers I have been contacted by female
journalists in Ireland who have repeated similar stories of harassment, sexual
harassment and bullying. I think in relation to the status and role of female
journalists within the Irish media. This is a particular Irish phenomenon. I
think there is a requirement for major investigation and further analysis in
order that we remove those obstacles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Q, <b>There is an issue there Alison that you referred
earlier-if these sort of allegations were made, if this sort of thing was to
happen in any other sector it would be very much seen as and would be the duty
of the fourth estate to hold the powers that be to account.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A. It’s something funny to do with journalists. I do not
know if we see that journalism is a vocation or something. Even if you walk into
the average newsroom it’s been my experience that a lot of the time even the
desks and the chairs and the computers are pretty crap. Journalists don’t
collectively look for better conditions. It’s as if we are being Superman or
saving the world. It extends a bit to that, to do with the conditions. A
particular thing in relation to Leinster House- It’s like a boy’s boarding
school. It’s overwhelmingly male. We have such a poor representation of female
TDs. The majority of women you see in Leinster House are either parliamentary
assistants or catering staff or ushers. It is testosterone laden. There are
very few places where you could replicate that. There are very few institutions
that are so absolutely and immensely male.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Q. <b>Even at a low level Alison and I hesitate to use that
term, in preparing for the programme I contacted some female journalists who
are prominent within the media. Some have never experienced sexism. Some have
but say they take it on the chin. You put up with it.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alison: If you have an exclusively male environment, if
decisions are taken at a level where it is testosterone driven with no
oestrogen feeding in then the balance is all wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Q <b>What needs to be done then Tom?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A. If you look at the arm forces, an organisation that
operates in very difficult circumstances in Golan Heights and Syria and so on.
After my research was published and investigated by an independent government
enquiry they developed a mission statement with regard to equality. They also have
a very strong dignity in the workplace charter. It’s incumbent on the NUJ and
all the media organisations that they put in place very clear and explicit
policies, goals and objectives that are measureable with regard to the
participation and promotion of women and female voices at all levels in our
media. That would be a start.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Q <b>Alison?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A. I know it would be difficult to implement but I would
favour quotas for current affairs panels and for the experts- the people that
programmes bring on to tell us what we should think about an issue on any given
day be it domestic or international. That’s the way things will change Things
have improved. There is now more awareness. An argument you will hear from
senior people in the media and which is
trotted out is that listeners don’t like female voices. I have never seen that
research. They are not used to listening to women’s voices. On certain radio
schedules on certain stations you can go for hours without hearing a female
voice</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tom: Research in International military scene shows that
women’s voices are actually the most compelling and attractive voices. In
cockpit prompts in fighter aircrafts they use the woman’s voice as they believe
we are more genetically disposed and hardwired to listening to our mothers.
There is no research that shows that female voices are not attractive but there
is plenty of research to show that sexist men will often quote false science to
support sexist misogynistic views.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-6525119034383544872015-07-09T15:26:00.000+01:002015-07-09T15:31:34.425+01:00SORRY RED, IT'S NOT YOU... IT'S ME<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I remember well the first bottle of
wine I ever bought. Well I didn’t
purchase all of it.. I had shares in it, so to speak. I was about 16 and with a few girl pals
walked over a mile (no – we had shoes and it wasn’t snowing) to a shop where we
had heard they weren’t very fussed about proof of age when purchasing
alcohol. We could afford one bottle
between us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
As we neared the shop it was
decided that I alone should enter the premises since I was the tallest and so surely
must have looked the oldest. The girls
waited around the corner while I completed the transaction without any
bother. Then, nursing our precious
purchase, we trudged all the way back (well, it was uphill) to the friend’s house
whose parents were away. Once there, we
sat around the kitchen table and after a long struggle with a corkscrew managed
to get the wine open and carefully doled it out between about five of us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We were all staying the night and so
went to bed convinced we were all drunk and relishing the thought of hangovers
in the morning. Oh the innocence of it
all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Since those heady schoolgirl days I
have dalliances with various other tipples.
There were the Bacardi & Coke days, the (brace yourself) Malibu
& Pineapple days (I feel nauseous just thinking about that) and indeed I
still am partial to an odd Hot Port or Pear Cider depending on the weather. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But wine... sigh.... wine and I
have never fallen out of love. Wine has
been there.. every step of the way. From
that first bottle of what was most likely Black Tower or Blue Nun to the
bottles of Merlot and Shiraz languishing in my wine rack as I type.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Languishing you say? Yes languishing. Because, dear reader, I never saw it
coming. I thought we still happily
involved in a beautiful relationship; a relationship that I will admit it had
its ups and downs. There were some
nights (or indeed afternoons) when we overdid our love for each other. There were dawns when I should have been in
bed rather than struggling home from a neighbour’s house. There were times when the day after the night
before was a bit of a struggle as a result of my overindulgence. But in fairness after well over three decades
together we know each other fairly well and like a good marriage, we generally
got on pretty well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In fact it was better than
that. We had some great laughs down the
years. The early days of cheap plonk and
dodgy corks which disintegrated into the bottle as I struggled to remove them
and then had to strain the wine through tights.... What?
You never did that? The days
spent in Spain drinking rough local vino from earthenware jugs. The cosy, winter nights, me and my wine,
together by a roaring fire. All the
celebrations, the birthdays, the Christmases...
we did them all..happily together. Not (necessarily) getting drunk you
understand but just enjoying each other’s company. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But over the last few months
something changed. At first I assumed we
were going through a rocky patch. Two
glasses of wine of an evening was starting to result in a horrible headache
which often woke me in the middle of the night and lasted for most of the
following day. As a sufferer of
migraines I do tend to get a bit panicky at the onset of a headache. These weren’t migraines but did leave me
feeling pretty awful and very, very tired.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I persevered, as one does when a
relationship has a wobble. I tried to drink
water along with the wine. I thought that was helping for a while. But I was only fooling myself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
So I bought a bottle of white. It’s not the same. We just don’t have the same chemistry. There were fewer headaches but there was no
spark. No deeply satisfying sigh at the
first taste on my lips. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The bottles of red sat sadly
looking at me from the rack in the kitchen.
So I decided to risk a glass the other night. Spaghetti bolognaise tastes better anyway
wish a dash of red so I opened a bottle and poured a glass. I inhaled deeply
its spicy aroma. Glass to lips and that
first taste... oh it was sublime. How I had
missed it. But I was sensible – I
limited myself to just a glass.. and a half.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Next day, I woke at six am with the
familiar feeling of my head thumping on the pillow and my day went south
slowly. I cried bitter tears at the
realisation that our relationship must end.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Later I went downstairs and
addressed the wine rack. “It’s not you”
I sobbed, “it’s me. I am so sorry, but it’s over.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Let me tell you something, it’s a
man’s world and the menopause is a bitch... with teeth. But I am holding onto my bottles of red... because
this can’t last forever, right?</div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-63459155889346278302015-06-15T12:33:00.000+01:002015-06-15T12:33:55.560+01:00DALKEY BOOK FESTIVAL<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n1rjKB1VBCo/VX62ffl8FrI/AAAAAAAABA4/PSpEnEULQDY/s1600/dalkey%2Bbook%2Bfest%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n1rjKB1VBCo/VX62ffl8FrI/AAAAAAAABA4/PSpEnEULQDY/s320/dalkey%2Bbook%2Bfest%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seaside Marquee - DALKEY BOOK FESTIVAL</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the last few years I have become a right pain in the ass
about The Dalkey Book Festival. “It’s
great,” I enthuse to all and sundry, “brilliant events and the town buzzes with
energy and the sun always shines”. Most
of those I know who visit will book one or maybe two events. But me... with my addictive personality... I
book way too many and end up tearing about the village from tent to town hall
and back again. I try to build in gaps
where I can venture home just so my kids don’t think I have actually gone away
for the weekend. Although every year I
wonder should I book into the B&B in the village if there is such a thing –
and that’s another mystery – why isn’t there a boutique hotel in Dalkey? Staying onsite would enable me to not miss a
thing... I could completely immerse myself in all the cleverality. Like the old days back in Dunelles pub in Dun
Laoghaire where even if you weren’t smoking a joint yourself, you could get high
just breathing I could absorb more just by being there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dalkey is a perfect location for a festival. It’s small and retains the feel of an Irish
village, but it also has lots of great places to eat and drink. And boy is it scenic. Even for me, a Dun Laoghaire woman (2<sup>nd</sup>
generation, I’ll have you know) who misspent much of her youth around Dalkey,
the festival allows me to glimpse the location through fresh eyes, especially
this year with the addition of the The Seafront Marquee in Dillons Park overlooking
Dalkey Island.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what makes the Dalkey Book Festival so compulsive is
that it provides much of what is missing in Irish media today. A chance to sit and listen to some great
speakers discussing big questions, philosophical questions... the kind of stuff
that makes you think. There are great
panel sessions too where various topics are debated. But not debated in the polarised way we have
become used to seeing on TV where the extremes are encouraged to contest the issue
in sound bites with the facilitator constantly chiding them to hurry up. Dalkey Book Festival is many ways is
reminiscent of the heyday of the Late Late Show. Long conversations liberally sprinkled with
anecdotes and humour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a perfect way to hear your favourite journalists
(Fintan O Toole, Olivia O’Leary and Dearbhail McDonald featured this year) as
well as writers and thinkers on a wide range of topics. And that is the key to understanding the
Dalkey Book Festival – it’s not just about books, it’s about much more. And at its heart are the long philosophical
conversations that Irish people love to have on topics that are important to
us. This year there were sessions titled
‘Economists, What Are They Good For?’, ‘New World 2020’ and ‘The Next Billion’. My own favourite was ‘Who Owns 2016’. And again, unlike the debates we are normally
subjected to in Ireland on radio and TV, there are no winners. No conclusion – but plenty of food for
thought, plenty to mull over for days afterwards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh - and it tends to remarkably free of politicians. What's not to like?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, there is one thing... I would love to see more women on the various stages. From quick count I did on the adult events
(there’s a great kids programme too) there are almost double the amount of men
on stage than women. And historians - although
I like Diarmuid Ferriter, I sometimes wonder is he our only historian. I would especially like to hear someone like Mary McAuliffe discussing Ireland’s
revolutionary decade. Mary has done lots
of interesting work on women’s involvement... perhaps that might be something
the organising committee would look at next year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Either way I will be there.
I’m saving already... are you on their mailing list? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.dalkeybookfestival.org/">www.dalkeybookfestival.org<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_ExbNpMvUiE/VX62AYTnaeI/AAAAAAAABAw/MBk5FdDGPSs/s1600/dalkey%2Bbook%2Bfest%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_ExbNpMvUiE/VX62AYTnaeI/AAAAAAAABAw/MBk5FdDGPSs/s320/dalkey%2Bbook%2Bfest%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam O Callaghan hosts Irish Directors Talk Books with Jim Sheridan, Neil Jordan and Lenny Abrahamson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</a></div>
<br />
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-25050937216287028412015-05-07T16:36:00.001+01:002015-05-07T16:46:58.958+01:00FAILING OUR YOUNG PEOPLE..... <div class="MsoNormal">
Dinner table discussions are one of the best things about
family life.. and like good wine they get better as the kids get older. I had the rare experience of gathering my
three daughters and my husband around a big roast dinner last night in advance
of my eldest’s journey back to Perth after a short visit home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last day with her is always awful. Emotions are raw and all just below the
surface. We are all walking on eggshells like Basil Fawlty
in that famous episode of Fawlty Towers afraid to ‘mention the war’ or in our
case ‘the parting’. We usually make lots
of nonsense small talk to avoid opening the floodgates of tears.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But last night was different as the talk turned very quickly
to the Marriage Equality referendum. My
emigrant daughter found it hard to believe that there was a concerted campaign
for a No vote. However it was my other
two daughters, aged 16 and 14 who were most vocal on the issue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They had both recently discovered a number of families known
to them who are voting no. This stunned them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what upset them most, was that in the
majority of cases, the off spring in these families are very angry at their parent’s stance on this issue.
Living, in Dun Laoghaire/Rathdown in supposedly one of the most liberal
constituencies in the country, I was also stunned at this revelation. One of my daughters told us of her friend who
is gay and his parents are also voting no.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Conversation continued as I recounted my rather surreal
experience of debating the issue on air on East Coast Radio earlier in the
day. I talked about the misinformation and
fear being spread by the No side which is very difficult to counter. Then my youngest who is 14 exploded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In this referendum we should be allowed to vote. This is an issue that will affect our lives
and the lives of our friends. It will
have no affect whatsoever on these parents who are straight and already
married. They also grew up in an era when homosexuality was illegal and under the radar. It was OK to look down and judge gay people. And now they might be the ones who may get to decide on this very issue. It is not fair that we cannot
have our say. That our voices will not
be heard.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And she is right.
Once again we in this bloody country are doing a disservice to our young
people. Not only can they not vote on this issue but we are not even hearing their views.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finished our meal almost more depressed than if we had
visited the issue of saying goodbye to the eldest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However on a more positive note, the girls also told us that
their school, which is a former convent school with a very Catholic ethos, is
festooned with Yes stickers and they are not being removed by the staff. This cheered me somewhat until I realised
that only a small minority of the school population will have a vote!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The clarity with which our teenagers view this referendum,
seeing it clearly as an issue of equality and not one of parenting is also
making me rethink my stance on the other issue we vote on on May 22<sup>nd</sup>. Maybe a young President is what this bloody
country needs?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-87295227539158238252015-04-12T22:23:00.000+01:002015-04-12T22:23:01.801+01:00WEARING YOUR MID LIFE CRISIS....On Your Head<div class="MsoNormal">
It was Coco Chanel who said that a woman who cuts her hair
is about to change her life. This may or
may not be true. But what is very true
is that a woman’s relationship with her hair goes way beyond the obvious. It is a deeply intense bond that proclaims
something to the world about the woman’s inner life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember well my first proper hairstyle. The first time I ever went to a hair
stylist. I think I was about ten. Before this my dear mother, who is gifted in
many things but not hairdressing, used to give me the classic pudding bowl cut complete
with wonky fringe that was de rigour for children in Ireland in the 1970s. So it was a big deal to be given the two
pence ha’penny or whatever it was to take myself off to the local hairdressers
for a proper hairstyle. A bob. A heavy
fringe and curtain of beautifully styled hair with a turn under for added
bounce. I was gorgeous. I didn’t just think I was gorgeous I FELT
gorgeous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3jIbW3azRlk/VSrfeZxejZI/AAAAAAAAA_8/P6-vykSMF0A/s1600/IMG_4927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3jIbW3azRlk/VSrfeZxejZI/AAAAAAAAA_8/P6-vykSMF0A/s1600/IMG_4927.JPG" height="320" width="185" /></a></div>
The early 80’s ushered in the era of the perm. I achieved my own unique version of the poodle,
with a straight hair on the top of my head (because I was – and still am - very
tall) and full curly sides. This look involved
spending hours with foul smelling stuff on my head (it did actually make my eyes
water) in a trendy salon on Baggot St. I
knew it was trendy because Gillian Bowler, who was then selling sexy holidays
to Greece was also a regular client – although she never went for a perm as far
as I know! Her long, luscious locks
cascaded around her face from the permanent sunglasses perched on her head,
winter and summer.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the end of that decade I was a single parent and decided
I required a kind of ‘don’t fuck with me’ hairstyle which was a short back and sides.
I hoped it would make me look like a
strong woman. In reality I looked like a
lanky boy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Ni-a7f4uJ0/VSrgCqdBukI/AAAAAAAABAE/FhlCHyfEhr0/s1600/IMG_5686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Ni-a7f4uJ0/VSrgCqdBukI/AAAAAAAABAE/FhlCHyfEhr0/s1600/IMG_5686.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>In the 90’s I met a man I liked and got married. My look softened along with my heart and I
splashed out on blonde highlights. This marked the first time I tinkered with
the colour of my hair – well unless you
include the dabbling with Henna in the late 70s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wedding highlights were just beginning to fade when the
grey hair started to be an issue. Marriage, huh? Anyway I added a box of Clairol that looked
vaguely similar to my own colour, to my supermarket shopping and did a home
job. But the toll on the bathroom was immense;
splashes of brown on tiles, on the loo, on the sink and not to mention to
ruined towels. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In spite of my efforts the grey continued its relentless
march. Tougher action was called for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So began the visit to the local salon every two months to ‘have
my colour done’. Two hours to read
trashy magazines and wonder about celebrity life styles after which I bounced
back out to my life with a shiny ageless head of beautifully blow dried hair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then two months become six weeks and now we are down to one
month. And I am beginning to fear that I
am losing this battle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now let me state clearly the obvious. And that is that while my hair has been
succumbing to my great age – so has the rest of me. I have lines on my forehead and wrinkles
around my eyes and mouth. My chin has
trebled and my jaw line is slack. And
that’s just my face. But somehow I can
live with all of that. In fact I come
close to believing that my face now has character. My lines and wrinkles speak of tears shed through
both sorrow and sheer joy. And in the
right light – fairly dark light, let it be said – I look, well, kind of
reasonable. No siree - no botox or
fillers or any of that rubbish for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my hair lets me down every time those grey roots start
to appear. Immediately I look (with all
due respects to her) like my 80 year old mother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-StNoVkgBy2s/VSrhC0CaMVI/AAAAAAAABAQ/2OJcNapw-Ig/s1600/IMG_4282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-StNoVkgBy2s/VSrhC0CaMVI/AAAAAAAABAQ/2OJcNapw-Ig/s1600/IMG_4282.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>The recession hasn’t helped.
There have been months when I have taken pity on the dog whose nails are
scraping on the floor and who trips over his own long hair and taken him to the
groomers with my hair money. Sure what
will another couple of weeks matter, I ask myself. Oh but it does matter. Once those grey roots appear all around my
face, I notice people talking to my hair rather than to me. I keep catching sight of myself in shop
windows or mirrors and wondering why my aforementioned mother has joined me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last summer my hairdresser gently suggested that I might
like to start to lighten my hair colour a little. This would make the appearance of grey roots
a little less obvious. But I wasn’t
happy. My hair had never been light brown. It didn’t match my eyebrows. I didn’t feel like me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I decided that I should do something radical with my
hair. Purple, I thought to myself. I’ll dye my hair purple. Deep Purple – not that Kelly Osborne washed
out purple... but proper purple. That would be very rock ‘n’ roll. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So next visit to my beleaguered hairdressers I informed them
of my wish to go purple, proper purple.
They tried to politely dissuade me.
But I insisted. They said they didn’t
really have the purple I wanted in stock.
Sure maybe I should think about it.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did. I asked them
just to give me a trim and blow dry and on the way home I picked up a colour
from the supermarket. My first attempt
turned out a bit red rather than purple.
But I preserved – for the last six months I have been various shades of
red and pink – usually at the same time.
I never achieved the purple I envisaged.
My hair was a bit of a mess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here’s the thing about one’s hair. Unless you really, truly care, you only
really pay attention to what’s framing your face. So I was pretty unaware of how weird my
colour was until I travelled half way around the world recently to holiday with
my emigrant daughter whose first job was in a hairdressers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jesus Ma, you’re hair’s great craic – it’s brown, grey,
pink and red.” To make matters worse,
the climate in Bali is very humid and so my multicoloured barnet also frizzed
out in all directions. I finally
realised I did indeed look a holy show. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In desperation I sent a message to my long suffering local
hairdressers begging them for an appointment on the way back from the airport. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think I might lighten my hair... “ I muttered
sheepishly. “For the summer, like.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The colourist looked at my poor sun bleached, dry,
multicoloured hair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We didn’t do this, did we?” she asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. I did”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right. Well there is
no quick fix. Killing that red tone is
going to take a bit of time. We will
have to go a bit darker before we can lighten it. Otherwise you will just have pink highlights.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pink highlights? For a
minute, I wondered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I think I am over my hair proclaiming my
personal mid life crisis. I am ready to
move on! I think.....</div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-71570386256904886502015-02-23T13:48:00.002+00:002015-02-23T13:49:21.619+00:00#askhermore<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Feminism is a funny old game. It is a classic case of two steps forward and
one backwards. As women move forward in
our quest for full equality there seems to be an equal counterweight which balances
this progress by reminding us that we still aren’t really that equal. Just in case we get ahead of ourselves like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Nowhere is this more clearly
evident than in the media and entertainment.
Take the movies, for example. While
there seems to be a feeling abroad that things are improving for female lead
roles, research recently published by the Centre for the Study of Women in Film
and Television showed that, in fact less than 12% of the lead protagonists in
the top grossing 100 movies in 2014 were women.
Less than 12%. And women only
represented 30% of all speaking characters in these movies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But along with these dismal
statistics are the facts that most of the women in film are younger and usually
identified by their social roles rather than their careers. In other words they are portrayed as far less
powerful than their male counterparts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At this juncture can I just give
TV3 a shout out for their superb new soap drama series ‘Red Rock’ which is
liberally sprinkled with strong female characters, who operate in their own
right. It’s very refreshing and they are
every bit as compulsive as any of the male leads. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Anyway, back to Hollywood and the
fact that we might think that Disney putting a princess into a blue dress means
that things are changing. The reality is
that they are not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Of course one of the main ways to
reduce a woman’s power is by subtly reminding her that no matter what her
accomplishments are, she will still be judged first and foremost on her appearance. And no where will you find this illustrated
more elegantly than on these ‘Red Carpet Shows’ that precede all the big awards
ceremonies. In one fell swoop these
shows have managed to reduce some of the most wonderful actresses and female
performers in the world to beauty pageant contestants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
E! Fashion Police (yes, an actual
programme which used star the late Joan Rivers) leads the charge in this regard
with their vacuous presenters, Ryan Seacrest and Giuliana Rancic who line up
female stars to ask “so.... who are you wearing?” E! has also championed two new technologies
to help them in their task of reducing the actresses to clothes horses. The Glam Cam rotates an image of the actress
round and round and up and down so we can judge her from all angles and then we
have the mani-cam. Yes, you guessed
it. A mini red carpet so the actress to
walk her fingers towards the camera so we can view her manicure and her
jewellery. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
However the good news is that the fight
back is on, it seems to be working and it began on the much maligned medium of
social media. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The Representation Project grew from
the success of a film by Jennifer Siebel Newsom called ‘Miss Representation’
which examined how women were portrayed in across all media, from film to news
and current affairs. The mission of the
project is to highlight and challenge the limiting depictions of women in
media. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In response to the inane questions
that female actors are subjected to on the red carpet they began a hashtag
called #askhermore. This allows users of
social media, particularly Twitter to urge broadcasters to ‘ask her more’ than
just what dress she is wearing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Now don’t get me wrong, I like a
nice frock and wearing too much make up to a ‘posh do’ occasionally. And yes, I watch these Red Carpet shows and
love to see the style. But I would also
love to hear about how the actress felt about the role, or what she was doing
next. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The website Buzzfeed sent a
reporter to cover the red carpet at the recent BAFTA’s in London who only spoke
to male actors and gave them the ‘who are you wearing treatment’, along with
requesting Eddie Redmayne and Michael Keaton to ‘do a twirl’. You can guess who did and who didn’t. But it was the look on the mens’ faces as
they were faced with such trivial, banal questioning that was the best.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At the Screen Actors Guild Awards
in January actors Jennifer Aniston, Reese Witherspoon and Julianne Moore all
refused to parade their fingers for the mani cam. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But to borrow from Mr Dylan, “the
times they are a-changing”. Last night,
as I watched the first hour of E!’s Red Carpet Show the change in emphasis was
obvious. Men and women were both asked
who they were wearing – but that was it.
They were then asked more. And
for the time I watched anyway there wasn’t a mani-cam or glam cam in sight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fight goes on but at least the battle to #askhermore
seems to have been won. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: magenta;">You might like <a href="http://barbarascully.blogspot.ie/2011/03/go-dad.html">this story </a>on the Oscars From My Table Archives </span></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-38149352103037525062015-02-04T10:52:00.000+00:002015-02-04T10:52:54.950+00:00FEARLESS NO MORE.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mScRzpptKpo/VNH5h5pfBiI/AAAAAAAAA_A/cmlSqxEkWW8/s1600/diaries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mScRzpptKpo/VNH5h5pfBiI/AAAAAAAAA_A/cmlSqxEkWW8/s1600/diaries.jpg" height="320" width="297" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a fear of clutter. I throw stuff out at an alarming rate. I especially hate the idea of the space above
our heads being full of rubbish, so things have to pass my inspection before
they are allowed to be stored in the attic.
However there are two large bags up there which I insist on
keeping. I rarely investigate these bags
but I like to know they are there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These bags contain a part of my soul. They contain my old diaries. No, not the kind of private journals into
which you pour your heart and innermost darkest secrets. No, these are work diaries. And they go right back to the early 1980s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first career was in the travel business and my oldest diaries
date from my days working for JWT.
Although holding no deep secrets, they do provide plenty of clues to
what was going on in my life then.
Because along with work related appointments and reminders, my social
life is also recorded therein. Pages
that end with a scribble that says ‘Toners’ (pub in Baggot Street in which I
spent quite a proportion of my meagre salary in those heady days), or Fridays
that often say “the Pink” referring to <b>the</b>
place to hang out back then. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Music gigs were also an important feature with weekends
littered with band names like ‘Stepaside’ and ‘The Lookalikes’. Just looking at these notes, which give away
no secrets, I can remember many things that will remain forever secret, well as
long as I don’t ever fall out with my oldest friends.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s not just the pages of the diary that hold clues to
my previous lives. My diaries have
always been used as storage folders for important bits and pieces of
information – everything from other people’s business cards to notes and
letters. My JWT diaries hold copies of
memos requesting holidays. There are
long rolls of telex communications that were vital for some reason or
other. Ask your ma or da what a telex
is. These diaries are a window into the
world of work in the largely pre computer era.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the back of the diaries are lists of vital phone numbers
– although in those days I could recite most of them off by heart. I don’t even know my children’s phone numbers
now – something that does worry me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there are postcards from various far flung destinations. In the days before Facebook when we went on
holidays we sent postcards back to let friends and family know that we were
having a wonderful time. They’ve lasted
way longer than last month’s Facebook posts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Currently in my work desk I have a drawer that is full of my
most recent diaries... the writing and broadcasting ones. One of the great joys of self employment is
getting to pick one’s own diary. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About five years ago, when I first decided to leave the cosy
and safe confines of my kitchen table in deepest suburbia in order to market my
opinions in the media I came across a diary called ‘A Fearless Woman’. Knowing that this was what I was going to
have to become, I bought it. It was
pretty and colourful and each month began with a page emblazoned with an
affirmation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have bought a Fearless Woman Date Book even since. Let me share what January 2014 said; “From
the deep well of her spirit, her brave voice awakens to rise and to roar. Empowered to say what she knows to be true,
she speaks up and doesn’t hold back”. Great
motivational stuff that I cling to on days when I wonder what kind of an eejit
I am to think anyone is going to commission me to write anything at all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So for the last five years my desk has been graced by my
gorgeous Fearless Woman Diary. Then in
the haze Christmas shopping madness, I made a rash decision. My head was turned by a pretty little pocket
diary covered in glitter. “Sure wouldn’t
that be grand” I thought to myself; a nice sparkly diary that I could have in
my bag. Big mistake. Huge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two weeks into January I was lost and I’m still completely
bereft. My glittery diary is too
small. I can never find it. It won’t fit precious photos or slips of paper
I may need. I hate it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But worst of all, it’s now too late to find a Fearless Woman
diary in the shops. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moral of this tale is that all that glitters (yes, I
know he wrote ‘glisters’) is indeed not gold.
Also - you are not what you eat – you are your diary. And how am I to
continue to be a Fearless Woman in 2015 when I only have a stupid glittery yoke
to work with?</div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-63262645667723605392015-01-13T11:40:00.000+00:002015-01-13T11:40:21.101+00:00A FAMINE SIT COM? WHY NOT?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
When I first heard that Channel
Four had commissioned a ‘sit-com’ about the Famine I winced. My reaction was one of revulsion. The famine remains a special kind of horror
that we may still be coming to terms with as a nation. The National Famine Monument in Co Mayo was only
unveiled in 1997 and it was not until 2008 that we, as a country inaugurated a
National Famine Commemoration Day. Why
did we take so long to begin to deal with this catastrophe? Do we carry the horror of starving to death in
our DNA as a kind of race memory? Do we
Irish people of today carry some residue of guilt that our families survived
and remained in Ireland? I think all of
these questions may have an affirmative answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I know I was not alone is experiencing
revulsion at the idea of a comedy being set around those awful years between
1845 and 1850. There is currently an
online petition with over 20,000 signatures against this proposed project.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But once I got over my initial
reaction I was almost equally disturbed by the notion that I might consider
certain topics to be off limits to comedy or satire. All my life I have found humour even in the
darkest moments. And I believe that it
is this ability to see the absurd even in the tragic that has regularly saved
my sanity. I am a huge believer in the
power of humour to make life bearable and at times joyful beyond
explanation. There is nothing as
exhilarating as to be taken to that place where you are literally crying with
laughter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We lost American comedian Joan
Rivers last year. At times Ms River’s
comedy made me wince too. Particularly
when she attacked someone for being fat or ugly – or God forbid, both. I still think that personal attacks are the
lowest form of wit. Ricky Gervais is
another purveyor of this brand of humour.
I like my comedy to be a bit clever. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
When Ms Rivers died, I tweeted that
I sometimes found her humour to be cruel rather than funny. That tweet didn’t earn me any new followers
and I was taken to task by a number of her fans online. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Over Christmas, ITV screened ‘An
Audience with Joan Rivers’ which was originally aired in 2005. Towards the end of the programme she was
asked if there was anything she wouldn’t joke about. Her answer completely won me over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It’s a well known fact that her
husband committed suicide (as she says, ‘in the 80s when it was still chic’). She explained that when she went back on
stage the first time after his death, she
could feel the audience wondering how she would be. She tackled their curiosity head on. Her first joke was about suicide. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
However, she then went on to talk
about how her beloved daughter, Melissa reacted after the sudden death of her
father. Melissa has spoken him on the
phone the night before he died. Melissa was
also the only person home when the phone call came to say he passed away. Joan got somewhat emotional when she
explained how, for over a week after the funeral, she couldn’t reach her poor
15 year old daughter. Finally she took
her out to dinner to a very expensive restaurant in Hollywood. As they looked at the menus Joan said “you
know Melissa, if you father were here looking at these prices, he’d kill
himself all over again”. And Melissa
laughed. Connection was re-established.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I think there is a reason that we
are the only species on earth that have a sense of humour. I am sure that our ability to laugh is
designed as a release valve – a way of making life more bearable, especially at
times of disaster – personal, national or indeed global.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Joan Rivers can joke about suicide
because she has experienced it at close quarters (and she did a lot of charity
work around the issue). There was a
truth in her comedy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The young man commissioned by
Channel Four to write this sit com about the Famine is Hugh Travers. He is Irish.
So too is the production company, Deadpan Pictures. That also makes a difference. So although the project may air on a British
TV station, it will be an Irish creation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We Irish should be the first to
make comedy around the Famine, because we know the truth of it. It won’t lessen the horror of what
happened. It won’t insult the memory of
those that died. It won’t change anything. No more than the movie ‘Good Morning Vietnam’
lessened the horror of the Vietnam War. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But it had better be funny. To be unfunny would be unforgiveable. I wish
Mr Travers the best of luck.</div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-8585304411142221612014-11-29T16:57:00.000+00:002014-11-29T16:57:54.049+00:00LOVE CHRISTMAS? ME?... Maybe this year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-frH9S-BQz6A/VHn6rT0dzdI/AAAAAAAAA-k/O6g_slnz2CQ/s1600/centra%2Bchristmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-frH9S-BQz6A/VHn6rT0dzdI/AAAAAAAAA-k/O6g_slnz2CQ/s1600/centra%2Bchristmas.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Every Tuesday a lovely, chatty man who loves to laugh calls
to my door with a delivery of eggs. We
shoot the breeze for a couple of minutes and we always end up with a
laugh. Last week the poor man had the misfortune
to ask me if I was looking forward to Christmas. “Looking forward to Christmas” I roared at
him... “looking forward to Christmas. No
I bloody well am not. Christmas is just
a whole heap of hard work.” By now his
expression of slight bemusement had morphed into something approaching terror,
as if he has awoken some sleeping beast or had suddenly realised he was on a
rapidly accelerating runaway train. He
started to edge back out the door. But I
was only getting going. “Along with the
stress of weeks of present buying in stuffy over crowded shops I then have the
prospect of peeling a mountain of spuds on Christmas Eve, followed by carrots
and sprouts... that no one likes but we have to have them because they are
traditional.. and God forbid we move away from tradition. Not to mention trifle, puddings and Christmas
cake. Now who the hell in the right mind
would look forward to Christmas? It’s
too much bloody hard work” I roar. The
poor man was at the front gate by now, muttering “right so, see you next week.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I closed the door I realised that I seemed to actually
resent Christmas even more than I had thought.
I felt sorry for the egg man who would clearly arrive home to his wife
saying “jaysus Barbara went off on a right one today”. Although maybe he wouldn’t say anything to
his wife for fear he might awaken the sleeping beast with her too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But seriously, Christmas is a huge amount of hard work and
yeah I do have offers of help but maybe I like playing the martyr or maybe I am
a bit of a control freak but I generally do the lion’s share of the donkey work
myself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now back when the kids were smaller and I was relishing the
surprising joy of being a ‘housewife’ (hate that term) I was a wee bit
terrified at the thought of providing Christmas Dinner for extended
family. It’s not that making roast
turkey with all the trimmings is that complicated but the trick was and still
is getting everything to be ready at the same time. My Achilles heel is usually getting the roast
potatoes sufficiently crispy without the vegetables going soft. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually I have two Achilles heels. The other is that every year I make two
puddings – because I LOVE Christmas pudding but also, because, until last year, I
always burn the arse off the first one. Then someone gave me the secret of placing a
saucer under the pudding bowl – who knew?
No more horrible smell of melted plastic in the kitchen followed by
hours trying to scrape said stuff off my best heavy bottomed saucepan. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, by the time I
actually get to eat my pudding I am red faced, in a sweat and completely
exhausted and only slightly inebriated.
Everyone else is merrily pulling crackers, well pissed and completely
oblivious to my pain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I hate that I am beginning to be known as a Christmas Grinch. “Oh Barbara, she hates Christmas” people say
about me. But it’s really only the
Christmas dinner shenanigans I hate. I
love Christmas carols, I love cold crispy weather, I love the smell of a
Christmas tree and the twinkle of the lights. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this year I am going to attempt to make life a bit easier for
myself. I am going to buy as much pre prepared
stuff as I can. There is a voice in my
head that says “ah but that’s cheating and not very traditional” but feck
that. I want to sit down without a red
face and with enough energy to pull crackers with everyone else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the good news is that all the supermarkets are full of
great ready prepared vegetables and prepared meats to make our lives easier. The good people at Centra let me have a look
at what they have in store to help a tired housewife like me enjoy Christmas
more. It looks like heaven.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From boned and rolled turkey (who needs turkey wings anyway),
and ham joints to potato gratin and spouts with bacon. They also have desserts and party food and
cheese boards. All the hard work done. Oh joy of joys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I no longer need to prove I can cook a Christmas dinner for
ten. Been there and done that too many
times. No this year I am taking it
easier and letting Centra do the heavy lifting.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t wait to tell the egg man!!! Now, where's that recipe for Mistletoe Mojitos?</div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-66508968995767364172014-11-03T11:07:00.002+00:002014-11-03T11:07:38.954+00:00YOU'RE GRAND.... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EkQW_-MYz0Y/VFdhO4bBN_I/AAAAAAAAA-U/TqRRfqrez8Q/s1600/you're%2Bgrand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EkQW_-MYz0Y/VFdhO4bBN_I/AAAAAAAAA-U/TqRRfqrez8Q/s1600/you're%2Bgrand.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love starting a post with “as regular readers will know”. When I read this phrase elsewhere I always feel
kind of slighted that perhaps I am not a regular a reader as I should be. So ...... as my esteemed and highly valued
regular readers will know (are you feeling a little slighted yet?) I don’t usually review books on my blog. But very occasionally a book will cross my
desk that is a bit special. And this one
is not only special but is the kind of book I wish I could write. because it’s
very fecking clever as well as very funny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shortly after the launch of You’re Grand by Tara Flynn, a
fellow journalist, tweeted that it was a grand read ‘for the jacks’ and he
stressed that he meant that as a compliment.
I would like to take serious issue with that. This is a book for the bath! Not the jacks. I read it over four long leisurely soaks in
fragrant bubbles and it was the perfect place to delve into the wit and wisdom
contained within its pages. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why the bath I hear you say. Well this book may well be ‘a secret guide
to life’ but it’s much more than that.
It may well be very funny (and it is, believe me). But along with the hilarity and the seemingly
gentle tone there is a sharp edge of satire which any woman who has lived on
this little damp rock in the North Atlantic will recognise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However – and here is the clever bit – instead of leaving
us, the women of Ireland, feeling very cross at having been ‘shushed’ and sidelined
for decades, Tara constantly reminds us of where we came from. Throughout the book she mentions old pagan
Ireland when we were Goddesses. And she
hints time and again that (like cats) we haven’t forgotten that fact.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this book will remind you of all the crap we have put up
with over centuries. But ultimately this
book will raise your spirits and possibly even reconnect you with your inner
Goddess. She hasn’t gone away... she is
still there. And where better to begin
to uncover her than while pampering your body and relaxing your mind in a bath
of warm bubbles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Get your paws on a copy of ‘You’re Grand’ and then buy one
for your mammy and your best friend. The
sooner we all remember who we really, the sooner this country will be on the
way to be properly fixed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh and by the way... even if you're not Irish and even if you don't even live here, you will find lots to enjoy in this book.. and you also could discover your inner Goddess... Let me know how you get on.. And don't forget to soak in the bath while you are at it!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-61287533721479158332014-10-29T12:31:00.000+00:002014-10-29T18:19:49.771+00:00THE HEN HOUSE CELEBRATES ONE YEAR ON AIR<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--4um6LS4i4Y/VFDdvjAhtOI/AAAAAAAAA-E/rfkGxVRFzQc/s1600/hen%2Bhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--4um6LS4i4Y/VFDdvjAhtOI/AAAAAAAAA-E/rfkGxVRFzQc/s1600/hen%2Bhouse.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the last year 58 amazing women have made the trip out to Dundrum Town Centre to be my guest on The Hen
House. This week marks the programmes first birthday!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I came up with the idea for the Hen House I worried
that I would quickly run out of women who were willing to come and talk to me for an
hour. I never doubted that
there were lots of interesting and funny women out there.. but asking them for
a large chunk of their afternoon to come into studio and be interviewed by
yours truly was and is a big ask. I am
very grateful to each and every one of you who have given me your time, your pearls
of wisdom and some great laughs. But
more than anything I want to thank you for using your voice to tell your story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some stories were intensely personal, some were related to
your work and some were related to a cause you feel passionately about. But each of you gave your talent and your
time very graciously and generously. And
for that I am very grateful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But more than all of that you women have made your voices
heard. Amid the male dominated noise and
chatter on our airwaves, The Hen House is providing women with a platform and a
space to talk, to tell our stories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are the women who made the last year such a great
experience for me personally and who have helped to redress the gender
imbalance on air in Ireland:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jillian Godsill, (on surviving bankruptcy)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
June Shannon (medical journalist and mental health
campaigner)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joanna Fortune (child psychotherapist)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sarina Bellissimo (broadcaster – Spin 1038)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jill O Herlihy (PR supremo)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eleanor Fitzsimons (writer)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vanessa O Loughlin (all things writing)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dil Wickremasinghe (broadcaster and social justice
campaigner)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caroline Grace Cassidy and Sorcha Furlong (actresses and writers)<br />
Abby Wynne (healer)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sinead Buckley Quinn (Design Loft in Powerscourt)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrea Hayes (broadcaster, TV Presenter and animal
campaigner)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mary Mitchell O Connor, TD</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michelle Jackson (author and travel writer)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sharon Lawless (documentary maker)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrea Smith (journalist)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Janet O Sullivan (pagan, witch and feminist)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Orla O Connor (CEO NWCI)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Noirin Scully, Mairin Cullen and Stephanie Batt – wise older
women</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maeve O Sullivan (poet)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caroline Erskine (Women on Air former Chairperson)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan Lohan (Adoption Rights Alliance)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carmen Browne (singer)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Elaine Lavery and Hannah O Reilly – Improper Butter</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aisling O Toole (Editor – Irish Country Magazine)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ann Colgan, Jeanette Kavanagh, Ellen O Connor – local election
candidates</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ailson Canavan (model, business women and mental health
campaigner)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Denise Deegan (author)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Louise Bayliss (Spark) and Grainne Sherlock on lone
parenting</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hazel Gaynor (author)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Margaret Scully (radio documentary maker and broadcaster)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sinead Burke (fashionista, blogger and small person)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jen McGuirk (actress and intrepid traveller)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellen Gunning (PR)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Muriel Bolger (author, journalist and travel writer)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maria Duffy (author)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grace Kelly, Aimee Corcoran and Megan Brady – the Class of 2014</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deirdre O Connor (care of the elderly)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrea Mara (office mum)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr Ger Scanlon and Laura Haugh – Education special</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jillian Van Turnhout – Senator</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hazel Larkin, (blogger and writer)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Irene Lowry, (CEO, Nurture)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mary White, Senator</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vicki Mooney (Plus size models)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Helen Walsh (holistic fitness instructor)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cindy O Connor and Trish Errity from Pieta House</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ciara Meehan (history lecturer and curator of Modern Wife,
Modern Life exhibition)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Claire McGing (lecturer in political geography).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you all so much......
And thanks to all of you have listened – either live or by listening
back to the podcasts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am hoping that all of these past programmes will be
available on the Hen House page on the Dublin South FM website in the not too
distant future.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-35487529107759361632014-10-25T12:59:00.000+01:002014-10-26T01:37:37.594+01:00Dear Enda.... about IRISH WATER <div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday on the Twitter machine, Dearbhail McDonald, Legal
Editor with the Irish Independent posed the following question. <b>“If <a href="https://twitter.com/IrishWater"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">@irishwater</span></a> were to somehow start all over
again, what advice would you give to the government?”</b> 140 characters were not enough. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Enda</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is little doubt that Irish Water a complete mess and a
PR disaster. This is the result of rushing
at it like a horny bull at a gate into a field of attractive cows, whose eyes
are only on the prize, in your Government’s case – the tax revenue. Remember what your mammy taught you – “fail
to prepare, then prepare to fail.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the Government has a bigger problem. The imposition of yet another tax on the beleaguered
people of this country has finally pushed us to boiling anger. And this anger is not just, as some
commentators would have us believe, because we live in a soggy country where it
rains all the time resulting in our having some kind of psychological
reluctance to pay for the very stuff that often makes us feel damp and
miserable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are angry because we have had enough. We are angry because this is a tax too
far. We are angry because we now know
that in two years time most of us; especially those of us who live in urban
centres are going to be fleeced with the unfair property tax that is calculated
on value of our homes as opposed to square footage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are angry because this is how we are repaid for our
compliance with all the austerity that has been forced upon us for debts that
we didn’t incur. It is the people who
have allowed your Government and the previous one, to enforce the cuts and
taxes that have given you great kudos abroad.
Ireland’s so called recovery is not your triumph – it belongs to the
people of this country. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we are now saying enough is enough. We have no more to give. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But let’s park the anger for a moment. There is obviously a case to be made for the
payment of water and the treatment of waste.
In principle I would imagine most of us would accept this. So here is what I suggest you do. If, that is, you really are planning for an
infrastructure project that will serve this country and our people for the next
number of decades and not (as most of us suspect) you are just seeing Irish
Water as another way to raise more tax Euros in the short term.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Streamlined, small efficient
company</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Irish Water should be in the first instance a small and very
efficient company. It should not be a
retirement home for workers who previously have been employed by the local councils.
There should be no talk of bonuses or whatever other terms have been used to
describe same. Ditto with car allowances
and other nonsense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Fix the leaks</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the first instance Irish Water should be charged with fixing
the leaky system. And don’t give us the
line about how will they pay for it? If
Dun Laoghaire Rathdown County Council can spend €33 million on a monster
library, if the GAA can secure €30 million for the redevelopment of Pairc Ui
Chaoimh, money will be found. How much
have you spent on the other ill fated project currently on the table, the
Children’s Hospital? This year we will
pay in the region of €4 billion in that other awful austerity tax the Universal
Social Charge. As usual in politics – there
is always the money - it’s a question of priorities. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Grants for rainwater
harvesting and other water conservation measures <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If water is as precious a resource as Irish Water have tried
to tell us it is and if we are serious about changing our attitudes to water
then it is vital that the Government introduce incentives to allow people to
invest a little now in measures that would conserve water in the future. To me this is a glaring omission to the
current plan for introducing water charges.
Bringing in such incentives would also have a positive PR bounce as it
would give the impression that instead of being ripped off we are all in this
together. See how we took to
recycling? We can easily do similar with
water conservation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Install meters</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once the company is seen to be fit for purpose and the leaky
system has been brought into the 21<sup>st</sup> century, then Irish Water can
begin the process of fitting meters. But
could I suggest that most people would like a meter that they could read easily
– similar to the ESB or Gas Meter and not something that exists solely under
the ground at the end of the driveway.
We have never paid for water as a separate utility before and most of us have little or no
idea about how much we actually use. It
is vital to build trust so a meter that is visible to householders I think is
essential.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When all of the above
has been completed then it is appropriate to announce a date for billing to
start. I would suggest no earlier than
2020</b>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Finally – once we are
paying for water – there should be no talk of call out charges. If there is a gas leak – do we have to pay
the Gas Company to attend? <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that as Taoiseach you are surrounded by advisors that
cost me and the rest of us plenty money.
You might like to review their input Enda. Because Irish Water is rapidly going to go
down in history as the biggest government mess ever – eclipsing the E Voting
machines and Children’s Hospital and Incinerator messes that have preceded it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once you start bullying your electorate Enda you lose
them. This project needs to be
completely reimagined. Irish Water needs
to be completely overhauled before you can do anything. Then slowly, bringing your people with you,
there might be some chance of success.
And your legacy may just survive... and I know that’s very
important. Not to us... but to you and
your fellow Ministers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sincerely</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Barbara Scully<br />
<br />
P.S oh and by the way Enda, tinkering about with allowances etc is not going to quell the anger... in fact it may do exactly the opposite. We know you are on the ropes on this one... it's time for time out and a total rethink and redesign. </div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-39752008867986049822014-09-30T22:16:00.000+01:002014-09-30T22:16:45.266+01:00SEPTEMBER... THE MOST DELICIOUS MONTH<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It happens usually in mid August. There will be an evening when the air carries
a little extra chill and suddenly you become aware that autumn is waiting in
the wings of the day, just beyond your perception. It is the gentlest of whispers, carried on
the breeze that signals summer is in decline and we are actually slipping
slowly and quietly into autumn. My cats
usually pick up on this subtle change in the air too and they have already
staked out their favourite places to sleep in various parts of the house, their
summer wanderlust exhausted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Perhaps it’s our Celtic DNA but I
have no doubt that the old Irish calendar is right and we are now in Mean
Fomhair – the middle of autumn. The
leaves have yet to turn and the weather is still mild but summer is over. We have arrived at the evening of the year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
September is a particularly
delicious month. After the slack
routines and exertions of summer, order is restored as the children return to
their studies. The new academic year
offers us all a chance for a new beginning.
Another chance to make the changes to our lives or lifestyles we may
have pondered as we lay soaking up the rays of summer sunshine. September is a hopeful month and yet a month
that makes no demands of us with no festivals or bank holidays. It is not surprising that in a recent survey
in the UK less than one percent of those surveyed nominated September as the
most stressful month of the year. The
most stressful honour went, unsurprisingly to January, followed closely by
December.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But what makes September
particularly worth savouring is that it is a month which signals a slowing
down. Autumn is when Mother Nature draws
her energy inward, as the leaves fall and the earth prepares for the long winter
sleep. Me, I make preparations for the
long winter nights. September makes me
look again at my living space to see how I might make it cosy and warm. All it might take is a new throw for the sofa
and a load of wood logs in the basket ready for the first fire. By the end of the month I will have made the
excursion under my bed to retrieve the storage boxes that hold my winter hoodies
and fleeces, clothes that only require any old body as opposed to a supposedly
‘beach ready body’ we need for summer wear. Which is just as well as September
is all about my kind of food. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In preparation for the frugal
winter, nature is giving up her harvest.
Orchards are full of fallen apples and anyone can savour the rich bounty
of the hedgerows which are now bursting with berries. It is the month for apple and blackberry
crumble and time to replace cream with warm custard. It is the month when menus change – domestic ones
anyway, with the welcome reintroduction of warming food like shepherd’s pie,
bangers and mash and big pots of spicy vegetable soup. Slowing down and comfort food, what more
could you want?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But there is more. September is also the most sensual of
months. The air smells different
carrying perhaps a hint of wood smoke or bonfire. The light softens, lending a warm glow to the
landscape as the sun moves away from us.
The countryside and parks are a riot of autumnal colour in hues of russet
and gold and red and orange. It is a
month to get out and walk, savouring the smells, the colours and the sound of
leaves crunching underfoot. And a chance
to visit your inner child by reliving the thrill of finding and collecting
pocketfuls of wine-red shiny chestnuts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
September is like climbing into
your own freshly made bed after a wonderful, busy, fun holiday. It is like coming home after a hard day’s
work to a warm welcoming house, closing your front door and knowing you won’t
have to venture out into the world again till tomorrow. It’s like putting on your comfiest slippers
after a day in fabulous but rather painful shoes. It’s the feeling that all is well with the
world that sometimes comes with the first sip of red wine. September is all about just being rather than
doing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Maybe in a former life I was a
bear. Perhaps that is why I love this month
so much. But I am ready to waddle, book
in one hand, hot chocolate in the other, into my fireside where I will park
myself on a comfy chair, put a soft blanket over my legs and a cat on my lap
and I will while away many happy evenings.
And best of all about September?
It precedes October. Oh how I
love October. </div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-11184427579370430402014-09-05T15:18:00.000+01:002014-09-05T15:18:50.829+01:00LET'S JUDGE A PAUSE THERE SISTERS.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t0snTWxteqE/VAnEJr4OCGI/AAAAAAAAA90/bqSUsFb4PwU/s1600/blog%2Bimage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t0snTWxteqE/VAnEJr4OCGI/AAAAAAAAA90/bqSUsFb4PwU/s1600/blog%2Bimage.png" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes being a feminist is kind of confusing. It is very easy to become hyper aware of
anything that could be viewed as being degrading to us women. And if you look hard enough you will find
such things everywhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it is vital that before we decry the culprit that we
take a wee moment to think. I know that
I don’t want to live in a world where we are ultra politically correct all the
time at the expense of our ability to laugh at ourselves – individually or collectively.
Therefore when your senses are assaulted
by an image which shouts ‘foul’ or ‘this is sexist’ as a friend of mine says ‘judge
a pause’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three such images appeared in the media this week. As first glance all three looked sexist but
in actual fact only one was.... in my humble anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First up was the full page ad that Today FM took out to
announce two new male presenters of their lunchtime show. The ad featured a bra with the male presenters
featuring in each cup and there was a tag line of Double D a play on the image
and the fact that the presenters are called Dermot and Dave. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next one that crossed my consciousness was the image used in
a campaign that has just been launched by Concern and Women’s Aid called ‘<a href="http://www.irishtimes.com/news/ireland/irish-news/does-fundraiser-trade-on-gender-stereotypes-1.1916995">Are You Man Enough To Walk In Her Shoes</a>’
There was a cartoon image of a male figure in a pair of high stilettos. I guess is asking men to try to imagine what
it feels like to be a woman – and a vulnerable one at that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last image of the week appeared in the Irish Times yesterday. It was a PR shot to announce the Cancer
Society’s Paint It Pink campaign. It
featured RTE presenter Keelin Shanley (a breast cancer survivor) dressed in
pink holding a tin of paint and a very attractive bare chested young man up a
ladder supposedly painting the door. As
someone who worked in PR and the partner of a professional photographer it was
most definitely a cracking photo which drew the eye in immediately. The image was also used in The Journal and
can be seen <a href="http://www.thejournal.ie/aspirin-breast-cancer-1651777-Sep2014/">here</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So your honour, which of these images is guilty of being
sexist? Only the first one. Why? Like
most other things in life, because of the context. This ad featuring male presenters’ faces on a
bra is sexist because it was put out by a radio station that has not one female
presenter presenting a daytime show during the week. It is boys radio and so therefore cannot use
women’s breasts to advertise a programme not matter how clever the play on
words. If the station doesn’t think that
women should present primetime radio shows, then they can leave our underwear
out of their campaigns. So Foul and
Sexist can be correctly labelled to this ill conceived campaign. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second campaign ‘Are You Man Enough To Walk In Her Shoes’
I don’t have a problem with even though I don’t own and never had owned a pair
of high shoes. But I know that makes me
the exception rather than the rule where women are concerned. Most women I know own and wear high heels –
not every day maybe but regularly.
Therefore it’s fair enough to use this fact to come up with a fun
campaign to raise money for vulnerable women.
And high heels do make women vulnerable... but that’s a different
column.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lastly, the PR photo for cancer that featured Keelin Shanley
and male model Darragh Hayes was simply a great photo. Mr Hayes is a model doing what he does best –
looking delicious. Irish (female) models
regularly post in bikinis to promote all range of weird and wonderful
products. Yes I agree it’s a lazy
photocall but I believe if we even up the score a bit – more handsome chaps
looking.. handsome I can live with it. I
am not sure I want to live in a world where being able to admire a beautiful
body is outlawed in case it offends someone.
As long as it is models that are used and the score is even – as many
men as women – so what?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we become more aware of women being undermined and
belittled we are in danger of over reacting. We need to bear that in mind, sisters!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-67516207139013971982014-08-15T16:13:00.000+01:002014-08-15T16:13:18.389+01:00WHAT ARE WE AFRAID OF?<div class="MsoNormal">
I am afraid to watch the television news at the moment. I am afraid of what I might see. I am afraid of the nightmares that might
result. I am afraid of images that will
burn into my brain and resurface at some time in the future. I am afraid to confront the reality of what
is happening in the Middle East. I can’t
seem to process what I am hearing and reading.
I don’t know how to react or what to do about the horror that seems to
be spreading through the region.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t understand the politics of the area beyond the most
simplistic outline of recent history. I
don’t pretend to have any particular insight into the cultures of the Middle
East. But what is going on right now in Syria,
Gaza and Iraq in particular is beyond politics.
It is beyond reason. There can be
no excuses, no justification for the cruelty and the barbarism that has become
rampant. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It began with the killing of children in Gaza. How can there ever be a reason to bomb a
school? And it happened not once but at
least twice. Day after day, week after
week, we saw photos of these broken little innocent bodies as they lay dead or
dying. This destruction not caused by
some madman on a solo rampage but by a sovereign nation’s army. Big, well armed men, killing tiny
children. How can that ever, ever be
justified? It was evil when it was done
by the provisional IRA bombing campaigns and it is wrong now. No matter what history has done to a people,
no matter what injustices have been perpetrated against them, killing and
maiming children is a war crime. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is little worse in my mind than killing babies but the
depravity of the violence in Iraq in recent days is just beyond comprehension. It’s like hearing the story line of some very
violent and sick movie. I have skimmed
reports that have mentioned crucifixion, beheading, and dogs feeding on bodies.
I have seen reference to a photo of a young boy, the son of a fighter holding
the head (just the head) of a man – the enemy.
He is another young child who is lost to war. I have read about women being taken in large
numbers to be sold or raped. I can’t do
more than skim the reports because the detail is too shocking, too sickening,
too upsetting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if that sounds like a very wimpish and, dare I say it,
girly response that’s because it is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The countries of Syria, Gaza and Iraq are populated by ordinary
families and by women who are far more like me than they are different. Women who are mothers too and whose lives
revolve around caring for their families and particularly their children,
feeding them, loving them, educating them and protecting them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it is these women and their children who are
increasingly haunting my dreams. I see
the fear and the horror in the eyes that stare at me from the appalling images
that are carried on news bulletins and in the press. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow I feel that these women, who have suffered
appallingly, who have lost children and loved ones, who live with the threat of
rape, know that I know what is going on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I am struck dumb by not being able to process these
stories. I have taken weeks to try to
even write this blog post. I can’t
articulate a response to this horror.
Anything I say or write seems wholly inadequate. But yet to do and say nothing is to ignore
those eyes I know are looking at me. Looking at us. Wondering when we are at least going to say
something, to condemn what is patently immoral.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our government didn’t represent me when they chose to
abstain from the UN vote on Gaza recently.
If any country on this planet should be able to identify with injustice,
violence and the need to broker peace it should be Ireland. So it is doubly shameful that we chose not to
stand up, to speak out. Our President
has spoken only informally on this matter, stymied as he is by the constraints
of his office. Perhaps he is also afraid
to watch the news, afraid of what he might see. What the hell is wrong with us?</div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-67023676563169899112014-08-01T13:01:00.000+01:002014-08-01T13:01:57.142+01:00HE WAS SOME CAT....<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IeJ-Py0XPx4/U9t_h_jz8qI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/j82Z2hwZjTw/s1600/simba3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IeJ-Py0XPx4/U9t_h_jz8qI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/j82Z2hwZjTw/s1600/simba3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
16 years is a long time to live with someone regardless of
how many legs they have. In our house we
live with as many four leggeds as with two leggeds and the bonds of love are strong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week our oldest four legged – Simba died. He had been in decline for months but my
philosophy for elderly animals is that as long as they are enjoying life I
would prefer them to fade slowly away. I
am not inclined to interfere with nature’s natural leisurely journey towards
the end unless there is pain or discomfort involved. Simba had lost weight and also his hearing
but he was happy and still enjoying life right until the last day or so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VJujDz5PBUQ/U9t_eh17n3I/AAAAAAAAA9I/vPUKEEckVl8/s1600/simba+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VJujDz5PBUQ/U9t_eh17n3I/AAAAAAAAA9I/vPUKEEckVl8/s1600/simba+old.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was Carla, our eldest who brought Simba home to our first
house in Shankill when she was about 11 years old. She found him in some old woman’s shed where
a cat had just had kittens and the old woman said she could keep him. He was probably a bit too young to have been
taken from his mother but I had a baby myself and probably wasn’t fully paying
attention and so Simba stayed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NWJcNfi1j6k/U9t_ScMU_DI/AAAAAAAAA84/Lj1vfomI3O8/s1600/simba+sunbathes.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NWJcNfi1j6k/U9t_ScMU_DI/AAAAAAAAA84/Lj1vfomI3O8/s1600/simba+sunbathes.png" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was cute like all kittens are and very playful. But as he got older we discovered a dark
quirk to his large rambunctious personality.
He wasn’t that keen on children or older people. It began when he took a swipe at some of the
cousins, all of whom were very young. He
missed but we realised that if young visitors came to the house we would have
to lock Simba into a room for their safety.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was also a problem when we hosted parties for the
girls, with lots of kids running about the house Simba was invariably released
from his captivity. So with the next
party on the horizon I decided to visit the vet and investigate how best to
deal with his behavioural quirk. The vet
advised some behavioural realignment using cat valium. Yes, I kid you not. I came away with a month’s supply of cat
valium which would hopefully teach Simba to chill and not attack children.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem with the cat valium was that they were tiny
tablets and the vet told me administer one quarter of a tablet per day. So for three days I attempted to quarter a
tiny tablet which resulted in bits of cat valium bits about my kitchen. Not ideal when I now had two small children
who spent a lot of time crawling about on the floor. So I gave up.
Instead I decided that I would administer a tablet on the day of the
party to keep him calm and the visiting children safe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simba was a pig when it came to food so it was no problem to
get him to take the tablet. I will never
forget the faces of the parents who dropped their little darlings off, when
they spied a huge fat cat comatose on the back of an armchair with his mouth
open and tongue hanging out. He was
happily out of his head for hours... and no one got hurt at the party. The supply of cat valium lasted through the
parties at home stage and Simba had no recollection of any of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simba grew up into a huge, lazy, vocal, affectionate cat who
loved being around us and in the house.
In winter no one got as excited as he did on a cold evening when we lit
the fire. He would be in, staking his
place in front of the hearth at the first sound of coal being rattled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He grew and grew so much that I got tired of visitors asking
when ‘she’ was due to give birth. Then
someone arrived one day who looked at me as if I were really thick. “That cat has a tumour or something” he
said. “I’ve never seen a cat that
size. Have you taken him to the vet?” “No”, I said sheepishly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next day, full of guilt I took Simba to the vet. “What’s the problem” he said. I recounted the story of the man who said he
must have a tumour. The vet examined
Simba and then asked me two questions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aHCFpDHDbgc/U9uBUElNUwI/AAAAAAAAA9k/YitqphX5fmY/s1600/simba+fat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aHCFpDHDbgc/U9uBUElNUwI/AAAAAAAAA9k/YitqphX5fmY/s1600/simba+fat.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Does he eat a lot?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh yeah,” I said “he loves his food”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Does he take much exercise?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Em, no not really,” I answered “he likes to be indoors,
with us. He’s kind of lazy”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Exactly,” said the vet.
“He’s just fat. Fine but fat.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were kindred spirits in many ways – me and Simba.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was a constant in our house for the last 16 years. He loved dinner time – watching me as I
prepared food in the hope that I would drop a tasty morsel for him. He would then join us at the table – sitting on
a free chair preferably at the head of the table from where he would listen to
our conversations and wonder what our food tasted like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He thumped down off beds and down the stairs in the manner
of a large child. He talked a lot and
was the only cat who always answered us when we greeted him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although he had issues with some two leggeds he loved other
cats. We have fostered many kittens and
older cats for the DSPCA and Simba never objected to a new arrival. In fact without Simba we would have struggled
to win around some of our very nervous fosters.
It was Simba who would give them the confidence to come out of hiding
and feel safe in the world. His greatest
achievement in this regard was the rehabilitation of Oprah, the feral kitten
who came to us at Christmas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simba was the last of our first generation of cats. In hindsight we should have staggered our cat
adoptions a bit better. Like the way
most of our white goods blew up in year seven of our marriage, over the last 18
months or so I have held the paws of four beloved cats as they left this
world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simba knew the end was near and took himself off to die at
the end of the garden. Unfortunately he (we assume) took a tumble into a little
inaccessible stream at the end of our garden and it took us some hours to
locate him. In the end it was Mia (13)
who found him and she had to come back to get help to reach him. While she did that, another of our cats,
Diego took up position beside the dying Simba until Paul arrived with a ladder
and took poor Simba home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was weak and his body was shutting down so bundling him
into a soft blanket we took him to the emergency veterinary hospital in UCD
where they agreed that we should help him on his journey. So he died as he lived – mainly peacefully
with a bit of drama. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We took him home with us and on Wednesday evening in a soft
rain, as the light drained from the sky, Paul dug a grave for our beloved boy
and we lay him to sleep by the lilac tree in the garden. Diego watched from the wall.</div>
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We now have four young cats – the oldest is about 2 and so I
guess in another 15 years or so I will once again be shedding salty tears as
they take their leave. It’s always sad
and you never get used to it. But it is
a tribute to the animals any of us chose to live with, that they connect with
us in a deep and meaningful way, that they colour every day of the life we live
together and that they become true members of the family.</div>
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Simba will live on in our hearts and the stories of his life
will be told for years to come. He was
some cat!</div>
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Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-71410939012803539002014-07-15T09:19:00.000+01:002014-07-15T09:19:14.169+01:00THE BEST OF TIMES<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, how my summers have changed...</div>
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Clichéd and all as it sounds, it really
does just seem like only yesterday, that summer holidays from school started
with a trip to the Zoo. The first sunny
day after the kids finished in early July I would pack up the car with all necessary
supplies and we would head over to the Phoenix Park. There we would pass happy
hours marvelling at the exotic creatures until they started to flag – the
children that is, not the exotic creatures.
The final few enclosures could be a bit tortuous but it was always a
great day, well except for the traffic on the quays on the way home.</div>
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Summer also meant a visit to
Glenroe Farm in Wicklow, usually with the cousins. A good summer meant we may get there more
than once. With the sun on our backs we
would wander around talking to donkeys, cows and pigs before finally choosing a
picnic table or two on which we would spread our food and treats. Afterwards the kids would do another round of
the animals or just spend an hour in ‘pets corner’ while the mammies and the
grannies stayed and chatted or gossiped.
It was bliss.</div>
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But days out weren’t always so
organised. Most summers we had countless
picnics in the local park which has a great playground which would keep them
amused for at least an hour while I read my book. Or we could go to the river bank – well
stream bank really – with our fishing nets to catch pinkeens – on the strict
understanding we threw them back. Or we
could just sit on the grass making daisy chains or eating ice cream. </div>
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Other days we could head to the
beach at Killiney for a walk and for skimming stones or to Sandycove for a
paddle. </div>
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The last summer treat, which began
as they got a little older, was to take a trip down the N11 to Bray. Old fashioned fun which carried echoes of my
own childhood as we sampled rides on the bumper cars, the ghost train and the
Waltzers. We also had a budget amount of
small change to lose on the slot machines.
The best part of the day though was ending with a bag of chips and a
coke consumed in the car as we watched the sea through rapidly steaming up
windows.</div>
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I miss eating chips from a bag in
the car. I miss paddling. I miss daisy chains. Hell I even miss catching pinkeens.</div>
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But we weren’t always out. Every summer began in the hope of lots of
warm weather and so we bought a paddling pool which over the years got bigger
and very slightly more sophisticated.
But we had one rule for our paddling pool – it had to be able to
accommodate the end of the garden slide.
On those sunny days, before water charges were even a glint in a
Minister’s eye, I would rig up the garden hose to the top of the slide and off
they would go; an aqua park in the back garden.
It made a muddy mess of the lawn and many bushes got permanently damaged
from small bodies careering into them at high speed but it was the best of
craic, even just for the observer.</div>
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As the summer slipped towards
autumn, we bought new schoolbags and school socks in Dunnes Stores and
assembled the books for the coming year without needing a mortgage. </div>
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We also paid a visit to the toy
store and the art shop to treat ourselves to some indoor activities for the
winter; games and crafts and colouring books and crayons. God I miss the excuse to lie on the floor for
an hour colouring in. Talk about being
in the moment – ‘colouring in’ is the most amazing de-stresser. </div>
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I miss spending hours in the kids
section of the bookshop among so many beautifully illustrated and magical
books. </div>
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But that’s what happens with kids –
suddenly your sunny, exuberant, up for anything darlings leave junior school
and head into secondary. They get very
tall and all of a sudden you are not great craic anymore (well you are, but
never in public).</div>
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And while as a parent you relish
the new freedom their independence affords you, there are things you will miss
and will probably continue to miss until some day you will be called ‘granny’
and get to do them again.</div>
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But until that day comes, I vow that this summer I will return to the Zoo - on my own if necessary. I might even paddle in Sandycove. And come late August if you spot me in the local toy shop buying a colouring book and a box of crayons.... say nothing. Oh and it is true that we view the past through rose tinted specs.... but they were the best of times.... honestly.</div>
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<br />Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-4932394737204822162014-07-07T18:32:00.000+01:002014-07-07T18:32:19.425+01:00It's that time again... SUMMER READ RECOMMENDATIONS<div class="MsoNormal">
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As usual here are my top picks for Summer Reading for
you.... You are very welcome!!</div>
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My very top recommendation goes to <b>THE ROSIE PROJECT</b> by
Graeme Simsion</div>
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This is an Australian story in the true tradition of
Australian stories in that it’s quirky and witty and warm. It’s the story of a nerdy, highly intelligent
Genetics Professor called Don Tillman and his attempt to find a life
partner. But it’s not really that. It’s a love story... but it’s not really that
either. It’s about relationships,
control, love, food, travel and everything else that is important in life!</div>
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It will make you laugh and it will engage you totally. I read it in just over 24 hours and I didn’t
want it to end. The film rights have
been purchased... doubt the movie could match the book though. It’s a cracker. </div>
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Next up is <b>WOMAN UPSTAIRS</b> by Claire Messud. </div>
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This is an unusual choice for me because although it’s a
beautifully crafted book, the main character is not totally likeable. Nora
Eldridge has been a good girl all her life.
She is a great teacher to third grade.
She lives alone, is childless and
looking after her elderly dad. But she
is also an artist who doesn’t ‘art’! Those
closest to her have no idea that she is unhappy, unfulfilled and craving a life
that she glimpses through a new boy in her class. </div>
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It’s not the easiest read but the main theme is one that I
feel will particularly resonate with women who generally fulfil multiple roles
in their lives while often subjugating what it is they really want to do. It was an interesting read for that reason. </div>
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<b>STILL ALICE</b> is by Lisa Genova is a beautiful book that tells
the story of Alice and her journey into Alzheimer’s Disease. It’s gracefully told and is set in one of my
favourite places – Boston and Cape Cod. </div>
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The main character Alice is not an elderly lady in the final
decade of her life – she is a 50 year old Professor of Linguistics at Harvard
University. She is very much a career
woman with three grown up children. </div>
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What strikes me most about this book is its central
message. It is a message that I know
something about from years working for The Alzheimer Society of Ireland and of
watching my mother in law lose her memories to dementia. That message is that behind the disease – our
main character is Still Alice!</div>
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A moving but not depressing read. I highly recommend it.</div>
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<b>SUMMER OF 76 </b>by Isabel Ashdown was recommended to me by a
Twitter friend after I had written a piece about The Last Summer – you know
that delicious summer you leave school and stand of the cusp of life. For the record - my last summer was in 1979! You can read my piece here.</div>
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The actual summer of ‘76 was remarkable for the heatwave
that hit Ireland and Britain.
Temperatures soared and people sizzled.
Our story is set around the main character Luke who is enjoying his last
months at home on the Isle of Wight before he heads off to college. It’s a momentous summer of coming of age, of
male friendships and at the centre is a salacious scandal that shocks the local
community.</div>
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Again this book is well written and will have huge
resonances with anyone who was a teenager in the 70s with the references to
music and styles of the time.</div>
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This book for me is everything a summer read should be.</div>
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Now can I mention some Irish books that I haven’t read yet
as they have all just or are about to hit the bookshops.</div>
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First up is Maria Duffy’s latest offering <b><i>ONE WISH</i></b> which
tells the tale of Londoner Becky Greene who moves to Ireland for a fresh start
only to find herself pregnant after a one night stand. Four years later and her daughter is asking
questions about her father. So Becky decides to track him down. Maria is a prolific writer and this book is
sure to be another goodie. It launches
this week but is in bookshops now.</div>
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Muriel Bolger is one of Ireland’s best known and most
experienced travel writers who has taken to writing fiction in the last few years
with some great success. I have just
started her latest book called <b><i>THE PINK PEPPER TREE.</i></b> Muriel’s books always feature travel which is
why they are such great summer reads and this latest one is no different with a
trip to Monte Carlo featuring prominently.
Sure what’s not to like?</div>
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Caroline Grace Cassidy is another talented Irish writer
whose story telling style often reminds me of Maeve Binchey. Her last book The Other Side of Wonderful was
an engaging tale but with a dark edge which was deftly handled. Caroline is putting the finishing touches to
her </div>
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latest story “<i><b>I ALWAYS KNEW</b></i>” which is out in August. I am confident it will be another great
story.</div>
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Finally anyone who was moved The Diving Bell and The
Butterfly will be interested in <b><i>IT’S NOT YET DARK </i></b>by Simon Fitzmaurice. In 2008 Simon was diagnosed with Motor
Neurone Disease. He was given four years
to live. Against medical opinion he
chose to ventilate in order to stay alive.
This book tells us starkly and clearly about his inner life, the power
of love and living every moment.</div>
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So there you have it.. and like old Uncle Gaybo used to say
every year on The Toy Show about giving the gift of reading to a child... let
me say what I say twice every year... don’t buy online if you can support your
local bookshop.</div>
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If money is tight – remember we are lucky in Ireland to still
have a great network of libraries.</div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-80822897900152363232014-06-16T12:28:00.001+01:002014-06-16T12:41:27.685+01:00Not Such A Great Little Country After All<div class="MsoNormal">
I have tried and failed about three times to write this post. It has been really difficult to work out my
feelings about the revelations concerning the treatment of mothers and babies in Ireland in the very recent past. As a woman and
a mother and indeed as a former single parent myself there is something deeply unnerving and
disquieting to learn that your country, the place you live, the place that is
rooted deeply in your bones, the place that defines so much of you has been hiding such
dark and cruel stories for decades.</div>
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I took my youngest daughters to see the movie ‘Philomena’
when it was in cinemas some months back.
They are 13 and 15 and their usual choice of movies is a mix of fantasy
and American pop culture... Philomena was something very different. But they were both moved and disturbed by the
story. What bothered them most was that
this was an Irish story and a recent one too.
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It is often remarked on how we still love to be told we are
great. Only on an Irish chat show will
the first question asked of a visiting superstar be “and how are you finding
Ireland, do you like it?” Which has to
be the stupidest question ever because what do we honestly expect a visiting
movie star on a PR trip for their latest movie to say? “Well actually I am very disappointed. I find your country dirty and the standard of
service is appalling.” No of course
not. They all say “oh I love it. I hope to come back soon and spend more time
here.” Our sense of our own
wonderfulness established, the interview can continue.</div>
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It would be easy at this point to heap all the blame for the
cruelty of how single pregnant women and girls were treated at the feet of
religious orders. The orders certainly
carry a huge burden of responsibility and their callousness should be recorded
for posterity. They must be held to
account and their track record of intransigence and tight fistedness should not
be tolerated for one day longer. </div>
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But we must also accept that we all bear responsibility for
this dark chapter in our history. It was
the families and communities in which these women and girls lived that sent
them into the arms of the nuns who were clearly overwhelmed. And it is this complicity,<b> our </b>complicity that will haunt our
sense of ourselves for decades to come.</div>
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There is little we can do from this remove to heal the hurt
caused to the thousands of women whose babies either died or were taken from
them for adoption. We cannot rewrite
history. But if we don’t learn from it
we are likely to repeat the mistakes, the injustices and the cruelty over and
over again. </div>
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Right now in Ireland adopted people are still having great
difficulty in accessing their birth information. We must pressure the government to amend this
situation immediately. Today in Ireland
Traveller babies have a higher mortality rate than the general population and
many Traveller children are living in appalling conditions. Funding to Traveller services was cut by 80%
during this period of so called austerity.
Next month lone parents are facing another cut in their payments when
their youngest child turns seven years of age.
Today there are thousands of immigrant families caught in ‘direct
provision’ which is having a detrimental effect especially on their children. What are we doing about all these children?</div>
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I love this country.
We have produced great writing and great music. We have a unique sense of fun and invented ‘the
craic’ which is beyond explanation. We
are masters of irreverence and have an interesting relationship with
authority. We have some of the most
stunning scenery on the planet. We have
much to be proud of. </div>
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But we also have much to be deeply ashamed of. For decades I think our history of
colonisation, of being a victim of British dominance has defined us. We were this little nation whose influence
has spread all over the world; this little nation who after centuries of failed
attempts finally shook off our oppressor and gained our freedom. Weren’t we just wonderful altogether? </div>
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We are now coming to terms that we are not quite as
wonderful as we thought. Our treatment
of Mothers and Babies for most of the twentieth century is surely one of the
most shameful episodes in any countries history. And we have no one else to blame. We, as a nation facilitated the church in its
abuse of these young women and their babies. Right now we are again turning a blind eye to many injustices which are impacting Irish children. Are we content to continue to allow our Government to unfairly
target groups that are vulnerable in the pursuit of financial stability? Are some children once again worth more than others?</div>
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The last three weeks have changed fundamentally how I feel
about my Irishness. I am still proud to
call myself Irish. But I think that
feeling of smug self confidence in my nationality, that one that Irish chat
show hosts love to reinforce is gone. I
can only assume that this is a good thing.</div>
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Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-57231761951862407512014-06-04T12:33:00.000+01:002014-06-04T12:33:38.257+01:00Ni Neart Go Cur Le Cheile<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
“Be yourself, because
if you can get away with it, it is the ultimate feminist act.”</div>
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Liz Phair – American Singer/Songwriter</div>
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According to the Oxford English Dictionary Feminism is <span style="background: white;">“the advocacy of women’s rights on the ground of the
equality of the sexes.</span>” The two
words that jump out of that sentence are rights and equality. Surely every woman has the right to make
her own choices and live her own life as she sees fit. You see, for me feminism is as much about
choice and freedom as it is about equality.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background: white;">And that right there is why I
often find myself getting very depressed when feminist women (rarely men) get
angry when a woman puts forward a vision of fulfilment that doesn’t rate climbing the career ladder her major priority in life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">Over the last few days we
have had another stunning example of how we women seem to find it next to
impossible to accommodate views that do not fit neatly with ours. Kirsty Allsop is the latest feminist to find
herself in very hot water with the mainstream feminists who have been ranting
and raving about her in our newspapers and on social media. You see Kirsty has opinions and has never
been afraid to express them. Surely this
is what feminists are all about? Having
women’s voices heard? Not apparently if
your opinions run contrary to the mainstream feminist view which seems to be
all about achieving in education and career. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">Ms Allsopp had the audacity
to say in a wide ranging interview with The Telegraph that she thought that </span><i>“women are being let down by the system. We
should speak honestly and frankly about fertility and the fact it falls off a
cliff when you’re 35. We should talk openly about university and whether going
when you’re young, when we live so much longer, is really the way forward.” </i></div>
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She went on to say that if she had a daughter (she has two
sons) she would advise her to postpone university and to concentrate on having
a family while she was young and doing the career and university thing later
on. She further said in an interview
with Newsnight that she would have the same conversation with her boys.</div>
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Whether she is right or wrong is irrelevant. The point is that she has every right to
express her opinion. She wasn’t saying
that this is what every woman should do but that it is what she would advise
her offspring to do. But the immediate
rubbishing of her view along with plenty of derogatory commentary concerning
her background (which is reasonably wealthy by all accounts) and her work with
interiors, design and crafting surely runs contrary to what feminism should be
all about?</div>
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For generations women have passed down wisdom and stories
along with recipes from mother to daughter; precious nuggets of knowledge borne
from experience of our grandmothers. In
our enthusiasm for full equality we have narrowed our vision about what it is
to be a woman – what it is to be a feminist. </div>
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Some of the greatest feminist women I know are working
quietly in the home, caring for children, their aged parents and their
household. They have little if any
interest in board rooms or glass ceilings.
Are there views on life less worthy?
Are these women some lesser species of feminist?</div>
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We need to be very careful of becoming too macho in our pursuit
of full equality and freedom. Actress
Natalie Portman said “<i>I want every
version of a woman and a man to be possible. I want women and men to be able to
be full-time parents or full-time working people or any combination of the two.
I want both to be able to do whatever they want sexually without being called
names. I want them to be allowed to be weak and strong and happy and sad –
human, basically. The fallacy in Hollywood is that if you’re making a
“feminist” story, the woman kicks ass and wins. That’s not feminist, that’s
macho. A movie about a weak, vulnerable woman can be feminist if it shows a
real person that we can empathize with.”</i><br />
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Before we can change the world we must change
ourselves. As a women’s movement we must
recognise that we women are as different as we are the same. We don’t all necessarily want the same
things. Equality is essentially about
choice. The choice to be yourself. It is vital that we recognise the right of each
woman to make the choices that are right for her. And we need to support each
other regardless of how we personally view those choices. </div>
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So if Kirsty Allsopp wants to tell her children that they
might consider fertility and plan a family early and put off career advancement
till later, that is fine. It is another
way of doing things. No more and no less
valid that waiting until you are established in your career for the babies.</div>
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But women can we please stop being so critical of other
women whose views don’t chime with ours.
We are often our own worst enemies... <em><b><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; font-style: normal;">Ni neart</span></b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">go cur</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></span><em><b><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; font-style: normal;">le cheile</span></b></em><em><b><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></b></em>(no
strength without unity)</div>
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Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-89321309269381328172014-06-03T10:48:00.002+01:002014-06-03T10:48:35.059+01:00A LETTER TO MY DAUGHTERFor the day that's in it.... and this comes with best wishes to all who are sitting Junior and Leaving Cert Exams tomorrow...<br />
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<b><u><span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Tempus Sans ITC'; font-size: 14pt;">A LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER…..<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">Dear Eldest Daughter:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">It is 8 o’clock on a cold, autumn evening and the house is quiet. I am sitting here at the kitchen table, with my cup of coffee, in the company of Doc, the old cat. The clock keeps steady time, marking out the seconds with a deep ticking. All is well. All is settled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">But my sense of peace is rattled slightly by something in the air. A vague tension stirs my sense of tranquillity. My own inner peace and the conspiring quiet of the house, allows my senses to pick up an energy which is seeping through the ceiling…… from your room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">Without visiting your room, I can picture you clearly. Sitting, bent over your desk. Your face lit by the desk lamp which also drops a pool of yellow light onto the dog eared pages of your notes. Your face is tense and your forehead holds furrows of stress as you attempt to force the information from the page into your brain. In front of you, your notice board is full of post-its and timetables. Reminders of what has still to be done and highlighting deadlines which loom menacingly in the middle distance. I am so proud of the way you are tackling your study, albeit it in a room which looks as if it has just been raided. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">I was 18 once and I was where you are now. I can remember so well, the constant feeling of drowning slowly in a sea of home-work and study. Like you, I was sure that my whole life path would be determined by my Leaving Cert. The grand finale of my school days loomed like a huge mountain which had to be scaled alone. And I too thought that my ability to climb this mountain would determine how the world would view me as a person for the rest of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">Oh my child….. if only you could have the gift of seeing into your future. If only you could know what it has taken me 30 years to know. Your life path is already determined. You, the person you are, is already set. This exam, once done, will fade so quickly in its importance that it will leave you wondering if you dreamt it all up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">But I cannot tell you all this. Not now. You have to do what you have to do. And just now, life is presenting you with this challenge which will consume you and your spirit for the coming months. And this too is part of your life path. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">So I sit here at my kitchen table, decades further down the road from you and I write you this letter. I will not send it. No, I will date it and keep it safe and on the last day of your exams I will give it to you. As you embrace your new found freedom and walk proudly out of school and into the world, know that I have always known what a wonderful human being you are. Know that the world will not look for your exam results in order to understand what a kind, caring, good person you are. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">So as you read this, some day in June, I say congratulations to you, my daughter – you have arrived on the other side of the mountain. And as you stride from school for the last time, stop and look back at the building where you have been guided and encouraged and taught for the last six years. And behind the school, can you see the mountain. And look, already it is shrinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">With love always<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="background-color: white;">Your mother</span></div>
Barbara Scullyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14311532447861613731noreply@blogger.com1