From My Kitchen Table

WHY IS NO NEWS GOOD NEWS?

2012-02-10T14:39:00.002Z

News has forever been generally negative. We all know that old cliché that ‘no news is good news’, well it works backwards too. In other words ‘good news is no news’. There are other writers, more learned than I, who have probably written long theses on why this is so, but even I recognise, that we live in a global world where fear is a huge factor in our lives. Stoking our fears and insecurities makes us better consumers and advertising funds the media, so I guess that the status quo is going to remain for some time to come.

But I don’t think that it is altogether fair to blame the media entirely for the barrage of negative news that we are subjected to every day. I think that we also have a morbid fascination with bad news. Just look at how people get so seemingly spellbound by disasters and tragedy on a grand scale. Is this because we all possess an element of the “God I am glad that I am not in that situation” type thinking? Perhaps.

We in Ireland are also endlessly fascinated by politics and more recently economics. We greedily soak up the news and the conversations of celebrity experts on everything from bond markets to septic tanks. Often these conversations and discussions go around and around in circles never actually reaching any conclusion as trendy economists and outspoken politicians whizz from studio to studio peddling their own particular wisdom which in turn becomes the water cooler or twitter conversations. All of which leads us subconsciously to live in a state of stress about the future.

There is nothing wrong with stress as a short term measure to combat some threat. Being stressed when you find yourself staring down a lion, for example, would be most useful but in day to day life this low level anxiety cannot be good for us.

Psychologist Maureen Gaffney wrote recently that “resilience during periods of stress relies on the ability to actively rebalance positive and negative emotions.”

So why is there seemingly so little balance in the news and current affairs media? That is something that only the media can answer but in the meantime we as individuals need to develop the ability to stand back from what we are reading, listening to or watching from time to time. We need to regularly ask ourselves “how am I feeling today?” Much of what we hear about on news media, from natural disasters to impending financial meltdowns, we have no control over. So if you are already feeling a little bit below par, a bit fed up, uneasy or worried then recognise that fact and take a break away from the bad news.

I know that if you, like me, are a current affairs junkie who likes to know what is going on, turning off The News, or Primetime or Tonight with Vincent Browne might be a radical step. For years my alarm radio was set to RTE Radio 1 so it was the voices of Morning Ireland I woke up to. But recently there have been mornings when I know that I don’t want to begin my day with all this financial gloom and dire doom. Depending on my emotional state I may chose Hector’s roaring from Galway to jar me awake or on other mornings it will be some classical music on Lyric FM. But the point is to recognise when enough is enough for you and move that dial.

In the meantime I will continue to drone on about how we need more positivity and inspiring stories in our news media to balance all the negative stuff. I will continue to love hearing RTE’s Philip Bromwell’s voice as I know he will bring me a tale of dolphins, or rescued dogs or squirrels. I say we need more like him. We need more uplifting and life affirming good news stories which are everywhere in our society, particularly in these hard times. These stories may not make us better consumers immediately but ultimately by bringing balance to our news we will be a nation of happier, less stressed citizens which just might play a large part in Ireland getting herself out of this brutal recession.

BRIGID - A VERY MODERN WOMAN

2012-02-01T10:08:00.003Z

Today, February 1^st is the Feast of St Brigid. My daughters went to St Brigids National School it has long been a day of mild celebration in our house being as it means a half day and no homework (only for the youngest now though).

The 1st of February is also (according to the Celtic calendar) the first day of Springtime..and even though February can be one of the coldest months, this morning the sun is shining and the sky is blue! Spring is stirring. Snowdrops are well up and crocuses have also flowered and daffodils are just behind them. All of these flowers speak of hope and remind us that even during the long dark winter, the wheel of the year is continually turning and regardless of what is happening in our world, Mother Nature continues her work and life goes on. There is little as comforting as that fact...that life goes on... all is well.

St Brigid is one of my favourite saints because she is also a Goddess and it has become impossible to differentiate between the two. Legends swirl around her both her pagan and Christian expression. Some think that Brigid was actually a pagan priestess before her conversion to Christianity. Personally I don’t think it matters.

As a Goddess, Brigid is connected with healing, smithcraft and poetry. Traditionally in Ireland on the eve of St Brigids Day, a cloth would be left outdoors overnight. This cloth would receive a blessing from Brigid and would then be used for the rest of the year for healing. It was known (as far as I can remember) as Brat Bhride.

Brigid is also Goddess of fire, the hearth (traditionally the centre of the home) and energy. And finally she is Goddess of fertility and childbirth and is said to lean over every cradle.

The legends of St Brigid are equally fascinating and stories abound. We know she founded monasteries for both men and women. She is credited with making Kildare a monastic city and a renowned centre for learning and illumination. But more than that, she wanted her monasteries to be warm and comforting places – hence her association with the hearth traditionally the centre of the home and of sustenance. Her generosity was also legendary especially to the poor. She also had a huge affinity with animals and was credited with being able to get cows to milk three times a day.

She was very influential in her time and widely respected. Some legends even have it that she was made a bishop and lived with a special female companion.

But it is the way that her legend embodies both the traditional feminine aspects of domesticity, caring and healing with more masculine traits of smithcrafting and her successful navigation of religious patriarchy, that really appeal to me. It is this melding of these traditional roles that makes her a very relevant icon for today.

And how appropriate is it that tomorrow the Gender Quotas Bill is coming before the Dail? So today let’s remember Brigid – one of Ireland’s greatest feminine icons and ask her blessing as we embark on the first step in the business of political equality in this country.

Photo is of the Harry Clarke stained glass window depicting Brigid in Cabinteely Church.

ARE WE UP FOR THE CHALLENGE SISTERS?

2012-01-23T11:15:00.004Z

I don’t think I had ever stood in the Upper Castle Yard of Dublin Castle before. As I entered into the hugely atmospheric space last Friday, images from various presidential inaugurations, the Royal Visit and the iconic scene in the movie Michael Collins crowded into my mind. These fleeting images mixed with the echoes of the Castle’s troubled history but neither took from the understated grandeur of the place.

About two years ago I took a deep breath and decided to publicly disagree with journalist and businesswoman Margaret Ward on the issue of gender quotas in politics, a concept to which I was fundamentally opposed. It was a bloody encounter on Twitter which ended in silence when Margaret asked if I had read the literature on the subject. Needless to say I hadn’t.

I still haven’t read any literature but I have opened my ears to the debate and listened to the rationale in proposing this artificial method of ensuring more women at least make it onto the ballot paper. By the time I arrived at the Castle Conference Centre to attend the How To Elect More Women event I had more or less accepted the (seemingly) consensus view that this is the only way we are going to get more women into Dail Eireann.

The conference, organised by the Dept of Justice and Equality, had lined up an impressive cohort of speakers and was moderated by the wonderful Olivia O Leary. This is not a review of the day’s proceedings but there were a few themes that resonated, a few speakers that were outstanding and a few things that occurred to me.

In the first session we were expecting to hear from (amongst others) Susan McKay, CEO of the National Women’s Council of Ireland (NWCI). She didn’t appear – apparently this was in protest at the 30% reduction in funding to the NWCI by the Government. This display of redundant protest struck me as more petulant than effective, particularly as a colleague of McKay’s came along to speak in her place.

Fintan O Toole, was for me, the star of the first session delivering as he did a thoughtful, articulate and engaging speech. He spoke of Ireland being at a critical point in our history. It is time, he told us, to re-imagine a new republic and to begin the process of having an elected parliament that looks like us, with relative representation of women, immigrants etc. He referenced how many women were involved in the foundation of this state with the stark statistic that in the first Dail (95 years ago) there were 23 elected women TD’s ; today there are 25. Fintan finished by stating that the problem of How To Elect More Women is not a case of making women fit the system but rather making the system fit for women.

In the afternoon we heard from Ailbhe Smith, representing the People Before Profit Alliance, who pointed out that along with more women in politics we also need far more women’s voices in media and Mary Lou McDonald (Sinn Fein) who finished her rousing speech with a call to arms “quotas are just the first small step.. what we need sisters is a revolution.”

There was one theme of the day’s proceedings that really shocked me. One of the reasons, repeatedly put forward for women’s non involvement in political life is because they weren’t asked? What? I hear you say. Yep, political, smart women including Ailbhe Smith do not enter politics because they were not asked. Dublin South Central TD Catherine Byrne said she only got into politics because she was asked. Ditto with Sandra McLellan (Sinn Fein TD for Cork East). For what other job would women wait to be asked before applying? It’s no wonder our political landscape is so turgid if entry is by invitation only.

The good news is that there are now two active groups working to assist in getting more women elected to our Dail – The 5050 Group and Women for Election and I am sure that this issue of women waiting to be asked is something they will both be addressing.

So what do I think? Well one of the things that stuck me overwhelmingly have listened to all the contributions is that the Irish (and probably British) system of politics is no place for a parent of young children. Sandra McLelland (Sinn Fein) herself a mother, outlined her life. She is in Dublin Tuesday through Thursday (and sometimes Friday) with weekends spent on Constituency work. Tanaiste Eamon Gilmore also spoke about the time commitment involved in an election campaign along with the invasion of privacy. It’s a mad system which squeezes a huge amount of energy out of the participants for relatively modest returns. In other words TDs spend a huge amount of time in Dublin, attending functions, meetings etc and ‘debating’ in the Dail chamber. One wonders about time management.

This system must change if we are to work towards the vision of a new Republic with a Dail that ‘looks like us’ as outlined by Fintan O’Toole. But I think it will take a strong cohort of women in the corridors of power to effect this change. So it’s a chicken and egg situation.

One of the possible solutions might be a campaign to target older women to encourage them to enter politics. Women whose children are older are more likely to be able to give the crazy time commitment that’s currently required. Once elected, they could then work to dismantle the archaic system we have and begin to make Dail Eireann a more productive and family friendly workplace which would benefit both men and women. This I am sure would result in our having no further need for quotas as women would see entering politics as something that would fit far more comfortably with their family commitments. So we need the big sisters to do some spade work in order that all sisters may participate.

Almost 100 years ago Ireland was to the fore of women’s involvement in politics. Constance Markievicz won a seat in the 1918 General Election making her the first woman to be elected to the British House of Commons (she never took her seat in line with Sinn Fein policy and was unable to attend the 1^st Dail either due to her imprisonment). She was re-elected in the 1921 General Election and served as Minister for Labour. She was the first Irish female Cabinet Minister and only the 2^nd female Government Minister in Europe. In order to achieve political freedom, the suffragette movement in Ireland were asked to join in the cause of Irish freedom first and that's women's emancipation would follow. It didn't.

100 years later it is time that this debt is repaid. It is long overdue.

with thanks to journalist Carol Hunt for filling in a gap in my own education on women and politics in the early Dail.

FABULOUS 50 ALRIGHT!

2012-01-13T13:35:00.007Z

For the last two weeks or so I have been struggling to come up with a blog post to mark 50^th Birthday. I wanted to write something particularly insightful, witty and wise. Something that would make my readers, think, smile and most of all remember. I wanted to come up with some gems of wisdom which you, dear readers could quote and perhaps use as positive affirmations. I waited for this flash of inspirational wisdom which should accompany great age.

I sat down a number of times and I have about 5 half arsed pieces of nonsense – all sitting in a folder on my PC which is euphemistically titled Fabulous 50. The essays were a lot short of fabulous. It just shows you doesn’t it – good writing just comes – spontaneously... it can’t be forced to arrive to coincide with a particular occasion, birthday or otherwise.

So may I apologise for not having something beautifully moving and insightful to share with you at this juncture. I remain hopeful that the muse will return some time over this coming year and perhaps then I shall write what I wanted to share with you on the 11^th of January to mark my half century.

However in the meantime, let me tell you that I am happy to be 50 – unlike last year when I definitely did not like being 49. But 50 is a kind of fulcrum like birthday – not a midpoint clearly, unless I live to be 100 but a kind of peak place from where I can look back over the last five decades and from where I look forward to the next. It is at this point that I could head off into self absorbed baloney... but I will resist that as it would bore you to tears. I will not talk about my journey thus far, or about all the things I have to be grateful for. But I will share with you a couple of small observations which I feel are important!

Life can change in the matter of a couple of minutes. One phone call, one meeting with someone and the entire scenery of your life can be transformed. I know this to be a fact. It happened to me at least twice. So – no matter how bleak things can look, hang on to hope. That old cliché about not knowing what is coming around the corner is true and has as much chance of being positive as negative.

Be open to all the possibilities life can present you. Sometimes the most wonderful opportunities can be hidden in what may not look very cool or interesting at all – think diamonds hidden in a lump of coal. Again – another cliché ‘suck it and see’ works well here. You are far more likely to regret chances not taken than ones taken that didn’t work out.

Never lose your sense of humour. I am firmly convinced that our ability to laugh especially at ourselves is one of the most precious gifts God has given us. If you haven’t laughed in a week you are in trouble. Even in the middle of the most awful crisis and traumas there can be humour. Never, ever be afraid to laugh.

Ok, this is beginning to sound like a sermon, although I seem to be on a roll all of a sudden (hello Muse – where the hell have you been?). Final thought for you and it’s a biggie. Always remember that you are in control of your emotions. We choose how we feel. Get into the habit of taking your emotional temperature throughout the day. Ask yourself ‘how am I feeling’ and if you don’t like it, change it. Choose to smile. Choose to rise above the bullshit. Choose to be optimistic. Choose NOT to be a victim... of the past, or the economy or of your current circumstances.

OK – I could actually go on for ages now... but relax I won’t.

Suffice to say....

My name is Barbara.

I choose to be optimistic and positive (most of the time – sometimes I forget!!)

Life is funny.

I am 50!

By the way - photo is of the very best card I have ever received. It is from Roisin and Mia and was made entirely by Mia, 11. Photo doesn't do it justice!

THE WISE WOMEN OF 2011

2012-01-02T16:02:00.011Z

On Friday it will be January 6^th – the feast of the Epiphany, or in the Spanish world Dia de Los Reyes marking the visit of the Three Wise Men to the stable in Bethlehem. Mmmm, I will resist making the obvious witty aside about the improbability of not one, not two but three wise men together, but how ridiculous is it that Mary gave birth in the company of lots of men? Joseph, shepherds and kings? Not woman in sight. Like as if? Perhaps the wise men were originally wise women – although if they were, they definitely would have brought better and more useful gifts.

Here in Ireland, the 6^th of January is Nollaig na mBan. A day to celebrate what we women contribute to our loved ones over the festive period. A day when traditionally women would get together, for tea and cake and probably a bit of a gossip!

2011 has brought me many opportunities and has generally been quite a good year. As I looked back I realised that, for me, it was the year of wise women! I am very lucky to have always managed to surround myself with brilliant women, from my mother through to my great girlfriends. These women are without exception clever, funny and intelligent but more than anything they are hugely supportive. These are the friends who have stood shoulder to shoulder with me as life threw flowers and sometimes tomatoes my way. They are there to celebrate successes and pick me up when I fall down!

But in 2011 I seem to have added significantly to my harem of fabulous women. These new Wise Women of 2011 have brought me one precious gift – that of self confidence. Having been at home with young children for ten years, I had the title of Housewife indelibly inked on my forehead and on my psyche. There were numerous occasions when I had to remember that I had designated 2011 as my year of fearless living. Regularly I had to fight to silence the voice in my head which constantly asked me “what the hell do you think you are doing? You’re not a writer. You are not a radio contributor. You are a deluded housewife.” I hear that voice less and less, thanks to some fantastic women who I am going to name check now!

The very first person to take a chance on me was East Coast Radio's Morning Show producer Claire Darmody who got me to come into studio to shoot the breeze on various news topics with presenter Declan Meehan; himself a source of encouragement and regular dispenser of sage advice.

Vanessa O Loughlin of Inkwell Writers and Writing.ie is someone that anyone who is interested in writing should check out. She offers great courses, runs the best writing resource website and is an amazing motivator. She’ll happily and charmingly deliver a kick in the ass to move you on when necessary but never fails to applaud your efforts when you do get writing.

Last but most of all I want to thank the FANTASTIC WOMEN ON AIR COMMITTEE. Let me single out three of said committee for particular mention.

Helen McCormack who also risked me on the Tom McGurk programme on 4FM and who a year ago gave me a regular slot on the (then) Gareth O Callaghan Saturday programme which ran for four months and was a wonderful experience.

Eleanor Fitzsimons befriended me when I knew absolutely no one and has since become a great pal and colleague.

And of course the mighty impressive Margaret E Ward, who terrified me until I met her and realised that she was actually a pussy cat and in true American fashion, a total ‘Can Do’ person. She was saying “yes, we can” way before a certain Mr Obama, I am sure of it.

These Wise Women of 2011 are all professional, busy people. But they all have open minds and a generosity of spirit which allowed me to benefit from their experience and wisdom. They also never failed to cheer me on as I took my tentative steps into the media.

As we head towards the beautiful of Nollaig na mBan I want to publicly salute these amazing women. Mile buíochas dhaoibh go léir.

I recently stumbled across a lovely blog called Sanctuary of Women run by a woman called Jan Richardson in Florida. She wrote this beautiful poem and has graciously allowed me to reproduce it here. I humbly offer it to you my Wise Women of 2011.

WISE WOMEN ALSO CAME

Wise women also came.
The fire burned
in their wombs
long before they saw
the flaming star
in the sky.
They walked in shadows,
trusting the path
would open
under the light of the moon.

Wise women also came,
seeking no directions,
no permission
from any king.
They came
by their own authority,
their own desire,
their own longing.
They came in quiet,
spreading no rumors,
sparking no fears
to lead
to innocents’ slaughter,
to their sister Rachel’s
inconsolable lamentations.

Wise women also came,
and they brought
useful gifts:
water for labor’s washing,
fire for warm illumination,
a blanket for swaddling.

Wise women also came,
at least three of them,
holding Mary in the labor,
crying out with her
in the birth pangs,
breathing ancient blessings
into her ear.

Wise women also came,
and they went,
as wise women always do,
home a different way.

AND THE WINNERS ARE......

2012-01-02T00:34:00.002Z

My bad.... things got a bit hectic and exciting immediately before Christmas and I am only now realising that I never picked two winners for my All The Perfumes of Arabia blog post competition.

They are Chris Power Smith and Eleanor Fitz.

If you guys can email me (barbara@sherwood.ie) your addresses I will despatch your smellies.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYONE

Normal blogging service will resume in the next day or so (when the hangover clears!)

ALL THE PERFUMES OF ARABIA..........

2011-12-12T22:05:00.011Z

Some of the most bizarre and ridiculous ads on TV at this time of year are the highly stylised mini movies aimed at enticing us to purchase our loved ones expensive perfume or after shave/cologne.

Warning – here comes a bit of a rant!

I hate perfume. To my sensitive and sophisticated nose, perfumes are an aberration. Nature does scent far more beautifully than we mere men and women ever could. Think of the smell of an old rose, of lavender or of lilac... sublime fragrances that are pure and natural and blissfully beautiful. Now think of running the gauntlet through the cosmetic department of a large store – keeping speed up and eyes downward muttering “no thanks, no thanks” as very startled looking ‘consultants’ in white uniforms proffer a spray of Poison or Opium.

Ok – I have just read that paragraph back and it sounds very '80s. Do department stores still do that kind of thing? Do Poison and Opium still exist? Have they been relegated to granny presents yet? Anyway you get the picture.

“So”, I hear you ask “what perfume do you wear?” I don’t. No siree. Perfume makes me sneeze, makes my eyes water and I am sure interferes with the delicate balance of energies in my aura!

But that said I do have a signature smell! Oh yes, I douse myself liberally at least once a day in Spanish cologne! Not baby cologne.. oh no, only the real deal which is found in Spanish supermarkets where it costs a few Euros for a huge litre bottle. For evening wear or when I want to feel a bit glamorous I sparingly use a bottle of magic scent I had specially made up for me in Glastonbury some years ago. Ahh Glastonbury – hippie heaven where they know all about protecting ones aura!

Anyway I do believe that smells are important; on ourselves and in our homes. As anyone who has tried to sell a house knows, the enticing smells at home are that of baking and freshly brewed coffee. Being the Domestic Goddess that I am, I am happy to report that those aromas do regularly infuse my living space.

For other times, I use natural aromatherapy oils in a burner or scented candles. “Scented candles” I hear you say. Oh yes but not just any scented candles – oh no. There is a high degree of discernment required in the purchase of scented candles. Proper natural scented candles don’t generally come very cheap, they are not usually in jars with lids or as plug ins or yokes that spurt every time you walk past. No, my dear readers, scented candles must be of high quality in order to enhance your home. They should add to the sensitive aura of our living spaces and not function to blanket the air in headache inducing chemical fug.

I am glad to say that there is one brand of candles that I love, that gently whisper their natural fragrance and therefore do not interfere with the aura of my home. These candles are Irish and made in Wicklow and are marketed under the name of Max Benjamin. As I type these words there is a gentle hint of cinnamon and cloves in the air from the flickering jar in the corner. Perfectly complimenting the flickering lights on the Christmas Tree and making me want some mulled wine...

Max Benjamin’s latest product is a range of handwash, shower gel and body lotions and the nice people at the company (knowing how much I love their stuff) have given me a couple of samples to give away. So leave a comment telling me what your favourite scent is and why and I will pick two winners at random on Friday.

For more information on Max Benjamin check out their website.

In the meantime – is anyone off to Spain soon? My stock of cologne is running dangerously low!

STOP - I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THE BAD NEWS

2011-11-30T19:35:00.004Z

We have a looming ’austerity’ budget, a possible ‘Address to the Nation’ by our Taoiseach (which is clearly not to tell us that all is well), and apparently we are facing possible economic Armageddon with the demise of the Euro. Has anyone else had enough of this current tidal wave of bad news? Our media is just full of the gloom and doom – from individual stories of hardship and pain to the ‘celebrity’ economists who are currently kept fierce busy as they whizz from TV stations to radio studios. “ Agghhhh” I want to scream. “I have had enough. STOP!” I have reached saturation point. I can take no more.

This morning I dipped in and out of radio programmes but could find nothing to raise my spirits. I had gone to bed last night having stupidly watched both RTE’s Frontline and TV3’s Vincent Browne. Thankfully I cannot remember my dreams but my spirit was still sagging from the avalanche of awfulness that is, apparently fast approaching us.

So having walked the dog through a beautiful morning sunrise I came home to bake for a bit and then I took refuge in Twitter. “Please cheer me up” I cried, well I tweeted but you know what I mean. “Tell me how you distract yourself from the negativity without spending a fortune.” And Twitter being Twitter soon my screen was filling up with wonderful cheap ideas to protect your sanity and to balance the negativity. I just had to share them.

So here they are.. in no particular order, the very best suggestions on how to raise your spirits when all around you seems to be going south!

Reading a book by an open fire
A walk by the sea, (Dun Laoghaire Pier was a particular favourite of twitterers) followed perhaps by a Hot Port
A long soak in a hot bath – candles, wine and a book are optional extras.
A coffee in your favourite cafe (with cake) and a spot of people watching.
Blast your favourite music loudly and dance like a mad thing around your kitchen or office.
The Botanic Gardens – free and full of squirrels
A browse in a charity shop or around car boot sale – you never know what you might find.
A good natter with a friend.
A visit to your local library – free books and a repository of all kinds of interesting information.
Make a big pot of stew which you then devour followed by a tin of Quality Street (a very retro feel good idea, but I love it).
Switch to Lyric FM
Learn how to crochet and make something nice.
Birdsong
Visit an animal sanctuary and help out – walk the dogs or pet the cats etc.
Watch ‘the best of wipe-out’ clips on YouTube
A cycle in the Phoenix Park which apparently is only €10 for 3 hours – free deer, birds and monuments.
A walk in the mountains – remind yourself of just how really beautiful Ireland is.
Time spent with a pet – borrow one if you don’t have one of your own.
Finally, join a choir and sing your heart and lungs out.

I would have never included the choir suggestion as I am not much of a singer, but last weekend I was lucky enough to be part of the #twitterxmassingle. For those of you not on Twitter, this was the brainchild of one Brenda Drumm who within a week put together a choir, musicians, producers and technicians and last Sunday we all came together to record a very special version of Wintersong. The single will be released on Twitter in the coming days and will be available for download. All proceeds going to the Neonatal Unit of the National Maternity Hospital in Holes Street. I will be blogging in more detail about this when the song is ready to buy. But let me tell you that as someone who was intending just to help out in some capacity last Sunday, I ended up ‘in the choir’ and did my best to sing along. And I can tell you it was the most uplifting and fun experience I have had in ages. So yes I say – think of joining a choir to lift your spirits along with your voice.

So there you have it... some of the best ideas that Twitter offered me to cheer me up. Sex was also mentioned but whereas I happily concur that this is an instant pick me up (no pun intended) for the boys, there are a myriad of other factors to be taken into account for the wimmins... basically that is probably a different blog post.

But if none of the above rings your bell, get yourself on Twitter – there’s a whole load of people waiting to entertain and make you laugh. They’d cheer a body up ! Thank you Twitter friends for sharing your wisdom.

Photo by www.sherwood.ie of Lough Dan in Co Wicklow - one of my very favourite places to walk.

IS THAT IT?

2011-11-24T12:04:00.005Z

As I cruise effortlessly (yep, no effort required) towards the completion of my half century my mind has been exercised recently on what I have learned thus far and what I need to change for the coming decades.

I am a very lucky girl (?) as my oldest friend lives right across the road from me. We have known each other since we were both 7 and .... wait for it.... we are exactly the same age. We will both celebrate our big 50 on the 11^th January 2012 (stick that in your diary now – although I promise I will give you plenty of reminders beforehand). So my pal, Rita and I have spent many hours discussing what being 50 means. It is an ongoing conversation and we have not come to any great conclusions just yet, but there are two small things we agree on... so far.

Firstly is that we have vowed to never ever ask “is this it?” From her on we intend grabbing life, taking every opportunity offered, doing stuff for the hell of it and moving ourselves out of our comfort zone on our regular basis.

The second vow we have made is that from now on we will always have a bottle of champagne or proscecco in the fridge. Why? Because we’re worth it. It’s our version of wearing your good knickers every day!

So when my dear husband phoned me yesterday to ask if I was up for a trip to the Opera that night Rita’s wisdom floated to the surface. Opera? OK – so far I would have never really been that taken with Opera but at nearly 50, maybe I am finally old enough to appreciate it. And it was in the Grand Canal Theatre and I love the Grand Canal Theatre. “OK”, says I to him “let me see if I can organise it.” Babysitter, dinner for kids and organising a lift to the Dart for myself was organised in jig time and I raced to get suitably glammed up for a Night at the Opera. We were going to see La Traviata. A quick call to the mother who is a serious Opera Buff and I had an outline of the story.

It was like Date Night. He met me in town and we had time for a drink at the bar before taking our seats in the auditorium. I relaxed as the wine did its work and I settled down giving myself over to the music and the spectacle. Within ten minutes I was asleep. I came to again towards the first interval when the hunger pangs began to gnaw.... I of course had no time for dinner.

Sensing the danger of a hungry wife, who is generally a grumpy wife, himself went off to get me some interval ice cream. The sugar worked and as the production began again I concentrated on following the action. I really did try. The RTE National Symphony Orchestra were great. The singers could definitely sing. The leading man bore a disconcerting resemblance to Neil Oliver, that cute Scottish guy who presents Coast on the BBC. But while the music enthralled the majority of the audience I could feel my spirit soaring up and around the auditorium looking for diversion while physically I gave in to sleep again. By the time I came to for the second interval, I was really hungry and hoping that himself was as bored as I was and that we could knock back our interval drinks and head out for pizza. But although he wasn’t exactly waxing lyrically about it, he was determined to stay. I texted my kids wondering what was happening on I’m A Celebrity..

So, the morning after the night before, I can now categorically state that I do not like Opera. It leaves me unmoved, totally. Seeing Aida performed live in Verona is now off my bucket list. My mother is trying to come to terms with the fact that she has, in her words, a Philistine for a daughter.

As we headed for the chipper, I thought how proud Rita will be of me; I moved out of my comfort zone and jumped at an opportunity without much hesitation. Although the experience did leave me asking – “is that it?”

Photo of The Grand Canal Theatre plaza at night by Damien Synnott on Flickr

THE ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

2011-11-15T14:32:00.008Z

NOON - 24th November - THANK YOU DAY

The winner of the Thank You Book is Alison Wells!

Congratulations Alison...

And HUGE THANK YOU to the Irish Hospice Foundation for the prize and for the wonderful concept of THANK YOU DAY

Just for today I will not worry

Just for today I will not anger

Today I will do my work honestly

Today I will give thanks for my many blessings

Today I will be kind to all living things

I love these principles. They are the 5 principles of the healing art of Reiki. You can keep your commandments, - these are my kind of ‘rules’ mainly because they are not rules but aspirations and they focus on the positive.

I would love to be able to tell you that I live by these tenets. I do try. I usually fail. Wouldn’t it be great to ‘never worry’? I find the ‘being kind of living things’ the easiest to accomplish – particularly kindness to living things with four legs – they tend not to give backchat which definitely makes them easier to be kind to! ‘Giving thanks for my many blessings’ is probably one of the easiest to forget to do regularly and although it sounds easy, it takes a little an effort to achieve.

I often think back to the first few months after I ‘retired’ from the world of full time work to become a stay at home mother (or lazy sponger according to Emer O Kelly). When I no longer had to race at breakneck speed through my days, juggling childcare, domestic chores and the demands of full time working, I suddenly began to notice the small things that previously I had been blind to. I began to get glimpses of the world through the eyes of my children. Like a cartoon character slowing down, the background of my life suddenly became vivid and wonderfully eclectic. I began to notice the small things that lent colour and texture to my days. I made a list. I called it My Simple Pleasures.

A warm fragrant bubble bath before bed.
Coming home to find my cats all curled up and content in various corners of the house.
The silence that slowly envelopes the house, as humans and animals take to sleep.
Fresh bed linen.
A walk in the rain
Watching the birds feed from the feeders hanging from the tree just outside the window.
The smell of baking.
The taste of chocolate cake about 20 minutes after it comes out of the oven.
The comfort of knowing that everyone is in on a stormy winter night.
The chatter of family conversation over Sunday roast.
Seeing a washing line full of washing on a bright and breezy day.
Coming across a squirrel while on a walk in the park.
A warm sunny summer afternoon spent reading in the garden.
Our postmen – who seem to always be cheerful.
Going for a walk and realising that Ireland is still a country where strangers often smile and say hello as they pass by.
Fridays – no homework, no cooking and no school lunches till Monday.
Coffee and a scone at the kitchen table, while reading the paper, having completed the weekly marathon of grocery shopping.
How beautiful my garden looks on a frosty bright winter morning.
A sunrise walk on Dun Laoghaire Pier.
Listening to my kids deep in childish conversation, oblivious to my presence.

If I am having a bad day or am just feeling down, I sometimes take out this list and remind myself of these little things that make life worthwhile. I am determined to never again be so harried that I miss the beauty and simple pleasures that are all around.

The Hospice Foundation has cottoned on to this ‘attitude of gratitude’. They say that “gratitude is good for you” and that there is scientific evidence to back this up. So, in their wisdom they have designated next Thursday 24^th November as National Thank You Day and to help us to practice gratitude in our day to day lives, they have produced a Thank You Book.

This book is a journal, full of blank pages in which to record your own gratitude, your thankfulness for the things which make you smile, which lift your spirits, which make your life good. To help you get started there is a wise and gentle forward written by Roisin Ingle and the first few pages feature simple messages of gratitude from some well known personalities.

The nice people at The Hospice Foundation kindly sent me a Thank You Book so I could test drive a daily practice of gratitude. “Piece of cake”, I thought, “I’ve done Reiki don’tchya know, I know all about this gratitude stuff.” Well two weeks in, let me tell you it’s not quite as easy as it might seem.

I began by placing my lovely Thank You book on my bedside table in order to record my gratitude for good things that happened at the end of the day. But one week in, I found that I kept recording variations of the same thing. “Today I am grateful for my warm, cosy bed.” “Thank you for the gift of a good night’s sleep.” Then there were a few nights when I was so tired getting into bed that I just couldn’t manage to record anything. So I have now taken my Thank You Book and placed it on my desk. The idea being that first thing in the morning before I turn on my laptop, I take my journal and I record a simple pleasure.

They say it takes 21 days to make or break a habit so I guess I am starting again now. So I hereby undertake for the next 21 days I will write down at least one thing every morning. After that it should be a walk in the park! And hopefully I will have shifted some gear in my brain which will cause me to look at life, most of the time, with a ‘glass half full’ mentality. Ohhh I wish that didn’t remind me of chocolate! But there you go – my entry for today. “Thank you for chocolate – especially Green & Black’s Mint Chocolate.” Gosh – I hope I am doing this right!

If you want to experiment with the ‘attitude of gratitude’ – believe me it really does make a difference – check out www.thankyouday.ie

STOP PRESS: To mark Thank You Day the Irish Hospice Foundation have given me another copy of The Thank You Book to give away from My Kitchen Table. To be in with a chance to win this gorgeous book which will kick start your own gratitude habit, just leave me a comment. A winner will be chosen on Thank You Day which is 24th November. Good Luck!

MIRIAM O CALLAGHAN & WOMEN ON AIR

2011-11-14T12:46:00.002Z

I have written before about Women on Air – a great bunch of women who believe we should have more female voices on the airwaves in Ireland. I am on the organizing committee.

Women on Air began as a one off seminar to encourage and educate women on making themselves available to broadcast media. Such was the success of that first event just over a year ago, that Women on Air seminars are now regular events. However our most interesting seminar is happening this week and is open to all… and like all WOA events, the lads are most welcome too.

So if you have ever wondered how top broadcasters and journalists juggle family life with a high-flying career, now's your chance to turn the tables and ask the journalist those very questions. On Wednesday night we'd be delighted if you joined us to hear Prime Time's Miriam O'Callaghan talk about her life in broadcasting. Everyone is welcome to this Women on Air event at Independent Colleges, Dawson Street, Dublin 2 at 6pm on Wednesday. To book your €6 ticket (cash or card) please just follow this link: http://womenonairmiriam-ehometext.eventbrite.com/.

We're looking forward to seeing you there!

WINTER SYMPHONY

2011-11-10T12:22:00.001Z

Winter lunchtime in a grey, dank and murky Dublin.

The Concert Hall swallows us up,

gathering us into the elegant auditorium.

We settle ourselves into our seats,

making nests of our heavy winter coats.

The Symphony Orchestra filter out onto the stage.

Men and women, looking like they have been randomly gathered up from various jobs around the city.

A motorbike mechanic, the chairman of the board, a banker, a lollipop lady, a school mom, a hairdresser…..

Their musical apparatus is all that sets them apart.

The cacophony of tuning up, of muted conversations and shuffling of feet dies away.

Hushed anticipation.

Instruments raised, they become one,

As music bursts forth like some magnificent fireworks display.

Firey notes of red and orange glow as they land all around us.

Electrifying the air.

Transporting us away from our grey city to icy Russian landscapes.

And then gentler tones of soft greens and blues float up into the air.

The conductor knitting up the airborne notes into a multicoloured fabric of sound.

Softer and softer until all that is heard is a lone harpist.

Dropping gentle notes like raindrops splashing onto a glass lake.

Crystal clear drops of ancient music catching the light and scattering vivid rainbows here and there.

The motley crew of musicians are transformed into mystical creatures,

Clothed in satins and velvets of deep hues.

Russet and ochre.

Purple and gold.

As they shower us in this lyrical magnificence.

A wholly unexpected and sublime joy.

OICHE SAMHAIN

2011-10-27T11:18:00.004+01:00

This piece was featured on RTE Radio 1's Sunday Miscellany Programme last year.

I will again be featuring on Sunday Miscellany this Sunday - 30th October - with a piece on Owls! Tune in after 9am news.

Halloween, Oiche Samhain. In its original form ‘as Gaeilge’, the name holds a hint of the magic and mystical mayhem that to me is what today, the 31^st of October is all about. Of all our feastdays, Halloween is the one that links us most closely with our ancient Celtic and Pagan past. Today carries echoes of ritual and belief stretching back over hundreds and hundreds of years. Halloween speaks to a very deep and primitive part of my soul. I love it and always have.

Nowadays a lot of our Halloween traditions and customs have been overlaid with American style elaborate decorations and costumes. The old cry of “have ya any apples or nuts” has been replaced by the chorus of “trick or treat” which will ring through neighbourhoods tonight. But like buns becoming cupcakes top heavy in sugary frosting, Halloween may be somewhat overdressed but its origins are firmly based here in Ireland where fairy lore and a fascination with the ‘other world’ has always been a part of who we are. It is a celebration of the unknown, of the spiritual and speaks of the Irish penchant for eschewing authority and our love of a bit of occasional anarchy and chaos.

To this day I have absolutely no memory of ever having had a childhood birthday party but I have very clear recollections of my youthful Halloweens. Each year I dressed up as the same thing – a gypsy. I wore a long, multicoloured skirt, a head scarf and huge ‘clip on’ hoop earrings. But best of all, my mother applied eye shadow and kohl to my eyes making me a very glamorous gypsy indeed.

The Barm Brack is an important part of Halloween and in the 70’s it came with a whole array of bits to choke on. There was a rag for poverty, a bit of a stick indicating you would be beaten by your spouse, a coin for prosperity and of course the best prize of all was the ring. Mother would slice up the brack on the plate, keeping each slice firmly in place while my brothers and I, made our choice. The ring was immediately discovered, bulging from the cake, wrapped in greaseproof paper. Oh the excitement.

Once tea was over and darkness had fallen it was time to brave whatever ghouls and witches were abroad and head out to collect our store of apples and nuts. As autumn tipped into winter, the nights were cold and our breath made little clouds of condensation ahead of us. The air smelt of damp, decaying leaves overlaid with a whiff of gunpowder from bangers and the scent of distant bonfires. As we moved from house to house we passed other neighbourhood kids, their faces hidden behind garish plastic masks. Who were they? Did we know them?

Once the cold got the better of us and our bag was sufficiently heavy with its feast fit for any squirrel, we headed home. In the light of the house we investigated our booty just in case someone had sneaked in a chocolate bar. Usually they hadn’t. So we munched on monkey nuts as we recounted the nights events to the sound of ongoing bangers exploding outdoors.

I carry the memories of my childhood Halloweens with me to this day and relive them each year, as I hand out sweets and chocolate to my neighbourhood’s children. My own girls are now too old to have me accompany them around the houses and mobile phones mean they can contact me if they need to. Last weekend we decorated the hall and front garden with large spider webs, cats, ghosts and witches. I usually don my own witch’s hat as the light fades on this the most magical day of the year. But maybe for tonight, I will search out some huge hoop earrings and a headscarf! Either way, I can’t wait.

Photo by Paul Sherwood - our front door on Oiche Samhain

HANDBAGS AT DUSK

2011-10-22T17:01:00.005+01:00

What do you think of when you think of the Queen of England?

What is the image comes into your head?

Her slightly bend frame? Her permanent rictus looking smile? Her classic wave? Or do you, like me, see her in her sensible shoes and clutching tightly onto her Royal handbag? I have often wondered what she carries in there, seeing as though Royalty apparently don’t carry money and she has ladies-in-waiting and all kinds of other minions to cater for her every need. I’d love to have a furkle in Lizzy’s bag. But I digress. The point I am actually trying to make is that to me, the Queen always carries what I consider to be the quintessential handbag. A square, solid, sensible bag designed to clasp firmly in your paw!

Now, I’m as much of a bag woman as the next girl, but have never been a fan of the handbag per se, always preferring a long shoulder strap to facilitate the draping of said bag around my person (and my preferred option is a strap long enough to wear across my body thereby allowing both hands to go about their business unhindered by bag duties). But I don’t know any woman who would dream of going out without her bag. For us girls, bags are an essential part not just of our wardrobe but of who we are. You can tell a fair bit about a woman from her bag... but you can do a full character profile by analyzing the contents of said bag. And right there is one of the most interesting things about women and their bags. Why is it we get so uneasy when someone else delves into the depths of one of our most personal spaces? Early on in our relationship, the photographer learned that only in a case of life or death should he ever delve his masculine arm into the inner sanctum of my bag. Kids are not permitted inside either. I’m sure I’m not alone in that.... please tell me I’m not.

Who remembers the anger in this country when the late Brian Lenihan insisted that “sure everyone partied through the Celtic Tiger years”. We all looked at each other and declared indignantly “I most certainly did not party.” But we know who he was talking about. Yep, he was most definitely referring to the women with more money than sense who paid huge sums of money for the latest designer handbag for which they had to wait months, on a list in Brown Thomas. Can you imagine their excitement when they finally got the phone call to tell them that the latest Gucci bag had arrived with their name on it? No? Well me neither.

If your bag says a lot about who you are, I guess I am generally big and cheap! For casual wear I like a roomy bag, generally an unstructured shape that can mould itself against my hip in a decorous manner. When attempting to look a little more business like I tend favour a satchel type bag, although it should be said that as I buy cheap bags, I probably achieve more of an unsuccessful business like look! Finally I have one or two small bags. These are specifically only ever used when I fly with Ryanair. They have been chosen carefully so that I have quick access to my phone and money while in the airport but which can then be squashed into my cabin bag in order to get past the eagle eyed staff at the boarding gate. Or if its winter they can usually be hidden under ones jacket! Ohh the feeling of power when you know you have duped Ryanair and their SAS type boarding procedures.

I did once spend a lot of money on a bag. It was during my black phase and although I was going to a wedding, I was aware that I was running the risk of looking like a grieving widow. I thought a nice, sophisticated bag would be just the thing. Silver, I thought would be nice and so splashed out about €100 on a sparkly handbag to add a dash of glamour to my look. I actually still think it’s a nice bag but I also still smart at the slagging I got at the wedding from my so called friends, one of whom is a classic handbag connoisseur. They thought my silver bag was hilarious... in fact I think the Queen was ever mentioned, as in “doesn’t the Queen have a handbag like that”. To this day my very expensive silver sits sadly in my wardrobe, like a sad butterfly who only lived for one day.

Maybe it’s time my handbag went out again... and I have just the event for it. Next Thursday, 27^th of October, Heavenly Handbags, an auction and sale of pre-loved bags takes place in The Lost Society, Powerhouse Town Centre, Dublin 2. This event is being jointly organised by Boots and The Hospice Foundation and will raise funds for Childrens Hospice Homecare. Along with bags there will be pampering and wine and tasty canapés. Doors open at 6pm and tickets are only €20 from Boots in Grafton Street, Stephens Green SC, Dundrum SC, Swords Pavillion and Donnybrook. Grab a few girl friends and get along... it should be fun and you would be helping a great cause. Oh and if you see a lovely silver handbag give it a wave....and don’t laugh!

Photo by Chris P on Flickr

PUTTING THE BROADS INTO BROADCASTING

2011-10-12T14:16:00.006+01:00

This night exactly one year ago, I was preparing to take my courage in both hands and get the bus into town to attend a seminar which was aimed at promoting Women On Air. The bus wasn’t that scary in the end – in fact I think bus ceilings have gotten higher making them far safer for me. I distinctly remember in the 80s I used hit my head off the roof regularly. But I digress. As I approached the National Library, the voice in my head was going great guns with really helpful stuff like “what the hell are you doing?”, “you’ll know no one”, “are you going to announce to all these smart career women that you are a suburban housewife with delusions of being a writer?” and finally “go home you big eejit.”

But one foot kept placing itself in front of the other and so I landed into the lecture room trying my best to blend in with the background. As I took a seat I found one friendly face – Eleanor Fitzsimons – a real journalist and writer and someone I had met just once before. To this day Eleanor remains one of the best women I know and that’s not just because she gifted me a little bit of credibility on that day last year.

As I listened to the great presentations by Helen O’Rahilly and Helen Shaw, the little voice in my head was still asking, “why are you here?” The honest answer was that I was not entirely sure. All I was sure about was that I love radio.

Before I reached the dizzy heights of being a housewife, I worked for a national charity as their Public Relations Officer. In that capacity I had done interviews on Morning Ireland, Today with Pat Kenny and (God Bless Him) Gerry Ryan. On retirement to the world of domestic goddessship I occasionally emailed programmes with views and had done phone interviews with Marion Finucane and Gerry again. I had recorded some pieces for Sunday Miscellany and Lyric FM. In the months immediately before that first Women On Air gig, I had begun doing occasional panel pieces with East Coast FM in Wicklow. All of that experience qualifies me as nothing other than an opinionated woman, albeit one with plenty of life experience. It also confirmed the fact that I love radio... but still I felt very much a fraud sitting with all these career women and very experienced journalists.

The effervescent Margaret E Ward, founder of Women On Air didn’t seem to think I was a dinosaur or “big eejit” and neither radio producer Helen McCormack who I also met that night. In fact Helen asked if I would come in to be a contributor on the Tom McGurk programme which she produced on 4FM.

I floated home that night last year. Not only had I enjoyed the event, especially the networking afterwards, but I had been accepted, as me! And that is what is special about Women On Air. Along with presentations by industry experts and leaders, it is a supportive and encouraging forum encouraging any women who wish it, to find their special voices. I am passionate in my belief that we need to hear more women on air. We need to put more broads into broadcasting! More importantly we need to hear from women from all walks of life, all backgrounds, all qualifications and from all kinds of kitchen tables.

I still love radio, have done some more work with 4FM, am a regular on East Coast FM’s Morning Show and still contribute to Sunday Miscellany. I am also now on the organising committee for Women On Air (you gotta give something back). So if like me, you are wondering about radio, get up and get involved. Leave a comment and I will make sure your details are on the mailing list for future events.

In the meantime – Margaret E Ward – take a bow for a great idea. We’ve only just begun.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WOMEN ON AIR!

A LESSON IN MOTHERING - FROM A CAT!

2011-10-10T11:55:00.002+01:00

Consider this post a third instalment in our ‘Adventures in Kitty Fostering’ series. After the stories of Hector and Maggie, we took a break in order to facilitate a smooth transition back into school routine etc. But once October arrived, I knew in my heart that it was time to check out if our friends in the DSPCA had need of foster families again. Not surprisingly they did and when I phoned them last Friday, I made a spur of the moment decision to provide a temporary home for a little family.... Moma cat and four 10 day old kittens. It should be said that poor Moma is only a kitten herself – not yet a year old.

So we now have a total of ten 4 leggeds sharing our lives and our home. The latest arrivals, like their predecessors are installed in the kid’s sitting room which is a bright sunny room in the front of the house. The nice people in the DSPCA provided us with a crate in order to coral the kitties as they get older. So inside we have made up a comfy bed with plenty of space for Moma to recline and feed her babies. I should point out that I am calling her Moma because after a couple of try outs we have yet to find a name that suits this magnificent feline. I am not happy about that.. I would far prefer that kitties in my care all have suitable names. But as TS Elliot famously said “the naming of cats is a difficult matter, it isn’t just one of your holiday games”. Her kittens however have all been given monikers appropriate to the season. So we have Samhain, Salem, Gandolf and Merlin. However the problem with their names is that they are totally interchangeable as each kitten is identical – jet black and so we have no idea who is who.

Anyway last night I was given a lesson in how magnificent cats are by Moma cat which left me feeling very silly altogether.

As they seemed to be all well settled into their new environment and as we had handled the kittens a wee bit without any difficulty, I thought it was time to attempt to get a photo of the four little bundles of blackness which I could post on Twitter and Facebook. (The online community love cats).

So I took each kitty and placed it carefully on the sofa, with cushions strategically placed so that they couldn’t fall off the edge. I went to grab my phone for the picture. As I did so, in arrived Moma cat who took one look at the set up on the sofa, shot me a filthy look and immediately jumped up and retrieved nearest kitty. Grabbing her by her scruff, she expertly jumped off the sofa and transported her swinging bundle back to her bed. By the time she returned to the sofa I was a gibbering eejit. Picking up all three kitties I placed them back in their bed, muttering “sorry Moma cat, ...... look they are all back,....... they are fine”.

She delivered me another withering look and I went back to the sofa alone, feeling scolded, stupid and shallow. Moma cat was still scowling at me from her crate. Her expression seemed to say “they are only 12 days old, far too young to have their image posted on social media”.

I apologised again.

PS – If you have a suggestion for a name for a beautiful, balletic, sleek, jet black female cat please let me know.

There is no photo with this post for obvious reasons!

SO HOW WAS IT FOR YOU? - JWT Reunion

2011-10-04T15:51:00.002+01:00

Going to a reunion, after more than 25 years is a very strange experience. 7 years ago I went to my 25^th year school reunion. Last week I went to a JWT staff reunion. I worked for the company from 1979 to 1985. Both experiences were similar as in both cases I was meeting up with some very special people who were part of my daily life all those years ago.

And right there is the very first thing you learn. People don’t change. Sure they may look a bit different – lacking hair or grey hair in the men and a definite softness in the face and body of most of the women – but voices, mannerisms and personalities remain intact. So that as soon as you begin talking all those physical differences fade away. Years melt and relationships seem to resume exactly at the point they left off… . even though it is decades since you have last spoken together.

At a deeper level something else also shifts… very subtly you are brought face to face with your younger self. Your carefree self, the person you were before you embarked on a life partnership, before kids, before the slavery of a mortgage. Very often your younger self is one who has suffered few traumas or difficult life events. And a reunion offers you the opportunity, if only for a few hours, to become that person again.

Sure, lip service is paid to finding out how many kids your ex colleagues/friends may have, where they live… but in reality no one really cares much about that stuff. We acknowledge that we have all moved on with life – in a myriad of different directions. But that’s not the point, is it?

The whole point of a reunion is to reclaim and revisit those earlier days. To hug the special people who were once a very important part of your day to day life. To acknowledge the fun, the craic and the laughs we shared so long ago. In the intervening years you have often wondered if you are looking back at those times through the proverbial rose coloured glasses. A good reunion shouts loud that you are not wrong. Those days were the best of times. The times you laughed loudest and longest; the times when your main concerns were in having a good time and enjoying yourself.

Life would be very boring if everything remained the same forever. We are all on a journey and so we all move on. We have all seen different things, done different things, experienced tough times and sublime joy. But the great gift of a reunion is the pause it allows in life; a pause in which you are granted the opportunity to revisit your past, to remember your younger self and to embrace her. And if you are lucky you might be able to reclaim a little bit of that more reckless, more spirited, more spontaneous you. The trick then is to ensure she doesn’t cause too much chaos in your current reality!

I will keep you posted!

Photo of old pals - Des Abbot, yours truly and Tony Fitzgibbon - decades later

OWL WISDOM

2011-09-28T15:10:00.007+01:00

This is the text of my piece on Owls which featured on Sunday Miscellany on 30th October 2011.

You can listen to the podcast here. I am first up just a minute or so in.

Standing on a hill in deepest Wicklow, a north easterly wind whipping my hair into an unruly nest, I tried to run through in my head what the Falconer had told us on the safety briefing. My fellow participants on this Introduction to Falconry day were spread out in a wide arc around me. High up, in the swaying trees behind us, watching our preparations, were two Harris Hawks.

A crimson morsel of raw meat was pressed onto the top of my closed fist. I extended my arm out and as I half turned towards the trees, the falconer blew his whistle. There was the incongruous faint tinkle of bells and the hawk swooped down from the tree and expertly brought herself in for a landing on my glove.

My breath caught in my throat and I could feel adrenelin pulsing through my veins. The meat was swallowed in a second and then this magnificent bird turned its head and stared me straight in the eye. I couldn’t remember what our falconer had said – it was either never look a bird of prey in the eye or do look them straight in the eye. Apparently their eyes don’t move. So our eye movements either annoy them or calm then. I couldn’t remember which.

It didn’t matter anyway, because I was mesmerised. Completely transfixed by the stare of the hawk. This majesterial bird, a wild animal to its very core, fully capable of inflicting serious damage should it so choose, seemed to be calmly looking into the very depths of my soul.

Without warning, she took flight again, swooping through the air, on to her next piece of meat. I watched her elegant flight until it was my turn once more. Raw flesh, a jingle of bells, a rush of air through feathers and those huge talons are set firmly on my gloved hand. Again, we stared into each other’s eyes and I carefully raised my right hand to stroke this bird on her back. Whoosh and she was gone.

The Hawk Walk was thrilling, moving and deeply satisfying.

There is a standing joke in our house that gets played every time I am asked what I want for Christmas or my birthday. “I want an owl,” I say and my children groan, at my rubbish attempt at being funny. But I am serious. I am deeply drawn to owls. Up till now I have only ever seen an owl in a zoo. I have long wanted desperately to get close to one without a barrier between us.

The first owl our Falconer introduced to us was a kind of miniature model, from Chile. A daytime hunter, this owl eats insects and such like. In the windy environs of Wicklow and with the air full of swallows, our little owl was a tad nervous. Her head rotated around and turned fully to stare upwards at the sky in comedic fashion.

Next up was what I would have called a normal sized owl. She flew to my bare hand for some raw meat and then continued to peck at my skin very gently. She was happy to be stroked and I smiled gormlessly at the joy of it all.

Our session was over and our falconer led us out of the yard. But on the way out he stopped to introduce us to a huge owl who was sitting on a tree stump at the door to the cottage. He handed me a glove and carefully manoeuvred this large bird onto my arm, all the while explaining that this was a ‘rescue owl’. An owl that had not been properly looked after. Who had been feed processed meat and so now was a bit of a couch potato. She could fly – but generally didn’t bother, her hunting instincts all gone through years of being ‘a pet.’

The more the falconer explained about this bird, the more I realised I had met a kindred spirit. In my mind I could see this big ole owl and me, perched on the sofa at home, watching The Late Late Show (what else would an owl watch) and munching on some nuts or chocolate, maybe having a glass of wine. This was a wise old owl, albeit a somewhat overweight and out of condition one. I stroked her feathers which were soft and downy. She turned to look at me and we connected. Here was an owl with miles on the clock, with years of experience, who had no doubt seen things no owl should see. She wore her years on the outside.

But on the inside she was a majestic bird, a hunter and thinker of deep thoughts. We gazed at each other and our thoughts fused in the space between us. Yes, she said I am Owl. I can see the unseen. I can know the future. I can read the moon. Yes I said, I am woman. I too can read the moon. I too could know the unknowable except unlike Owl, I have forgotten how.

As I reluctantly took my leave, I pondered on the wisdom of owl and what we humans have lost in our pursuit of technology.

An Introduction To Falconry with Falconry Ireland, Woodenbridge, Co Wicklow

Thanks to Barry Lenahan for the great photos

A MAN OF SUBSTANCE

2011-09-22T16:39:00.002+01:00

I am sure that everyone in the ‘writing world’ in this country knows Vanessa O Loughlin and her brilliant website Writing.ie. But one of Vanessa’s very best ideas ever is the ‘Great Writing Great Places’ series which is currently taking place in various venues in Dublin. Run in partnership with Dublin City of Literature each event features writers, speaking on a specific theme and giving readings from their work on the subject.

The first of the series was Tales of Emigration which took place on board the famine ship, Jeannie Johnson on the Liffey. Last night I attended the second of the series, entitled Inspiring Lives. This event took place in the Deanery of St Patricks Cathedral and was chaired by journalist, writer and musician Dave Kenny who interviewed writers Brian Keenan and John Lonergan.

It was a masterstroke to bring these two remarkable men together on one ‘stage’ – the former prisoner who was held captive for over 4 years in Beirut and the former Governor of Mountjoy Jail. They both had inspirational tales to tell. But for me, John Lonergan was the star to the show.

Lonergan is a man with a ready smile and an open gentle face who spend over 40 years working with some of the most dispossessed, hardened and troublesome people in the country’s jails. As Governor of Mountjoy he single-handedly brought prison life out of the shadows and into our consciousness with his regular interviews and media appearances.

As I sat and listened to him speak with passion and compassion last night I was moved to near tears. “Our jails are full of broken people,” he said “sure there are the hardened, well known criminals, but the majority of the prison population are broken. They are those with mental health issues, addiction issues, and the severely socially disadvantaged.” He told us of watching whole families who repeatedly go through the prison. He spoke particularly eloquently of the women who spend years visiting their loved ones inside – the wives, sisters, girlfriends and especially the grandmothers. These matriarchs, who have often lost a son or daughter to drug addiction and are now visiting their grandchildren in prison while rearing other grandchildren. He said that unless you have visited someone you love in prison, you really have no idea what prison is about. He is right.

John Lonergan is a man of humanity, empathy, kindness and above all great positivity. I watched him carefully as he told us his stories of life within the prison service, of how he wanted to change the system. 40 years later, he admits that little has changed. He told us this without a trace of bitterness or rancour. He knows that he may have made a difference to the lives of those who were in his care during his long tenure in the country’s most infamous jail. And for him that counts. Counts deeply.

I was very moved by his contribution last night. When I came home, I learned of the impending death of Troy Davis, a man on death row in Georgia, USA. Many were calling on the US to halt the execution, including Amnesty International who felt that his conviction was very unsafe. I woke this morning to the news that Davis had indeed been executed.

America’s continued use of the death penalty and the Davis case in particular provides a stark contrast to John Lonergan’s words of courage, empathy, humanity, kindness and positivity. These are special attributes, to be highly prized. We are so lucky to have had a man such as Lonergan working within our prison service for so long. He might not have ultimately brought change to the system.. but last night his words touched me deeply. Here was a man whose values match entirely those that Ireland should present to the world. No Presidential candidate or possible candidate comes close to embodying them like Lonergan. What a wasted opportunity.

WEAVING A NEW WEB OF SPIDER TRUTH

2011-09-21T10:08:00.002+01:00

The other night I was in bed, all tucked up and reading my book while my husband snored away happily beside me. All was still and relatively quiet (except for the snoring). Suddenly from the corner of my eye something moved. It was a spider – a large one and he scuttled across the floor And under a chest of drawers. I dug my beloved in the ribs

“huh”

“a big hairy spider has just crawled under the chest of drawers,” I said in my best damsel in distress voice.

“shut up and go back to sleep” was the response and the snoring resumed.

So I did what I normally do when my husband won’t engage with me, I grabbed my phone and sought sympathy and reassurance from Twitter.

The response was not entirely as I would have liked. I did get some kindness and understanding. Some helpfully advised me to just relax as spiders are not really into engaging with us humans. Others thought it appropriate it send me photos of huge hairy spiders and shared with me tales of spiders making nests and spawning thousands of new spiders in the night Time!

Spiders are my least favourite creepy crawly. I think it is because I usually can’t tell which way they are facing and because of the way they move – suddenly and erratically. But we do live with them, especially at this time of year when they move indoors and up plugholes to sit in our baths.

What did our ancestors think about spiders? What nuggets of spider wisdom can be found in folklore?

Most people know that spiders are linked with money. Apparently if a spider crosses your palm you will receive a windfall. The larger the spider and the later in the day your encounter, the more money that is on your way. On that basis I should be winning the Lottery this weekend.

Killing spiders is often seen as bad luck. You will be told you will lose money, your house will never be clean and in our family we believed it would cause it to rain.

There is a rhyme that goes....

If you wish to live and thrive

Let the spider run alive

Can I suggest that you learn that off – and erase from your brain the other cruel one...

Spider, Spider on the wall

Ain’t you got no sense at all

Ain’t you got no mom and dad

Squishy squashy, that’s too bad.

In Native American folklore Grandmother Spider was credited with bringing light to the world. The story goes that in the early times, all was dark because the sun was on the other side of the world. The animals decided that people needed to see so they set about bringing the sun back. The Possum and the Buzzard both tried and failed. Finally Grandmother Spider said that she would go and fetch the light back.

Using her legs she made a bowl of clay. She rolled this bowl across the world, weaving a web as she went. She found the sun and carefully placed it in the bowl and then following her web she returned, spreading light all the way.

There now – doesn’t that story change the way you think about spiders? Next time you meet one, remember she is Grandmother Spider who brought the light to the world.

However an old Wiccan piece of folklore suggested that if a witch eats a spider sandwiched between two pieces of bread, her powers will be increased dramatically. Ha – I’ve gone and spoiled it all now, haven’t I!

Hairy spider sandwich anyone?

This post comes without a photo for obvious reasons

REBELS

2011-09-16T11:17:00.005+01:00

I have written before of my interest in modern Irish History, particularly the period leading up to Irish Indepdenance. Therefore it was no hardship to be sent by Vanessa O Loughlin of the brilliant website for writers, writing.ie to interview Fearghal McGarry about his new book, Rebels. My review is now up on the writing.ie website. Click here to read it.

REJOINING THE JWT SET

2011-09-12T12:45:00.003+01:00

It was a cold Monday morning, the 3^rd of December 1979 when I arrived at 8/11 Lower Baggot Street, Dublin for my first day at my first ever real job. I clumped up the stairs in my brand new tan cowboy boots to the 3^rd floor where I was asked to take a seat in the cramped reception area. As I sat down the tiny bells attached to my new peasant dress made a little tinkling sound.

Within a few minutes I was joined by another new recruit. This girl had clearly read up on how to dress for your first day at work. Attired in a neat and conservative suit, she carried a proper handbag and removed her gloves to elegantly introduce herself. So there we were – the hippy from Dun Laoghaire and the elegant old school country girl – about to join the JWT set. If there was the sound of muffled giggling at the sight we must have presented, in our excitement we never heard it.

One of the very first things we were told on that baffling day was that on Friday we would be decamping with the rest of the company for a weekend in Kenmare for the annual JWT Staff Conference. “Saturday is Gala Night, a chance to really dress up” the sales manager announced, his eyes firmly fixed in my direction.

That first week passed in a blur of introductions, tours of the sales offices, being fitted for a uniform and the beginning of our training in the art of selling holidays. It ended in Kenmare where myself and the other new girl disgraced ourselves by sleeping it out on the last day thereby delaying the coaches to Killarney and nearly causing the entire company to miss the train to Dublin. We arrived back having learned more in that one weekend that certainly I had in the previous 17 years and with sore throats and no voices.

JWT was founded in 1961 by Joe Walsh, a tough straight talking Northerner who began by first operating pilgrimages to Lourdes. As we rolled into the 80s, JWT was Ireland’s leading tour operator offering holidays to a wide range of resorts in Spain, Greece, Portugal and Italy. The company operated the first computerised holiday reservation system in Ireland (and possibly the UK) and had some very cool TV ads.

It was a young company – most of the management would have been in their early 30s at most. Joe Walsh for all his rather terrifying persona and the fact that he had no time for Trade Unions, believed very much in keeping staff morale high. He achieved this not by paying us bonuses or top wages, but by laying on plenty of entertainment and social events – and this remember was in the days before corporate ‘team building’ or ‘away days’.

There were mid season parties, Christmas parties, the aforementioned conference and departmental get togethers. And then there were the weekends in perhaps Majorca or Gran Canaria – sometimes disguised as ‘educational trips’ and sometimes just because we had free seats going out and perhaps a ‘light leg’ or empty aircraft coming home. Oh, the heady fun of it all. Joining the JWT set was not for the faint hearted.

After a year or so on the sales counters, mainly in the office on Grafton Street, I moved up to Head Office to work in Reservations. Here, along with 9 other colleagues we manned a bank of phone lines and dealt with queries from both the public and travel agents. As Ireland sank into a recession, the reservations department took on the guise of an African Souk with much wheeling and dealing to “get bums on seats” for that weekend’s departures.

From October till Christmas, the business was dead and the office quiet with many staff taking advantage of ‘winter leave’ when good ole Joe encouraged us to head off to foreign shores on some unpaid leave, but in the confidence that our jobs would be waiting for us on our return in January.

The new season’s brochure was always launched just prior to Christmas and the first airing of the new TV ad was generally on St Stephen’s Day. We hit the phones full pelt in January and so the years turned and rolled on, one into another.

They were happy and very carefree years where friendships were made, some of which have survived and thrived to the present day. Some faded in and out over the years and some vanished without trace.

This year JWT celebrates its 50^th anniversary. To mark the occasion there is a staff reunion on the 30^th of September. A chance to renew some old friendships, share stories and laugh at ancient memories. Like the dreaded school reunion, there is an element of fear that time will not have been as kind to me as to others. But I am burying that fear deep within my psyche and from the same depths I am retrieving my younger self. It will be her that I will bring to this auspicious event. She may even wear a new hippie dress with bells on. I just hope my former colleagues recognise her!

The JWT Reunion is on Facebook - click here

I HAVE A DREAM

2011-09-07T11:00:00.004+01:00

The wind is howling outside, whistling down the chimney and slightly unsettling the dog as he slumbers on the rug in front of the roaring fire. The girls are in bed and I am reading. The scent of my recently brewed coffee mixes with the fragrant smell of turf on the fire. Fatcat is sitting on the windowsill staring into the velvety blackness of the night. Does he see the canopy of stars overhead? The photographer is back in Dublin but will be joining us tomorrow for the weekend. The school bags and wellingtons are by the door, ready for the walk to school in the morning. I close the curtains to retain the heat before placing the guard in front of the fire and retiring to bed. As I lie in the bed the silence is thick, broken only by the faint roar of the waves in the distance. It’s 11pm.

11am next day and the sky is blue with puffs of cotton wool clouds scuttling across its huge expanse. I am at the table by the window, laptop open, my novel coming to life as my fingers dance across the keys. The dog is outside, exploring the landscape which is as yet not fully familiar to him. Through the window I can see the ocean and the coastline of Connemara. The ferry should be arriving about now down at the pier. In a couple of hours I will visit the local shop and purchase something for dinner tonight. The photographer will arrive by air late this afternoon. Its two weeks since he last visited and he will be staggered to hear how much Irish the girls have now learned.

3pm and the girls arrive home. I leave them to their homework and cycle down to the village shop. Dylan comes too – jogging along the road beside me. On the way I greet my neighbours as Gaeilge and stop for a chat with the teacher who is closing the school. She compliments me on my weekly column for the Irish Times. She says I am being very honest about my year of living on Inis Meain.

I haven’t worn make up all week and I probably should check that my hair dryer still works at some stage. It starts to rain... sideways. I am soaked by the time I arrive back home but invigorated by the energetic weather here.

10pm and we are once again gathered around the fire chatting about Christmas. For the first time in years we won’t see any family during the holidays but we are happy to embrace all aspects of this experimental year on the Aran Islands. Outside the wind is throwing handfuls of rain against the windows. The photographer has brought a lovely bottle of wine. We miss our Friday night take out... but all is well.

All of the above takes place in my head. I visit these scenes when I am out walking, in the bath or sometimes sitting in my car waiting for the girls to come out of school. There is something special in the air on the Aran Islands. Something which speaks to my soul, my very essence. It calls to me... faintly. I hear it and I dream of some day answering the siren call from the very edge of Europe. In the meantime I dream.... and sometimes just that is good enough.

Photo by horizons inesperats on Flickr

MA & THE ARROWS

2011-08-30T11:25:00.004+01:00

On a bright sunny and warm August day in 1987 I held my tiny 2 week old baby daughter close to my chest as my breath was stolen away by the RAF Red Arrows zooming in from the west to swoop over the air field at Baldonnel. I could feel the noise and the speed right through to my bones. I had never experienced anything like it. In 1987 Ireland was a very different place and with ‘the troubles’ ongoing in the North of Ireland and so the Arrows didn’t land on Irish soil. They flew in from RAF Valley in Wales and having thrilled us with their display of precision flying, they tore back across the Irish Sea again. It was probably the first time an RAF flight had officially crossed Irish airspace since the days when Baldonnel was itself an RAF base.

The next time I saw the Red Arrows was again a special occasion. They displayed at the Galway Air Show on the 26^th of June 2005 – which also happened to be my mother’s 70^th birthday. My mother is a bit of an airplane nut. She loves airshows – even the more pedestrian ones. But she is a huge fan of the Arrows. So what better way for us to help her celebrate her big birthday than to decamp for the weekend to Galway and enjoy the aerial acrobatics of the RAF’s finest?

The airshow was great and the Arrows gave their usual brilliant performance. Afterwards we returned to our hotel to get ready for mother’s birthday dinner. We arranged to meet in the foyer at 7pm for drinks. So there we all were, gathered in our finery, awaiting the arrival of the birthday girl when the lift doors opened and out she stepped...... flanked on each side by a Red Arrow. Yep, one on each arm, resplendent in their red jumpsuits. I am sure mother was dressed to perfection but I only remember the enormous smile she wore as she floated towards us.

By the time we had all closed our mouths, the arrows had gone. Mother was still hovering above ground as we sat armed with our meagre presents knowing that we could never match the gift the Red Arrows had just bestowed on her. As we regained our composure, attention turned to my poor husband who is a professional photographer and who was so stunned he forgot to pick up his camera to capture the moment. He was mortified. He disappeared.

We ordered drinks and listened as mother babbled on excitedly about how charming and handsome the fliers who were her escorts were. Next thing the photographer reappeared and ordered mother up to her feet. He bore her away and the result is the photo above.

The Red Arrows were having a private reception in another part of the hotel but readily agreed to pose for a picture with mother when the photographer admitted his failure to get a picture downstairs. This photo which they all later signed is one of my mother’s prize possessions. She moved a family portrait in her hall in order to give it pride of place!

I recount this story now because two weeks ago the Red Arrows were displaying at the Bournemouth Air Show and one of their aircraft crashed. The pilot was killed; some believe this was perhaps due to his staying with his aircraft in order to direct it away from nearby houses. If true, this would not surprise me. The pilots we met in Galway 6 years ago were gentlemen and they made my mother’s 70^th birthday one she will never forget. Oh and this weekend the mother is off up to Portrush in Northern Ireland for their annual airshow which promises Vulcan’s Tornedos and F16 – mother will be delighted!

CONNEMARA

2011-08-21T10:40:00.002+01:00

Air heavy with the sweet tang of salt and seaweed.

Riotous hedgerows bursting with orange crocosmia, creamy pink honeysuckle and purple thistle heads.

Splashes of red fushia buzzing loudly as unseen bees do their work.

A lone cow stands upon a rocky outcrop.

Water softly lapping and slapping seashore stones.

Early morning crisscross trails of the overnight transatlantic flights as they finally find the North Atlantics edge,

Each flight tearing a rip in a wraparound sky,

Of cloudscapes like celestial cities.

Magnificent castellations and turrets and cruising spaceships,

Reflected perfectly in the still water below.

The horizon folding the image at its centre.

A hurl of rain against the wall of the cottage,

Twenty minutes later a burst of yellow sunshine.

Hidden religs – uneven fields of bones and raggedy assemblies of holy relics and plastic flowers.

Agus an Gaeilge – beautiful guttural sounds gurgling in the throats of local men in the fields.

The smell of turf fires in August,

At dusk the plaintiff cry of a curlew,

And the Connemara light, especially in evening, as the sun dips below the horizon on this western edge of Europe.

OUR WORK IS DONE.... MAGGIE UPDATE

2011-08-10T13:11:00.003+01:00

On Saturday we will be packing our Maggie's bags and baggage and dropping her back up to the wonderful people in the DSPCA, from where we hope she will be adopted quickly to her new forever home. Our work is almost done.

As you know from my previous post Maggie was one of the wildest and most frightened little cats I have ever encountered. It took us 2 days to coax her out from under our sofa. Then another day or two to get her to start (very gingerly) to play with some feathers on the end of a stick.

It's been one small step at a time and has been a team effort in this house, to finally gain Maggie's trust. We have taught her that humans can be her friends and I hope that none of our species undoes that lesson. We had a secret weapon in our 'taming' of Maggie and that was Simba (fatcat).

I don't want to take from the great credit due to Simba for playing his part but we all know that he was highly motivated by sharing Maggie's dinner which came in jelly and is clearly a lot tastier than the cat biscuits he usually has. But it was amazing to watch Maggie relax almost immediately Simba arrived into the room. Animals never cease to fascinate me.

The first week we had Maggie was difficult. It required huge patience and I did worry that perhaps some cats are just wild and not tameable. But the joy in watching this little scaredy cat slowly make friends with us and learn the joy of being petted and sit on a knee is sublime! Really.

The DSPCA is snowed under in kittens and cats who are looking for homes - permanent and foster. Check out their website www.dspca.ie

MAGGIE

2011-08-03T15:21:00.006+01:00

The August Bank Holiday weekend is the last hurrah of summer – next stop Halloween and sure then it’s Christmas. According to the Celtic calendar we are now in autumn and the August Bank Holiday roughly coincides with the ancient festival of Lughnasa, which marked the end of summer and beginning of the harvest. So how was it for you? Were you away? Did you have fun?

What’s that? Me? Did I enjoy my bank holiday weekend? Em, well, em.... it was busy and eh, different!

It is not the first time I have wondered what personality defect I have that insists on throwing complications into my life when things are chugging along just fine.

Regular readers of my blog will know that just over a week ago we fostered Hector from the DSPCA. Hector was only with us for 4 days and unfortunately was very unwell and had to be put down last Tuesday. So we were in mourning for him for a week but as we love animals and like to do our bit for their welfare, we offered our services again for fostering another kitten!

So having welcomed a new student to our home on Sunday, on Monday off we went to Mount Venus Road to collect our latest project. We were told that this kitten was in need of socialisation for two weeks and was approximately 12 weeks old. Maggie was clearly a nervous kitty but seemed OK in her crate as we gingerly carried her to the car for the journey home.

We set Maggie up in the kids TV Room which is bright and has a view of the road. We thought that she might like to watch out (cats love looking out windows – did you know that?). I took the lid off her cat box and braved her spitting at me to pet her very gently on her back. She spat and hissed and I gently continued, trying to reassure her in a low soothing voice. Meanwhile Dylan da Dog was exploding with excitement in the hall and started banging the door down. I got up slowly and went out of the room leaving Mia with Maggie. As soon as I was gone, Maggie apparently darted out of her box and under the sofa. And that is where she spent her bank holiday weekend.

So me, where did I spend my bank holiday weekend? Well most of Monday I spent feeling like a failed foster mammy, as I lay on the floor with my bum in the air as trying to understand why I could not see Maggie under the sofa. We then worked out that as the sofa was a recliner, she had climbed up into the innards where she was perched on one of the bars. So we were all afraid to sit on the sofa in case we inadvertently decapitated her.

Hours passed as I tried to talk her out. In the end my eyes hurt from the dust (you should never look under the sofa) and I had a sneezing fit which did nothing to ease kitty anxiety. Our poor bewildered student who speaks very little English arrived home to find dinner late and her host covered in dust with a red nose from all the sneezing. I did my best to explain about the kitten in the sitting room and how she was welcome to go into the room but to make sure doors were left closed and to not sit on the sofa! A look passed over her face as I am sure she fought the urge to phone Mama in Lyons to report that her Mammy in Dublin was a nutter with delusions of kittens in the sitting room!

By Tuesday we had decided to adopt a patient approach. My girls asked me endlessly what if she never came out? “Em, I replied” I guess we would have to phone the DSPCA for help.” I had visions of my sofa being ripped apart in order to retrieve Maggie from its bowels. I will admit that I was slightly worried. I will admit that I did call on St Francis for some help.

That evening I had a small brainwave. We are the slaves to four cats already. The largest of these moggies is called Simba (or more usually FatCat) and he has brought disgrace on our family on more than one occasion. He has attacked Granny when she was calling in to feed him while we were away. The blood stained trousers were kept as a souvenir of his occasional lapse in how to be a good domestic cat behaviour.

When the girls were younger their parties were fraught with danger. Simba generally had to be locked in the utility room for the duration from where he howled the house down – scaring the life out of the little girls of a more delicate disposition.

We tried behavioural therapy under the supervision of the vet who suggested feline valium in order to teach him to relax. I was instructed to give him quarter of a tablet once a day for three weeks leading up to a particular party by which time his behaviour should have been adequately modified. I don’t know if you have every tried to quarter a valium but it’s well nigh impossible. Having festooned the kitchen floor in valium shards and having nearly sliced my finger off in the process, I gave up. We decided to give Simba a valium on the day of the party. It worked a treat.

He slept through all the festivities, albeit snoring loudly and with his tongue hanging out.

He remains a cat I love dearly but whom I cannot trust especially with older people or small children. I have been known to sprint out the front door because he has wandered in the garden and is 'making friends' with an elderly couple or a young family with toddlers. "Sorry" I mutter under my breath "he is not allowed talk to people" as I struggle to lift his bulk and transport him back indoors. His teeth haven been filed and his nails kept short in order to reduce any possible damage!!!

However Simba is the only one of my four kitties who welcomes stranger cats into the house. So – back to the original story here (keep up) – I decided on Tuesday that I would bring Simba into the sitting room in an attempt to show Maggie how (nearly) domesticated cats behave.

Simba understood the brief exactly. He identified the sofa as being Maggies hiding place and lay on the floor emitting “it’s so relaxing here” vibes. It worked. After about 15 minutes a little black and white head poked out from the edge of the sofa.

It took about an hour for her to come out fully and then she was always alert and would race back to the sofa at any movement or sound. But this was progress.

So Maggie has started her rehabilitation from wildcat to domestic moggie!

We have a long way to go .... I will keep you updated!

Is It Time To Get Tough With Charities?

2011-07-28T15:27:00.001+01:00

I am stunned by the current ongoing controversy concerning UNICEF and the ‘sacking’ of its Chief Executive, Melanie Verwoerd. I have no idea as to what the real story is behind the headlines, although I am sorry that she has said it was a result of her relationship with Gerry Ryan and the publicity surrounding his death. There is clearly far more to this story than that.

However what concerns me is UNICEF’s use of their funds.

On their website front page there is a large “Emergency Appeal” for donations for East Africa where they tell us “nearly two million children under the age of 5 are in dire need of help”. On a side bar, the organisation tells us that €30 will provide life saving anti malaria drugs for 40 children. UNICEF is committed to saving children’s lives all over the world. They appeal to us for help – in making donations, in volunteering etc.

So could someone please explain to me how they can justify handing over €200,000 to a ‘sacked’ Chief Executive? They are also rumoured to have retained the services of a professional PR agency to assist them in dealing with negative publicity surrounding this current controversy. Such ‘professional assistance’ could be costing as much as €2,000 per day. How many children’s lives did they say could be saved for just €30?

I am horrified by this seemingly cavalier attitude to spending their money on ‘administration’ and salaries. And I doubt that as a charity they are alone, in the organisation of their priorities.

I know that charities need to employ staff in order to get their work done. In a past life I spent 10 years working for a National Charity myself. But I do think it is about time that charities were forced to publish on their websites just how much of our donations is going on ‘administration’ and how much will actually to the cause we think we are supporting.

I for one do not want to feel that my hard earned €10 is actually going to help pay for the CEO’s company car or towards the fees of a high end PR agency. There is something morally very wrong here. €2,000 a day to deal with negative publicity of UNICEF’s own making? Once again – how many children’s lives could that save?

Most charities are facilitated in their work by an army of well motivated people who volunteer to raise money and undertake other various tasks. Overseas charities also rely on their field workers who seem to have a vocation to help the world’s poor. I admit I don’t know but I doubt if these workers are paid high salaries. But what about those at the top of these charities? Are salaries of €100,000 such as Melanie Verwoerd was reportedly earning, commonplace? If so, is this morally right? I know that high profile people such as Verwoerd can raise a lot of both money and profile for the charity. but that said.. are you comfortable with your donation going towards funding these huge salaries? Surely extra money she might raise should go towards those that UNICEF purports to help rather than her salary?

I think it is time we asked all large charities in this country some hard questions. How much of their revenue goes on salaries and how much of our donation will actually go towards the cause itself?

Am I naive?

HECTOR

2011-07-28T12:00:00.005+01:00

What will we call him?

The girls chirruped happily in the back of the car.

“Meooowww” said the little ginger bundle in the cat carrier.

“Dewey”?

“Ginger”?

Negotiating the slip road onto the motorway,

I indicated into the traffic.

“ His name is Hector” I announced

"He has the same colour hair and he will be great craic."

Hector it was.

That was Friday afternoon.

He fitted right in.

He felt part of the family.

I could see trouble ahead.

How will we ever let him go?

“We are not having 5 cats” I announced,

"He goes back to the DSPCA in 3 weeks and on to his forever home.

Let’s just give him a great start."

So began ‘Hector’ weekend.

We all wasted hours with this feline joy machine.

He played – a bit,

He ate – a bit,

He loved – a lot.

On Sunday evening he was sick.

He was not very interested in eating.

But he still liked to wander about

Greeting and trying to make friends with the other felines

I could hear the faint ringing of alarm bells rang in my head.

On Monday he was up and down.

But he didn’t eat.

Not one scrap.

I found him once or twice just sitting on the sofa,

He looked so sad.

Monday night I spend the entire evening watching rubbish on the TV

Hector slept on my chest,

Happily.

He purred.

Every so often he stretched out his paw,

And looked up into my eyes

We connected.

I willed him well

I said goodnight.

Tuesday morning, Hector was still very sad.

I phoned the DSPCA

Bring him they said,

The vet will have a look at him

This time it was just me and him on the motorway

The car was very quiet.

His temperature is low the vet said

We will keep him in and see how he gets on.

We will phone you tomorrow.

I never said goodbye.

I went home,

Cleaned his litter tray and food dishes

Ready for his return.

I got no call.

My husband phoned – ‘any news of Hector?’

I phoned at lunchtime.

I phoned again.

At 5pm the nurse phoned me back.

Hector didn’t make it.

He had some deadly kitten virus,

There was nothing they could do.

I held my girls as we all cried.

Hector was one of those special creatures,

Somehow he touched all our hearts.

We only knew him for four days

But everyone knows it only takes a moment to fall in love

Hector - we are so sad your life was so short

But we feel so lucky to have been your family just for that time.

It was a privilege to share your last weekend.

Who knew your forever home would be beyond this world.

The DSPCA do wonderful work for unloved and abandoned animals. They always need help. If you can foster an animal or adopt one check out their website. They also need your donations.

Sharing your life with a four legged can bring tears, can be hard work but despite all that, for many of us it is one of the greatest joys of life.

DO WICCANS HAVE HYMNS?

2011-07-25T14:51:00.005+01:00

As I listened to Enda Kenny’s speech last week, I could feel the hair stand on the back of my neck. Not because Enda is a powerful orator – because he is not – but because I was aware that I was listening to history being made. I was listening to Ireland moving out of the shadow of the Catholic Church and into the light of a new dawn.

I have long struggled with my relationship with the Catholic Church. It was easy to turn my back on it completely when I was a teenager, only visiting at Christmas. The ostentatious wealth of the church with its hierarchy of celibate men living in luxury at parish level and in the splendour of palaces as Bishops, galled me and seemed very far from the life of Jesus. But as I got older I became aware of a deep need for spiritual element to my life... there was a void where the church used to be. I really deeply wanted to feel a connection with ‘my higher self’, my soul, my connection to the divine, or all that is.

Then my brother died, very suddenly and I was lost. So was my family. A local priest visited us and helped us prepare for the Catholic ceremonies of death – the removal and funeral. That priest was wonderful. He spent hours with us – learning about my brother so that on the day he delivered a homily that was so ‘right’ and so personal about my brother, it was almost impossible to believe he had never met him. To this day, I think the very best ritual of Catholic Church is the funeral Mass.

After that I thought that maybe I should stay with the church – try to affect change from within? But when my second daughter was born, almost 13 years ago I had something of a spiritual awakening. Deep in my bones I suddenly became aware in a very raw way that the Catholic Church’s attitude to women was not only wrong but deeply offending to me and indeed to God. Who was this Father God? Having just given birth I knew that God has a feminine face. I wondered should I become a Wiccan.

As my children (all daughters) got older they attended the local National School and so were ‘streamed’ for Communion and later Confirmation. As they began preparations I told them it was entirely up to them as to whether they wished to make either sacrament. I did this only to appease my conscience – not because I thought they would opt out – think of the money they would not make! But that’s another blog post. So we embarked together on the preparations with me constantly reminding them that most of what the church teaches especially around sexuality is completely wrong. “Confession is also nonsense”, I told them. It was far from ideal in my mind – a typical Irish solution to an Irish problem.

So we are now (more or less) all official Catholics in name only. We don’t go to Mass. I have tried to teach them the comfort and power of praying. I have tried to help them to imagine a different God to the Father God of the Catholic Church. I have stressed the importance of personal responsibility and of helping each other. I have told them that Jesus asked us to “love one another”. Everything else is baloney.

Had the so called ‘Princes of the Christ’ remembered this simple command, perhaps they would have handled the “rape and torture of children” and the paedophile priests who committed such horrible crimes, differently. Perhaps they would have done the right thing.

I know I am someone who has stood with one foot still inside the church door for the last 13 years. I have kept it there hoping that the Church would change. I was afraid of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. And so I held on – on the edges.

But it’s very unsatisfactory to live like this, especially when I have a deep need for a spiritual dimension that is rooted in community. I can plough a lone furrow with my own brand of spiritual code, but I miss walking into my church at Christmas greeting my friends and neighbours. I know that the next time I have to face a close death, I will be looking to the only place I know in order to help me make sense of death and to facilitate a fitting send off for my loved one!

I have not entirely resolved any of this dilemma. But I no longer feel alone. Enda Kenny’s speech in the Dail last week, was powerful because he articulated the feelings of the majority of people on this island. He said what I am thinking. I was relieved to hear his anger and outrage. I was also relieved to know that our Government, unlike all those that preceded it, will no longer allow the Catholic Church to place itself above the law and beyond reproach.

I would love to think that the Catholic Church might reinvent itself completely from the top down, divesting itself of its wealth and pompous attitude, allowing women to take an equal role and proclaiming that sex is a wonderful gift from God. I wish it would because I will still miss the way Christmas hymns sound in a sacred space, the feeling of community that belonging to a church brings, and the rituals to mark life’s milestones.

I know they have no churches but I wonder do Wiccans have nice hymns.

Image of the Triple Goddess - honouring women in the three phases - Maiden, Mother and Crone (moon in her waxing, full and waning phases). By ecowitch on photobucket

SINEAD IN HER PRIME

2011-07-11T12:31:00.002+01:00

I have a confession to make. I read the Daily Mail – often. I don’t buy it. (Does that make it better?). But I do read it online. When I am writing at ‘My Kitchen Table’ my coffee break is usually accompanied by a log onto dailymail.co.uk. Here I can be entertained without being too bothered by recession, economics or politics. I can’t take the Daily Mail very seriously with its endless stories of WAGs and Soap actresses – that’s why it’s perfect coffee break material. But I do get a bit agitated about how obsessed the paper gets about women and their weight. This week however they have been concentrating their particular brand of stupidity on our own Sinead O Connor.

Today’s Daily Mail (online version anyway) has an article entitled “Sinead’s sad slide from being pop’s most ethereal beauty”. Sad slide? What on earth are they on about? They describe her recent appearance in Manchester as being “overweight and dressed in a drab trouser suit”. They have also described her as ‘mumsy’

Sinead has aged. Like real women do. She is a mother to four children. She is in her mid 40s. She looks like a woman who has other things in her life besides an endless quest to retain her youth. She is wearing her life experience in true Shirley Valentine fashion and more importantly she says she is very happy to be called Mumsy. According to the Irish Independent at the weekend she say "I love when I'm called mumsy. As I am in my 'mumsy' department. I've already gone forth and multiplied four times. So I don't need to be beautiful. Hence one can see how cool it is to be called 'mumsy.'”

Hurray for Sinead O’Connor. As she herself said – she is not paid to look good. She is not a model. She is a musician and artist. And it is in that department that her latest album has been getting great reviews.

So I say ‘go Sinead’ – there are lots of us mums who while not exactly having given up on looking good but who are happy enough to look our age – and we are cheering you on! As for the Daily Mail – its great craic… as long as you don’t take most of it too seriously!

Note to self : check out Sinead’s new album. Her voice is so beautiful.

THE NATIONAL (SOME) WOMEN'S COUNCIL

2011-07-05T15:50:00.002+01:00

In today’s Irish Independent there is an article by Celine Naughton entitled “Why women shouldn’t think of abortion as a ‘dirty little secret”. The article is about a new website which has been set up by two women Lynn Coles and Bernadette Goulding and which aims to provide support to women who are struggling after having had an abortion.

Bernadette Goulding is quoted as saying “we can’t change the past, but we can spare people years of suffering and help them move forward to a brighter future.” A good idea surely. Not according to the National Women’s Council of Ireland.

The article quotes Susan McKay, director of the NWCI as saying “the NWCI supports a woman’s right to choose. Abortion is a serious undertaking and women don’t go into it lightly but for many it is the right decision. And while there may be sorrow, there is no need for remorse or regret.”

This position of the NWCI underlines beautifully one of the fundamental problems with the feminist movement in Ireland. It does not embrace all women. Just like the constant campaigning for better child care and shared parenting, we hear little about supporting women who choose to take a break from the world of work to stay at home and look after their children. It seems to be assumed that all women want the same thing. That we all define ‘success’ in the same way – and we don’t.

Now it seems that our reaction to abortion should be the same – no remorse, no regret. Women (like men) are not a homogenous group. We are not all the same. I am not at all surprised that some women feel deep hurt and regret after an abortion. Why are these emotions not considered a valid response to a huge event in a woman’s life?

I support a woman’s right to choose – in every sense. In her choice of work, in her choice of childcare and I certainly would wish to see women who are hurt by abortion being supported in their journey back to wellness.

As I have written before, march on sisters but remember many of us are hearing a very different drum.

www.womenhurt.ie

www.nwci.ie

CELTIC TIGER GREED OF OUR RETIRED POLITICANS

2011-07-04T13:16:00.003+01:00

Every Monday morning I head out to East Coast Radio in Bray to take part in a panel discussion on events in the news. Regular readers will know that I love radio – and would love to do more.I generally tend to steer clear of heavy political or economics topics as I have no expertise in either. But sometimes something comes to my attention that causes me to lose it – or become a “bit shouty” as producer of East Coast FM’s Morning Show, Claire Darmody would say!

Yesterday’s Sunday Independent published an article entitled ‘TDs and Senators hand us a bill of €14m for their golden handshakes’ by Daniel McConnell. This article listed in detail the kind of payments our elected representatives are being paid as they retired from public office. And yes many of them are the very ones who sat watch over the financial meltdown of this country.

The actual amounts beggar belief. 40 TD will receive over €200,000 with Batt O Keeffe topping this particular poll with a total payout of €266,228. THIS DOES NOT INCLUDE HIS ANNUAL PENSION.

This is not just insane in any economic climate, but with the country on its knees financially, it is also absolutely amoral. It is proof that our politicians have no principles and are an unscrupulous lot who clearly are in politics for personal political gain. And weren’t they dead right.

So while Leo Varadker might shout up and down (correctly) about the bonus the DAA tried to award to Declan Collier but what is he and his Government doing about puitting an end immediately to this national disgrace.

I challenge any of these TDs but particularly those who have received over €200,000 to lead by example and return these ridiculous payouts. We have a health service on its knees, children with special needs being denied their special needs assistants, and ordinary working people who have taken huge hits financially. How many SNA’s could be employed for the cost of Mary Harney’s lump sum of €158,730 (and remember this is just her lump sum).

I just hope that these ‘retired’ politicians can sleep easy at night. They are a national disgrace. And boy do they illustrate more than the vast majority of people in this country the greed of the Celtic Tiger era. May history record as much.

A PASSAGE TO HOLIDAY MEMORIES

2011-06-23T13:00:00.007+01:00

An item on the RTE News the other night, triggered a deluge of very happy childhood memories for me although the story itself was sad. It featured the little Waterford village of Passage East, on the River Suir and the herd of feral goats who live on the steep hill there.

Local lore says that this herd of goats, one of the last herds of wild goats in Ireland, swam ashore from the Greek sailing ship over 200 years ago. They have lived on the hill ever since and are very much part of the village. They were on the news because some days ago 20 of the herd disappeared overnight, leaving just 8 goats behind. Local people are rightly angry and a reward has been offered for their safe return. However it is widely suspected that these goats were stolen to order and so it is unlikely that their safe return is, at this stage, still a possibility.

Every year our family, like most at that time, holidayed in Ireland. We usually rented holiday houses in various locations around the country. One year we went to Passage East and loved it so much we went back the following year too. They were great holidays. I reckon I was about 10 or 11 years old.

The first year we were there, my brothers and I spent hours sliding down the goat hill on flattened cardboard boxes. I don’t know how we didn’t sail right off and land in the road – but we didn’t. When we weren’t careering down the hill, we used to hang around on the little pier where the ferry across the river went from. Nowadays there is a small car ferry joining Waterford with the Wexford village of Ballyhack. Back in the 70s however the ferry was a small rowing boat with an outboard engine which was operated by an elderly man called Patsy. If our luck was in Patsy might only have one or two passengers and so he would take us with him for a free trip. Best of all was when he would launch his little ferry just after a large ship had passed upstream (on its way to New Ross) and we would enjoy the rollercoaster like thrills of riding in her wake. Needless to say there wasn’t a life jacket in sight – and we generally didn’t ask permission from our parents to go out on the water either!

In the evening we would again be down on the pier waiting for the fishing boats to come in. They fished for salmon and once the boxes of fish were unloaded, the fishermen would usually keep a fish or two for themselves. So we would be engaged to carry these large salmon in our arms up to the fishermen’s houses. We would come back to our holiday house shimmering with fish scales, stinking of salmon but with a 10p to spend in the one village shop.

The second year we holidayed in the village, my cousin Bernie came too – female company for me who God had consigned into a family with only brothers. A year can make a big difference when you are about 11 or so and although I am sure that I might have ventured into the ferry a couple of times with Patsy, I think I had given up the hill sliding and definitely the fish carrying. That year Bernie and I spent most of our time hanging out the local boys! My memories are of long summer nights swinging on a makeshift swing hung from the rafters of a derelict building by the beach. The soundtrack that summer was ‘Knock Three Times (on the ceiling if you want me, twice on the pipes if the answer is no)’ and ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep.’

The innocence and the excitement. When we drove out of Passage East at the end of the second holiday I remember all the boys were waiting by the village sign to wave us off. I then had to suffer the entire journey back to Dublin being slagged by my very immature brothers about my ‘holiday romance’.

Photo of current Passsage East Ferry by lhourahane on Flickr

MY CURTAINS

2011-06-16T11:35:00.003+01:00

I have a short and light article on the writing.ie website today. Entitled 'My Curtains' it recalls some of my dear mother's adventures in making my clothes when I was a child!

It's one to read over your coffee... enjoy.

You can find it here

THE REPLY FROM EVANS

2011-06-14T10:53:00.003+01:00

Well, I have to say that Evans were very prompt in their reply to my sending them a link to my previous blog post BRITISH STORES RIPPING US OFF? I reproduce below the nice reply from Audrey (she doesn't sign her second name).

Dear Ms Scully,

Thank you for your email received 9 June 2011.

I am sorry to note your disappointment with our pricing structure following your recent visit to one of our Republic of Ireland stores.

Our Sterling and Euro prices are set in advance of the goods being delivered to our stores in the UK and Ireland. We appreciate that, depending on the current exchange rate, customers may be adversely affected at times, however it is not possible to amend our prices in line with fluctuations in exchange rates.

If you would like, you can place an order through our website. We will charge you in Pounds Sterling and your card issuer will apply the relevant conversion rate.

If there is anything further I can help with, please do not hesitate to contact me by replying to this email address.

Regards,

Audrey
Evans Customer Service

Mmmm - I don't think Audrey read the post... as it was a visit to the Evans Store on Oxford Street (London, UK) that got me very cross. The point I was trying to make was that how can Evans justify an item that costs €60 in London can cost €75 in Dublin? That is a huge differential and cannot be explained away by currency fluctuations.

Over to you again Evans - why the difference? As for encouraging me to buy online - yep I know I have that option, but our economy is enough trouble without us by-passing shops here that employ Irish staff in order to buy online?

Needless to say I am not satisfied with the response.

However for my Irish readers - please watch what you are buying in British Stores here. I have a sneaking suspicion that Evans are not alone. And as Hazel posted in the comments to my previous post, Ireland may well be seen as Treasure Island by UK Stores operating here - and ripping us off!

Grrrrrr

BRITISH STORES RIPPING US OFF?

2011-06-09T11:01:00.001+01:00

First of all, apologies for the gap in my blogging! I have had a very surreal two weeks with 2 trips to the UK in one week and my eldest daughter, Carla leaving for Australia this week. I have regained my energy and am working on putting my emotional self back together at the moment! Anyway – hence the silence.

Said daughter, Carla is a travel agent and decided that we should have some quality mother and daughter bonding time before she emigrated and so booked us an overnight trip to London. We had a great two days – full of laughter, sore feet, a bit of shopping, nice food, some wine and Dirty Dancing. It was wonderful.

While on the shopping part, I visited Evans on Oxford Street where, with Carla’s encouragement I purchased me a dress (I don’t generally do dresses – this was a major event). The price tag listed the UK sterling price as £49.00. As Evans also has shops here in Ireland it also listed the euro price of (wait for it) €75! Yes – that’s right €75!

Anyway having decided to purchase I went to the till and paid with my Laser (debit) card. The assistant asked if I would like to pay in euro or sterling. “How much is it then in Euro?” I asked. €60 was the reply. Needless to say I paid in euro at the till.

But it goes to prove (again – I know this is not new news) that we are being ripped off here in Ireland by British stores. How on earth can an extra €15 on the price of a garment be justified? I am sure that our neighbours in Northern Ireland pay the same price as in London.

When I chatted about this with Carla she told me that some of her friends go into the British Stores and try on clothes for size. Then go home and buy them online as it’s cheaper! Madness – especially in the current economic climate when we need to protect Irish jobs.

I will send Evans a link to this post and seek an explanation. I will let you know of the outcome!

IS BARACK ALL JUST BLUSTER?

2011-05-25T16:14:00.004+01:00

After a remarkable few days, yesterday I found my brain reeling from all the visual images and the ‘sound bytes’ which have dominated our media for the last week or so and which culminated with the visit of US President Barack Obama and his wife Michelle. But whereas the visit of the Queen was entirely satisfying and, dare I say it, moving, the visit of Obama was not in the same league at all. Did it suffer by the comparison with one of the most important events to have taken place in the last century in this country? Or (shock horror) is President Obama not quite living up to his own ability to communicate and to generate PR for himself?

On arrival at Aras an Uachtarain I was struck by Obama the Showman, as he yelled to the assembled media “Good morning, how are you all doing?” But perhaps he was just doing what many Americans do naturally – oozing confidence and informality.

His trip to Moneygall, which was one of those towns you sped through on your way between Dublin and Limerick and were never tempted to stop, was different. Here I thought he was most himself. Clearly relaxed and seemingly very taken with the fact that his third great grandfather (who rejoiced in the very unlikely Irish name of Falmouth) had come from this little town. He was in no hurry as he held babies, received hugs and shook what looked every hand in the town.

Then he adjourned to the pub in the usual piece of staged PR for Diageo. Like Clinton before him – he drank the Guinness, waving it towards the photographers and roaring Slainte! Then it was back to Dublin for his speech to the Irish. I was someone who stayed up into the small hours to watch him being elected in 2008. I am a big fan and so was tempted to go into the city to listen to this man who carries not only the hope of Americans but of the free world with him.

But having braved thousands in Dun Laoghaire for the Red Bull Flopfest the previous day, I’d had enough of crowds and so decided to watch from my sofa instead. As I listened I kept waiting to be uplifted. To hear something I could hold onto. To feel that my faith in this man was going to be rewarded with even just an insightful comment which would make it clear that he understood modern Ireland and our current situation. But instead what I got was a speech that seemed to me to have been cobbled together on the flight over, taking more than a little inspiration from both Kennedy and Clinton before him but without the context that both of these predecessors had. Kennedy was addressing a relatively newly independent Ireland and Clinton was marking the Peace Process.

Obama is a consummate communicator and a great performer. There is no doubt about that. But is he a statesman, a visionary, a great leader of our time? Not yet he ain’t. As I watched him on TV, I laughed and smiled and felt good. But within minutes of it ending, I was left feeling pretty unsatisfied. It was like eating a McDonald’s meal – tastes great but shortly afterwards you realize you are still hungry.

This was no visit, official or otherwise. This was a ‘dropping by’ on his way to bigger and more important business in Europe. His few hours in Ireland provided a bit of R&R for all concerned. And the opportunity to tell us we are a great little country who helped build America; a little island who has had its fair share of dark days but who always overcomes adversity. Had no one told him that only a few days beforehand, in her clipped and formal tones, Banrian Eilis a Do had signaled Ireland’s coming of age and along with our own President Mary McAleese set our faces most definitely to the future.

Grown up Ireland should expect far more from the President of the United States, than a photo opportunity with a bloody pint of Guinness and the same old speech telling us we are great. No, there was no vision of Ireland’s role on a world stage, no creativity of thinking, just same ole’, same ole’. Not good enough anymore. No siree. A definite case of could do a whole lot better!

Postscript: There was one highlight of the visit though and this is really for the benefit of my American readers.

We had all heard about the huge entourage of both people and vehicles that travel with the President. The most impressive of these is the presidential car (of which there is in fact at least two). This car, known as the beast is bullet proof and bomb proof and weight tons. It is truly a magnificence to behold. While waiting outside Aras an Uachtarain (Presidents Residence) it was polished by an aide. The Americans are rightly proud of The Beast. It took a ride over a security/speed ramp outside the American Embassy in Dublin to put The Beast out of commission! The clip is hilarious – listen for the noise of the cars hitting the ramp and then the hilarity of the Dubliners who were watching! I believe the dead beast was finally towed to Dublin Airport yesterday and is now back in Washington for repair.

Here is The Beast coming a cropper in Dublin

MUSINGS ON A ROYAL VISIT

2011-05-20T09:55:00.007+01:00

The Queen is very small!

When she smiles her whole face lights up. And when she does smile it seems to be genuine because she doesn’t do it too often!

Mary McAleese is some President – and then some.

Our defence forces are great. They look smart, do a great drill and have lots of women. And I like the air corps uniform best!

Ritual and symbolism carry a very potent power.

I feel more secure knowing we have a nice neighbour.

Sinn Fein made a most unusual error of judgement in not attending the events of the last few days. It seems like everyone else is moving forward and they are left on the sidelines.

The GAA could have involved a few more girls and women in their presentation of their organisation! An exhibition match – even on a reduced pitch with children would have looked better than the Queen and President sitting on chairs on the sidelines watching a video! (Although these observations really confirm that you can take the GAA out of the Parish but you can’t take the Parish out of the GAA).

The Queen travelled to and from events in a lovely, sparkling Land Rover but she had a small issue getting out of the vehicle when she had to achieve a sort of slide and jump down to ground level. Could a little step not have been provided?

Olivia O Leary is a national treasure. I want to hear more from her.

Banrion Eilis a Do has a gorgeous ring to it.

I would love to know what vitamins Her Majesty takes – her stamina for a woman of her age is impressive.

Prince Philip was a disappointment – he didn’t put his foot in it once!

I personally am most grateful to Her Majesty for knocking the economy, bail out and banks off the front pages and the airwaves for almost a week. I feel like I have been on holidays.

Poor Barack has a really hard act to follow!

Finally, it was a joy to watch President Mary McAleese who was pivotal in getting this visit off the ground, playing such a magnificent role on our behalf. It does rather make one wonder if Presidential candidate, David Norris could achieve the same effect.

All in all this State Visit has been a rollercoaster of joy and emotion. Led by our female Heads of State, Ireland and the UK have come a long way along the road to reconcilation during these momentous four days. And it feels good. Very good.

A MOMENTOUS DAY

2011-05-18T12:56:00.003+01:00

At about 5.30pm on the 17th of May 1974 three car bombs exploded without warning in Dublin city centre. 27 people died. At 7pm another car bomb exploded in Monaghan. In total 33 people lost their lives that day and a further 300 were injured. It marked the single greatest day of casualties in the period known as ‘The Troubles’. It was one of the darkest days that I can remember, ranking alongside Bloody Sunday in Derry. And it had a personal relevance. My father was attending a meeting in the North Star Hotel on Amiens Street. I can remember the tension at home that evening until we heard he was alright.

There were many such dark days in the recent history of Ireland and Great Britain. Enniskillen, Canary Wharf, Omagh... just some of the place names burned into the consciousness of our peoples as the scenes of brutal atrocities.

The 17th of May 2011 will be a day that will also be burned into my consciousness. I will remember it as the day when I watched, albeit from distance of my living room, as the President of Ireland, Mary McAleese led the British Monarch, Queen Elizabeth II into the Garden of Remembrance, so that she could pay her respects to the memory of all those who gave their lives in the fight for Irish freedom. In the eerily quiet city, the only ambient sound was that of helicopters buzzing overhead, the Head of State of the United Kingdom solemnly laid a wreath and bowed her head. It was a powerful image of understanding and of respect. As I watched I became aware that my cheeks were wet with tears. It was profoundly moving and deeply emotional.

My grandfather fought during the War of Independence and I am very aware, somewhere deep inside my soul, of his bravery and that of other untrained ordinary men and women who pursued an impossible dream and made it real. My generation is the bridge between that past which, to me, seems so reasonably recent and our nation’s future. I feel the passion that drove the final push for freedom in an almost tangible sense. It is beyond explanation but it’s something that I carry in the very essence of my being.

My children are aware of the history attached to the Irish side of their family, the touch of this knowledge no heavier than the sweep of feathers on their skin. They are secure in their Irishness. Their freedom is a given.

So it was fitting that I was alone as I watched this momentous piece of history unfold today. I wiped my tears and I thought of my grandfather, George Power of the North Cork Battalion of the IRA. This was the culmination of the dream he shared with all those who down through the centuries pushed for Ireland’s right to self determination. This was the day was finally Ireland was ready to let go of the victim status and stand tall and equal with our former coloniser. It has taken a long time to get to this place. Many have died along the way.

Let us all remember this day, 17th of May 2011 when it was two women, two mothers who stood side by side and demonstrated so poignantly that one can honour the past while setting our faces most definitely towards the future. What a day.

MASH CONFERENCE 2011

2011-05-12T13:04:00.000+01:00

I had a very exciting day on Tuesday. I was at a conference. I was lucky (for once) and won my place on Twitter, which regular readers will know is one of my favourite places – right up there with Dingle and Cape Cod.

Although I got a ticket for free this conference sounded serious stuff and wasn’t any ole two bit event. It was organised by an outfit called Mediacontact.ie whose aim is to “to connect you with your targeted media, get them interested in your organisation and help you to build a presence in the media for your business, project or campaign.” Their conference was entitled Exploding Media and was billed as telling “the story of the extraordinary transformation of the media over the last five years and identify the key trends, technologies and topics that will shape the future for the next five”. So with my still fairly new freelance writer and journalist hat firmly on, I knew that this was a great opportunity I had been gifted.

Having spent the last ten years at home mothering and cooking and cleaning and the like, it was some time since I was at a conference. Although in my day I attended quite a lot of them. So first thing I figured was getting there on time – not easy for someone who hasn’t commuted for a decade. I decided the best strategy was to forgo breakfast in order to leave plenty of time for the journey, as I wasn’t sure what the traffic was like and I had to make my way from deepest Cabinteely to Croke Park. It said on my conference info that registration was open from 7.30 and would be accompanied by ‘morning refreshments’.

My journey, surprisingly, only took me an hour and so I arrived at about 8.30 and was looking forward to a nice latte and perhaps a danish or croissant for breakfast. Croke Park is a fabulous conference venue but I was amazed (well I was horrified really) to find that the coffee was very mediocre (latte? – forget it – it was coffee – “milk is over there”) and the only food on offer was biscuits! Is this recession or is this standard GAA fare? It was certainly more in keeping with the local club’s after match refreshments than what I remember being available at conferences in the 90s.

Anyway once I got over the trauma of having a biscuit for breakfast and very worried that my stomach was going to growl loudly through the morning’s proceedings I made my way into the conference room.

Within minutes I realized just how out of touch I was with modern conferences. First of all an announcement was made which roughly went as follows: “of course we don’t expect you to turn off your phones but please just turn them to silent. The hashtag for the conference is #mashmedia. Enjoy.”

For those of you not familiar with Twitter, inserting a hashtag into your tweet enables you to follow a particular conversation around a topic. So while sitting and listening to the presentations I could post my own reactions and comments and follow those of both my fellow delegates and those who were following the proceedings but not present. It takes a wee bit of practice to listen to what is happening in the real world and read and react on Twitter simultaneously. Although a couple of weeks watching The Late Late Show in the company of Twitter is all you really need to do in order to perfect that skill. In order to maximize the value of the Twitter Feed, the organizers had a row of about 10 tweeters at desks who were tasked with tweeting the conference.

Meanwhile, at the back of the hall there was a large screen which was displaying the conference stream on Storify. Storify is website which allows users to gather and curate content on social media in order to tell a particular story. In the case of the Exploding Media Conference, this task was given to students from DIT who combined tweets, video and photos in order to build the story.

So as I took my place, I was so grateful that I at least had an iPhone so that I could follow the twitter conversation and add my voice to those around me both physically and virtually, although I did come home and write an early note to Santa about an iPad.

The day whizzed by and the conference lived up to its name. My brain was exploding with ideas and new information. I came home and regurgitated it all for my poor husband who is still having problems in understanding Twitter! As his eyes glazed over and he began to snore I decided to shut up.

But my head has been exploding ever since. My brain contains a mash of what I have learned. This mash includes

the fact that cats have tiny undeveloped thumbs (how did I not know that – I have 4 felines),

CDs are so passé dahling (jaysus and we still have a box of LPs)

I really would love an iPad because Kindles are a bit old fashioned as new online reading may include embedded video and links.

Oh and the current revolution of digital media has been compared to the invention of the printing press in its importance. Not so, according to Bill Thompson, head of Digital Archiving with the BBC (so he should know, right?) the digital revolution is going to have the same impact on the human race as learning to decipher symbols, in other words literacy, did.

Wowsers.

So off I go to ensure that I do not remain analogue in a digital age. CDs apparently look very decorative when hung in the garden where they catch the sun! But in the real world can someone tell Croke Park that good coffee is not a luxury anymore!

Sincere thanks to Media Contact for their generosity in offering some free places at what was a really enlightening conference. I really did learn a lot more than what I have outlined above! Promise!

TOO WEIRD FOR WORDS

2011-05-03T16:35:00.002+01:00

The children went back to school today after the longest Easter holidays ever – with two bank holidays thrown in for good measure. But as I struggle to get back into a routine I am not helped by the fact that last weekend was one of the weirdest ever. If you were a visitor from outer space who arrived on Earth late last week, you would have been gobsmacked at just how ‘uncivilized’ and peculiar life on earth really is.

The weekend began with the best of stories – love – with the marriage of the beautiful girl, Catherine Middleton to her Prince Charming. Her new husband, William is of course the son of the late Princess Diana – one of the most famous and most loved women on the planet in the 20th century. The spectacle of the Royal Wedding lifted hearts and focused our attention on the human need for love and connection. It also perhaps has brought some healing to the house of Windsor who for the last few decades seems to have been wracked by scandal and divorce and rifts. Friday was the best of days... we the world watched Britain do what it does best – pageantry and ceremony and we shared, at a distance, the celebration and hope that a good wedding should evoke.

Saturday was uneventful and was followed by Sunday and the beatification of Pope John Paul II. How to explain this concept to our visitor from Outer Space? I kind of doubt that God holds with the making of saints. I feel fairly sure that hierarchies are very much a human idea and dare I say it, a male one at that, even if it is a hierarchy of goodness. I don’t remember Jesus scoring the disciples on their ‘goodness’. But back to our friend from outer space - even if we could explain the concept of sainthood, venerating a vial of blood might just cause problems. As for retrieving his 6 year’s dead body to bring it to the church again – what’s that about? Can we also explain the simple wooden coffin amid all the priceless splendour of the Vatican? What’s the message there? The men who put this ‘show’ together are all the most ardent followers of Jesus Christ, apparently. Have they forgotten that he was a radical free thinker who lived in a humble life in Israel 2,000 years ago? Does anyone really think he would be happy with the goings on in Rome – at any time, never mind last weekend? Anyway that was Sunday!

Roll on Bank Holiday Monday and we all awake to the news that US Special Forces have, after 10 years of searching, finally tracked down, killed and buried Osama Bin Laden. All this happened in the space of a few hours. The internet goes wild with speculation and the chatter on Twitter reaches a new high as word spreads. The talk is of Navy Seals, Black Hawk Helicopters and photos of the US Administration watching live the events unfolding in a hereto unknown town called Abbotabad in Pakistan. I can understand the urge for New York City to celebrate but nevertheless scenes we saw of chanting and flag waving are something we are far more used to seeing from Middle East. But more than anything else I was struck by one of those pictures from the ‘situation room’ in the White House. Gathering around, in an informal group were the men of the American Administration all watching the live events from Abbotabad. In the centre of the picture was Hilary Clinton, the only woman and the only person present registering shock and horror. Her hand is clasped over her mouth and her eyes wide open. At times like this I really do wish that the Feminist Movement had really changed the world of politics and that women were in charge of a different way of doing things. And I am reminded of a quotation of Ghandi “an eye for an eye, renders the whole world blind.”

Actually never mind our friend from Outer Space... I am punch drunk from the events of this weekend. I suddenly feel as if I am not of this planet... after the uplift from watching and enjoying the Royal Wedding, the weirdness of the fast tracked beatification of Pope John Paul II with vials of blood and retrieval of his dead body and then the killing of Osama Bin Laden I am feeling very strangely alien on this planet I call home.

A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE?

2011-04-30T17:51:00.004+01:00

As I had decided to host a Royal Wedding Coffee Morning on Friday, I was running about whipping cream and boiling kettles as guests were arriving at Westminister Abbey. But I did manage to catch what I thought was probably the most poignant moment of the day for me – and that was the arrival of Princes William and Harry.

As the young men they now are, they carry so much of their mother’s energy. They have benefited greatly by having such an openly emotionally relationship with their mother, albeit one that was tragically cut short. Walking into the Abbey, William looked nervous, wringing his hands but I am sure that there was no one else he would have preferred to have by his side than his brother. Diana would have been so proud of her beloved boys. And I don’t doubt that she would also have heartily approved of William’s choice of bride. Unlike his father, William has married for love and not for duty. I just hope that all the love and optimism we saw across the water yesterday augers well for their future together.

If that was Diana’s legacy yesterday what then of her oft partner in crime, The Duchess of York – Sarah Ferguson? Was it her influence that led her two daughters to make such appalling fashion choices? We were all struck dumb in horror as we watched her girls emerge from the car at the Abbey. They were like cartoon characters. Comparisons were made with the sisters in Cinderella. The outfits were bad and the hats showed an appalling lack of taste. These royal sisters painted a stark contrast with the elegance and timelessness of the Middleton girls. Was this Fergie’s revenge? Or do Beatrice and Eugenie have no one in their inner circle who tells them the truth? Have they no one to advise them? They are still young and the coverage of their outfits must be hurtful today. Surely this could be avoided.

My favourite moment was later in the day when, led by an Air Sea Rescue Helicopter from his base at RAF Valley in Wales, Prince William took the wheel of his father’s magnificent Aston Martin to drive his new wife the short distance to Clarence House. It was class and it was cool. Long life and happiness to them both!

And thanks Great Britain for cheering us all up with such a splendid display of pageantry and ceremony!

A LITTLE POEM

2011-04-27T11:37:00.004+01:00

Sometimes you just gotta write a little poem!

THE SPRING GARDEN
The memory of the morning’s heavy downpour clings to the stones.
The garden refreshed by the rain,
A freshly painted landscape.
The air is full of the fluttering of bird’s wings
As they skitter back and forth.
While others perch on branches,
Captivated, as am I
By the simple beauty of my suburban garden.
Their spring songs dance upon the breeze
The scent of lilac ebbs and flows
At once all is tranquil and yet busy.
Unseen tiny animals go about their day,
Burrowing and working
A swallow dips and swoops low over the grass
Summer is just beyond the blue horizon

THE BIG FAT ROYAL WEDDING

2011-04-25T14:13:00.005+01:00

So here we are.... Royal Wedding Week. Across the water, William and Kate host the biggest Reality TV spectacle of the decade on Friday. I have no problem in saying that I will definitely watch the wedding – perhaps not live – but I will not miss all the hoopla as the British Monarchy embark on the latest chapter in the story of the House of Windsor.

We in Ireland have long been fascinated by the British Royals – not everyone I know, but I would hazard a guess that most of us have an interest in goings on of the UK’s top family. And we here in Ireland have the comfort of being able to have front row seats for their unfolding dramas without having to bother with wondering if Monarchy is a good idea or worth the tax payers money. We get the entertainment without the moral dilemma. And let’s be honest the British Royals provide far more glamour than an episode of either Coronation Street or Eastenders.

There have been a few Royal Weddings since the 29th of July 1981, but none matched the spectacle of Charles and Diana's nuptials. At the time I was working for JWT in their office at the bottom of Grafton Street. My manager was determined that although we were working we would see the Royal wedding. Now (for young readers) this was way before computers and live streaming! What to do? Being a very resourceful woman, my manager reapplied her lippy, gave herself a quick spray of cologne and off she went up Grafton Street. About 15 minutes later she arrived back with a nice young man from Radio Rentals (or some such shop) who was clutching a TV and rabbits ears. We were all set. It was a bit fuzzy but it was colour and it was live. We missed nothing.

Diana and Charles wedding was very much of its time. She arrived looking nervous but ecstatic in a huge creation of taffeta and ruffles with a 25 foot long train. Watching the footage of that wedding, we can see where the Big Fat Gypsy Weddings took their inspiration from!

From then on, people all over the world were fascinated by Diana. Her vulnerability which was so evident on her wedding day never left her. But she learned quickly to couple it with a savvy understanding of how the media works and she used both attributes to great effect. Her influence shook the British Monarchy to its very core. Her impact was immense.

So as I settle down to watch the Big Fat Royal Wedding on Friday, I will be wondering what Diana is making of it all and wondering what effect Kate Middleton will have on the family Diana used to refer as The Firm!

Bring it on!

WAVING NOT DROWNING

2011-04-21T14:02:00.001+01:00

Isn’t the weather here just wonderful at the moment; lots of blue skies and bright sunshine. Lifting the colours of our world and taking our spirits with it.

Last Sunday, wishing to take advantage of the sunshine, I mooted the idea of heading out for a walk. I was dreaming of losing ourselves somewhere in deepest Wicklow, but we are slowly realising that our girls are now at the age when heading off to ‘the middle of nowhere’ holds little appeal. After some negotiation they agreed to a walk on Dun Laoghaire Pier. It wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but it was a walk! ‘Dylan da dog’ would be happy.

I generally avoid the pier on sunny Sundays as it tends to be very crowded. It was indeed busy but the sun sparkling on the water, the schools of tiny yachts bobbing about as some junior sailors learned their craft and the odd seal popping his head out of the water, was all enough to keep me sufficiently distracted. We waited at the end of the pier to watch the HSS slowly make its way out of harbour, mouth open – a giant pacman about to swallow up the tiny craft in the bay. The notes of a busking mandolin player fell about us as we watched the ferry head for the horizon.

As we turned around to face back to ‘shore’ we were all feeling hungry and so decided to head down to The People’s Park where a wonderful ethnic food market takes place every Sunday. We spent the next hour sitting in the sun, on the grass munching on Thai treats. The park was also very busy, we were surrounded by families, kids, couples and dogs. But there was a great happy buzz about the place.

My husband is generally a man of few words (he gave up trying to get a word in edgeways, years ago) but he sagely remarked “This is great. Look around you. Does this look like a country on the verge of total collapse?”

And you know what? He was right, it didn’t! Must be cos it isn’t.

HAPPY EASTER!

The Mind is a Powerful Yoke!

2011-04-11T11:41:00.004+01:00

During my personal healing journey through Reiki I learned just how detrimental fear can be to our well being. Fear is wonderful if you find yourself in the jungle staring into the face of a hungry lion, but in our day to day lives fear can often paralyse us or lead us into making decisions that are definitely not in our best interests. In fact at one workshop, fear was defined as False Evidence Appearing Real. In other words many of us spend quite a bit of our time worrying about stuff that is never actually going to happen. Worrying about ‘what ifs’.

On Saturday I was driving to collect my 12 year old from football (they lost by one point – tragic). As usual I was a bit late and was dismayed to find traffic backed up on a local road not far from the GAA grounds. As I waited I couldn’t see what the problem was. But a woman who was walking her dog on the footpath, stopped and tied her dogs lead to the railings and ran ahead down the path and onto the road.

Immediately my brain went into overdrive. “She must be a nurse. There must have been accident”. I turned off the radio and opened my window. Above the sound of the dog who was whining at being tied up I could hear children screaming. By now I had that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as my brain told me that it must have been a child who had been knocked down. At this stage I could see two men were also in the road with the woman.

I looked around in panic wondering if I could make a u turn to get away. I couldn’t help. There were plenty of people about. I didn’t want to see a child on the ground covered in blood. I was really beginning to stress when I looked again and the men and the woman had moved to the other side of the road. I now had a clear view of what they were doing.

They were escorting a family of ducks across the road.

Yes, a mammy duck and about 8 little ducklings who were making their way to the local (and newly established by the council) pond in Kilbogget Park.

I smiled as my brain attempted a quick catch up and change of action and tears pricked my eyes... I don’t know if they were from relief or the realisation that this world is peopled by far more good people than bad. People who will stop 3 lanes of traffic on a busy Saturday to ensure that Mrs Duck and the little ducklings can safely make their way home.

I was still smiling when I reached the football pitch – where although they lost, my daughter had scored 2 goals!

By the way – the screaming kids were coming from an adjacent garden where a birthday party was in full swing!

Fear – False Evidence Appearing Real – beware of it, I tell you!

Photo by Wollombi on Flickr

COFFEE FOR A CAUSE

2011-04-05T11:32:00.005+01:00

Readers of my blog and tweets will know that I regularly contribute to East Coast Radio's Morning Programme with Declan Meehan. The programme is produced by the effervescent Claire Darmody - a powerhouse of energy and enthusiasm. Along with producing 3 hours of live radio every day, she also is instrumental in organising East Coast FM’s Wicklow Wide Coffee Morning in aid of the Cancer Support Services in County Wicklow and the Wicklow Hospice Foundation. As someone who spent nearly ten years organising the Alzheimer Society's Tea Day, I have some insight into just how much hard work such an undertaking is. And raising money for such a worthy cause as Cancer Support needs our support. So let me tell you what Claire and East Coast Radio are doing.

On Friday 8th April coffee mornings will be taking place all over Wicklow to raise funds for cancer support. There will be 10 large events taking place simultaneously around the county between 10am and midday. Declan will link-up live to each venue a couple of times throughout the Morning Show as well as interviewing some celebrities that will be showing their support to the event. Already confirmed to take part on the day with appearances and/or performances are; Musicians; Bagatelle, The Dublin Gospel Choir, Luan Parle, The High Kings, authors Cathy Kelly and Emma Hannigan, Sports personalities Shane Byrne and Mick O’ Dwyer, TV personality, model and author Amanda Brunker and award winning celebrity chef Catherine Fulvio. The coffee mornings will take place in;

The Martello, Bray

The Beach House, Greystones

The Buttery Café at Fishers, Newtownmountkennedy

Avoca in Powerscourt, Enniskerry

The food court in the Arklow Bridgewater Shopping Centre, Arklow

The Grand Hotel, Wicklow Town,

West Wicklow House, Blessington

Kavanaghs, Vartry House, Roundwood

Avondale Sports, Rathdrum Main Street

The Park Pavillion, Aughrim

The event is being promoted across the station, who are suggesting that people who can’t attend one of the East Coast venues might consider organising their own coffee morning.

The Coffee Morning is to raise money for all of the cancer support centres/services in County Wicklow and also for the Wicklow Hospice Foundation. In the last two years this event has managed to raise over €50,000, last year over €30,000 was raised in just two hours and we are hoping to make this years Wicklow Wide Coffee Morning an even bigger success. So there you are...... What can you do? Well if you are in or near Wicklow, have a look at the list of venues and round up a few pals and drop in for your cuppa and donate a few euro. Myself and some of my girlfriends are going to drop into Avoca in Powerscourt (hardly a hardship) to do our bit... care to join us? If you can't drop in and would like to help you can donate online by going to the stations website here1

Good luck Claire and good on East Coast FM for such a great initiative.

ESCAPE INTO A GOOD BOOK

2011-04-02T18:25:00.006+01:00

This morning on my slot on 4FM with Gareth O Callaghan, I talked about books and the joy of escaping into a well written book. I am not one for thrillers, true life crime or gritty reality. No, my favourite type of book is a well written story full of quirky and well drawn characters. Bearing that in mind I mentioned some of my all time favourites, which are:

‘The Art of Racing in the Rain’ by Garth Stein

This is a great book especially if you own a dog. It is narrated by Enzo the family dog who is in his twilight years. Enzo is a wise old soul, who believes in reincarnation (he can’t wait to come back as a man with thumbs) and loves to watch motor racing on the TV. But this isn’t Marley and Me. Enzo tells us the story of family who deal with love, loss, trauma and illness. It is beautifully written and really gets under your skin as a story. You will laugh and cry and in the end you will look at your own dog in a whole new light.

Mr Rosenblums List by Natasha Solomon

This is a very charming book which tells us the story of Mr Rosenblum and his attempt to become the perfect English Gentleman. As you might guess the Rosenblums are German Jews and Mrs Rosenblum does not share her husbands obsession about becoming English. She works hard to remember where they have come from and protect their culture. But her husband leads them on a wonderful adventure in a rural English village which is comic but ultimately poignant. A great story, gently told. Takes a wee while to get started – so bear with it for the first couple of chapters.

Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen

I bought this book on a whim as a gift for a friend and borrowed it back as soon as I could. Set in the deep south of America it tells the story of the two Waverly sisters who live in a big house that has been in their family for generations. Magic is all around as the garden blooms all year around and has a particularly special apple tree. Claire Waverly is a caterer who makes treats and cakes using ingredients from her magic garden – so that her confections can have strange affects on those who eat them. Their perfect life gets somewhat ruffled when a new neighbor moves in next store and ivy starts to grow in the garden. A book to curl up with and dream about later.

Any of the Isabel Dalhousie Novels by Alexander McCall Smith

A prolific writer Alexander McCall Smith is a charming Scotsman who only began writing after a long and successful career in law. To date he has written about 60 books and is probably best known for his No 1 Ladies Detective Agency series which is set in Botswana. However I love his Scottish books particularly his Isabel Dalhousie series. Isabel Dalhousie is a philosopher who edits a monthly journal and is hugely interested in people and in moral dilemmas. This can regularly lead her to get involved in other people’s issues more than she probably should. These books are set in Edinburgh, McCall Smith’s home town which he clearly loves. The descriptions of the city and the gentle pace of these books make them such relaxing reads.

So these are some of my very favourite books. If you like the same kind of books I do, I would love your suggestions for my reading list!

And don't forget to tune in every Saturday to 4FM for Gareth O Callaghan's 'Anything Goes' programme - a great magazine programme for a Saturday morning.

Photo by Raider of Gin on Flickr

NEW YORK CITY LIGHT

2011-03-31T15:32:00.004+01:00

As the huge Continental jet lumbered and roared its way down the runway and slowly lifted itself into the night sky, I gazed out as New York City gradually crystallised into a million glittering lights below me. I watched rivers of cars floating along ribbons of highway and patches of inky nothingness which marked bodies of water. As the beauty of the scene below melted into my consciousness I thought about the last time I had flown out of New York. I was 18 years old and like today I was returning to a country deep in recession and unsure of where my future lay.

Back then in 1981, I had spent a few days in New York visiting the sights which included a trip to the top of the World Trade Centre. I retold my children this experience last week as we stood gazing into the hole that is now known as Ground Zero. My girls are too young to remember that awful day on the 11th of September 2001, but for most of us it is a day burned into our memories forever. The fact that I, like many, watched live as the horror unfolded, connects us strongly to what happened that day.

After visiting the site last week, we went on to the WTC Tribute Centre. This is a centre which focuses on the human stories of 9/11. It doesn’t dwell on the horror of the day. I saw no video of the actual moments when the aircrafts hit the centre, no footage of the people who jumped to their death that day, no attempt to explore who committed this awful crime. No, this centre tells us about the community that was WTC – the people who worked there, who ate there, and who shopped there. And by focusing on these stories, this very human face of 9/11, it is incredibly moving. We were all deeply affected by the experience. The last element of the centre offers visitors a chance to record a message or a reaction to what you have seen. I was fascinated that my two girls, unprompted, both sat down quietly and wrote a message on the special message cards. Their words were private and they posted them into the box without showing them to me or Paul.

I had been unsure as to whether to include Ground Zero on our holiday itinerary – its horror is still fresh in my mind and I didn’t want them to be scared by it. But the WTC Tribute Centre’s approach and its focus on sharing ‘person to person stories’ meant it was a poignant and emotional experience not only for the children but for Paul and I too. I salute the families of 9/11 who have created a very special and fitting tribute to the 2,752 people who lost their lives in that place that day. We left feeling humbled but also uplifted by the connection with those so deeply affected by the events of September 11th 2001.

New York is a wonderful city and a unique one. We often hear of the special energy the city has. Paul, being a photographer, kept commenting on the light in the city. Perhaps it is because the sun’s beams are bounced around the millions of windows contrasting with the deep shadows thrown by the skyscrapers but the light in New York definitely seemed to dance and sparkle all around us. Having spent five days in the energy of this huge, noisy, bustling city I hope that we have returned with just a bit of the special light Paul talked about. Along with the heart to heart connection learned in the WTC Tribute Centre, perhaps we can learn to shine that light forth and shine our way into our futures.

THERE'S MAGIC AROUND THIS WEEKEND

2011-03-18T16:01:00.004Z

This is a weekend of magic.

Tomorrow night we should hopefully be treated to a wonderfully enlarged and brightened full moon as we witness what has been called a Supermoon. This phenomonen occurs about every 20 years when the moon comes about 17,000 miles closer to Earth. So, hopefully the weather will co-operate with clear skies so we can admire Grandmother Moon as she hangs in the sky, 14% larger and 30% brighter.

This weekend is also the Spring Equinox (Sunday) when the hours of daylight and darkness are equal. This was a very important festival in pre Christian Ireland and one still marked today by Pagans. The Equinox marks the mid point of the Celtic Spring which began on 1st of February. It is time to get out into the garden. Clear away the debris from winter storms and make ready for the abundance of summer. The Equinox also reminds us to check our own lives for balance.

I am always amazed that the animals I live fully recognise the new season. They too feel the pull outdoors. Dylan da Dog drives me mad with is constantly looking to go out, and then coming in only to want out again 30minutes later. But the cats being more independent by having their own cat flap enjoy heading out to a sunny area to sit for a while and contemplate life.

We spent Patricks Day gardening. I now have pots ready to replant, a patio ready for a steam clean and once that is done, we can uncover the table for alfresco dining. We will then declare ourselves ready for summer.....

Isn’t it just great!

BY THE WAY: If you are near a radio or online tomorrow (Saturday) at about 11.40 (GMT) tune into 4FM (94.4 in Dublin or online www.4fm.ie) tune in. I will be on with Gareth O Callaghan, shooting the breeze.

International Women's Day

2011-03-08T16:26:00.003Z

Today is International Women’s Day. A video featuring James Bond actor Daniel Craig, dressed as a women and voiced by Dame Judi Dench was released by Equals (a partnership of various charities) to highlight the injustice and inequality that still exists for women around the world. The basic thrust of the film, I have no issue with, although I am not convinced that dressing Mr Craig in drag is of any value other than ensuring coverage in the tabloid press.

However there were some statistics that bothered me. According to Judy Dench although we women do two thirds of the work, we only earn ten percent of the wealth. Many of us still are likely to lose our jobs if we become pregnant. We often are barred from work because of the lack of childcare. This makes me want to scream. Not because of the inequality of it, but because these kind of figures, this kind of rhetoric assumes that all women want to be equal to men in a man’s world. A world where one’s worth is measured by how much you earn. A world where your worth is also determined by how high up you are on the corporate ladder. A world where once you give birth you are assumed to want to place your baby in childcare so you can run back into the workforce and continue your climb through the glass ceiling to the boardroom where you hope you will be treated as equal to your male colleagues.

I’ve been around the block a few times. I have had a career. I loved it. I used childcare. I sat at the management table and I am pleased to say I never felt unequal. I think I was probably lucky. But I totally bought into the feminist notion that I was achieving. However I wasn’t happy. I was bloody exhausted.

Circumstances (and not any sudden blinding flash of insight on my part – but then again I was too busy to think much) conspired to my deciding to leave work, just for one year, in order to be at home with my family. My baby daughter had some health issues and my father was dying at the time. To this day I am so grateful to both of them for forcing me to step back and reassess my life.

I have been at home, looking after my family for the last ten years. I write. Sometimes I even get paid for my writing. But coming up to the ripe old age of 50, there is one thing I know for sure - I do not want to be equal in a man’s world. I want the world to allow me be equal for who I am. I dearly wish my feminist sisters would stop trying to compete with men in this very imperfect society we have created. I want women to re-imagine a new way of being equal. It is a man’s world. I want an equal world.

On paper I earn very little. But as Dame Judi says I work just as hard as my hardworking husband. He earns the money. I care and nuture and organise the home and our family. So on paper I am adding to these flawed statistics. But I am not unequal to my husband, unless you are judging earning power as a measure of equality. My equality comes from the fact that my husband and I agree that he earns our money, not his money.

I want to be equal so that when I do meet my career sisters and brothers I don’t feel inadequate about saying that I am a ...... and there’s another problem right there. I don’t even have a title that adequately even comes close to describing what I do. I want to be equal in a world where women (or men) who stay at home with children are genuinely valued and respected.

To me it is no wonder there are so few women who are at the top of industry, in politics, etc The fact that we are not there is not altogether men’s fault. We are not there largely, I believe, because we choose not to be. Because our wiring is different. Our values are different. We are not men. But we are afraid to say it. It is so ‘politically incorrect’ to say that I do not want to put my children into childcare so that I can work long hours and sacrifice my core instincts. I am not saying that all women feel like I do, but I would say that I am not alone.

So sisters, fight on if you like. But you are on the road to nowhere because we are not all behind you. Some of us are dreaming a very different dream of equality. But maybe it’s time we took the courage to speak up!

WHY NOT HAVE THE KIDS SHOT?

2011-03-08T10:59:00.003Z

It's Happy Faces Day again this Saturday. This is the day when Irish Photographers open their studios and make their talents available in order to raise funds for charity. This years charity is Cystic Fibrosis.... a most worthy cause.

As many of you know, my dearly beloved is a photographer and he will be setting up a studio in Cabinteely - in our beautiful new Parish Centre, just behind the church from 10am till 3pm.

So why not pop in - no appointment is necessary - and get some professional photos taken and help a great cause.

All details are on Paul's blog

GO DAD

2011-03-07T16:17:00.003Z

Yesterday, 6th March 2011 was my dear ole Dad's 10th anniversary. It's hard to believe he has been gone that long. But it was fitting that a story of mine in which he features was recently published in The Examiner newspaper. It is not online so I reproduce it below. I hope you enjoy it!

Sprawling on the floor, preferably in front of the fire while rummaging through a box of old photos is one of my favourite ways to pass a rainy afternoon. My kids also love seeing old pictures and the stories that go with almost every one of them. We laugh at the hairstyles and the strange fashions of the 70s, as I recount my childhood holidays on farms around Ireland. It’s the hair and make-up that make the 80s photos highly entertaining and confirm my children’s suspicion that I was never cool. And as they laugh, I wonder how different it will be in their future when they look at their childhood photographs with their own children. There won’t be a box that’s for sure. No, it’s more likely that they will be looking at the images on a large TV screen – which in fact will make out-of-date fashions look even more hilarious.

When I was growing up my mother kept the good family photos in one of those old fashioned fake leather albums, each picture held in place by black corner sticky hinge things. The photos that were not deemed good enough for the album were placed in an old battered Jacobs Biscuit Tin. In this biscuit tin were the funny photos, the out of focus ones, and ones of my parent’s courtship. As a child, I had my favourites. Finding them in the biscuit tin was like greeting old friends.

One of my very favourites was taken while my parents were on honeymoon in Rome, an exotic location in 1960 and only made possible because my father worked in Customs and Excise at Dublin Airport and was gifted the flights as a wedding present. The photo had the pair of them sitting on a bench in Rome Zoo with a young lion cub on their laps. Another of my favourite photos caught my mother in the evening sun, sitting outside our house with one of my brothers, who was about 6 months old, on her lap. They were both dark and tanned and in the gentle light of a summer evening my mother looked incredibly beautiful.

But there was one photo in the Jacobs Biscuit Tin which un-nerved me every time I uncovered it. It was a large glossy press type photo of my father, resplendent in his Customs uniform leaning over to give a very glamorous woman a kiss on the cheek. The woman was clearly not my mother. When I asked who she was, my mother replied “oh some actress from America. I think she was called Margaret O Brien. The press photographers were at the airport when she arrived and wanted a photo, so your dad was picked out to do the honours.” My father did look very delighted with himself. He was certainly a handsome man. But that was no excuse and I was not impressed. No, I wasn’t at all happy about this hussy, who dared to kiss my father, resting among our precious family photos in the biscuit tin.

A few years ago we were lucky enough to have a holiday in California and naturally visited Hollywood. We did all the touristy things, touring the stars homes in Beverly Hills, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the Hollywood walk of fame. But one of the places I really wanted to see was The Kodak Theatre, home of the annual Oscar Ceremony. Although only opened in 2002, the theatre is a beautiful building full of art deco lines and elegant architecture. We were guided around by a wonderful woman called Barbara. We saw a real Oscar. We heard about ‘seat fillers’ – volunteers who must come dressed appropriately and wait outside the theatre until they are whisked in to fill a seat vacated temporarily by a ‘real guest’. We also got to stand on the stage and gaze out over the auditorium while imagining what it might be like to stand there, gushing a speech of thanks on Oscar night.

As we left the stage our guide led us down the same corridor the movie stars use as they make their way to do their first post Oscar interviews. This hallway was lined on both sides with beautiful black and white photos of movie stars past and present....Clint Eastwood, Dustin Hoffman, Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Tom Cruise and a face that stopped me in my tracks. Yes, there she was, bold as brass, the imposter from our old battered Jacobs biscuit tin, Miss Margaret O Brien. Miss O Brien won an Oscar in 1944 for her part as Tootie in the movie ‘Meet Me In St Louis’ with Judy Garland.

“She kissed my father” I announced to my very bemused family who had never rummaged in the old Jacobs biscuit tin and had no idea what I was talking about. So I recounted the story for my clearly dubious audience, assuring them I had the proof at home.

As we walked on down the corridor I could feel my late father’s presence and he was grinning from ear to ear. Like my children’s opinion of me, I had never considered my father to be cool. But here in the world famous Kodak Theatre in Hollywood, I changed my mind. As I gave Margaret O’Brien a backward glance I whispered, ‘Good on you Dad, an Oscar winner no less’.

THE SIGNS ARE GOOD

2011-03-03T13:01:00.003Z

How the hell are we already in March? It seems like Christmas was only yesterday.

The daffodils have blossomed, their buttery brightness cheering up the still muddy garden no end. I love daffodils. They are such a symbol of hope. In our family we mark two anniversaries in March – my father died ten years ago and my brother fifteen years ago this month. So daffodils bore witness to the grief and desolation of both of these bereavements. But they did so by quietly speaking to my soul of hope and of life continuing even when it seems impossible. For that I will always be grateful to these seemingly everyday flowers.

Of course in Ireland we have (finally) counted all the votes that were cast last week and we (almost) have a new Government, which in itself brings new hope. We have been promised new ways of doing things, new politics but most of all we have just had, what some commentators have termed, a pencil revolution. The people of this little Ireland reacted angrily, not with protests on the streets or strikes but by very conclusively removing the governing parties of the last 14 years from office. The Green Party have been rendered completely ineffective with no seats in Dail Eireann at all and the all powerful Fianna Fail who have dominated politics here since the foundation of the state have been reduced to being the smallest of the main parties represented in the new Dail.

Psychologically we, the people can feel ‘job well done’! We now need our new Government to get on with the very challenging job of getting this country back on its feet.

The excitement of their first day in Government Buildings got the better of some of the newly elected boys and girls. Especially Fine Gael TD Mary Mitchell O Connor who was so taken with it all, got a tad mixed up in the carpark when she attempted to leave. She ended up driving her sexy red coupe onto the plinth in front the Dail and then down the steps to the gate where the photographers and reporters recorded her Top Gear moment. Was she making a case for ministerial mercs to be retained?

Finally, yesterday we beat England at Cricket. And not just any old cricket match – but the Cricket World Cup no less! Up till about 5pm yesterday I doubt if very many people knew that there was even such a thing as a Cricket World Cup – much less that it was actually taking place at the moment. Can victory for Jedward in the Eurovision be far off now? Is the tide turning for Ireland? Are we finally getting our mojo back? The signs are good!

Photo by John Morgan on Flickr

BUMS ON SEATS FOR THE OSCARS

2011-02-23T14:59:00.002Z

I thought that Ireland acquitted herself quite well with the recent IFTA ceremony (Irish Film and Television Awards). The show was a tad long but the new venue of the Conference Centre was much more suitable for an Awards Show with its theatre style seating. However, particularly as the show went on (and it did go on.... for ages in fact), each time the camera panned over the audience there seemed to be rather a lot of empty seats. “Not great for TV guys”!

Where were the seat fillers? Ya wha Gay? Seat fillers? Where were the seat fillers?

You see I am an expert on this subject because a few years ago I was lucky enough to be in Hollywood on holidays and had a fascinating tour of the Kodak Theatre, home since 2001 to the annual daddy of all awards ceremonies, The Academy Awards. It was here that I learned about seat fillers. Americans know how to do events properly. They know that when a high profile event is going to be carried on live TV, a lot of empty seats does not lend the occasion a sense of prestige. Hence the need for seat fillers. And as it’s not just the Academy Awards that uses seat fillers, all major televised award ceremonies do.

A seat filler is a volunteer who will quickly slot into a seat vacated for any reason during the ceremony. So when Tom Cruise heads off for a pee, a designated seat filler is immediately dispatched to keep his seat warm as it were.

This is a serious business. There are strict rules to being seat filler. You have to look the part – so the ideal (read successful) seat filler is usually young (under 35), good looking and ‘svelte’. They must turn up to the event, looking every bit as glamorous as the invited guests. They must then be content to wait in a corridor or back room until required. When they are required to fill a seat, they must do so quickly and quietly. Under no circumstances should they speak to ‘the talent’ (the movie stars etc) unless they are spoken to first. They must not make eye contact with ‘the talent’. Of course it goes without saying they are not permitted to have a camera or to ask for autographs. And as soon as the star arrives back from the loo or fag break, they must steal away quietly back to whence they came.

So, yes you have guessed it, there are agencies who ‘recruit’ suitable seat fillers. I have no doubt there books are full of wannabe actors and screenwriters, the pinnacle of whose careers may well be to sit for a few minutes in a seat which still carries the body heat of their idol!

So IFTA, there is no excuse – get your seat fillers in line for next year!

The Annual Academy Awards take place in Hollywood on this Sunday night and will be screened on Network 2 on Monday at 9pm! There won’t be an empty seat in the house!

The Home of Irish Writing Online!

2011-02-17T12:03:00.003Z

I know that many of the visitors to my Kitchen Table are writers and so I am delighted bring to your attention a great new writing website which has launched called Writing.ie.

Writing.ie has been created by Vanessa O’Loughlin of Inkwell Writers fame. I jest not, nor do I exaggerate. Vanessa is a literary legend in Ireland and a wonderful support to writers, both successful and struggling. You will see her in person on the home page of writing.ie where she will address you directly (press the arrow yoke).

But back to business, writing.ie (is the name burned into your brain yet) has lots of information which writers will find, useful (see the toolbox section), interesting (meet lots of great authors) and perhaps amusing (see Monday Miscellany penned by a struggling but wonderful writer, called Barbara Scully).

Along with listing events and relevant courses, writing.ie will in the future feature articles on all aspects of writing offering hints and advice. There are guest blogs and an interactive forum.

So, head on over and check it out. But more importantly, visit often as this is a website which will be constantly updated with information writers can’t afford to miss.

Congratulations Vanessa – May God bless her and all who sail in her!

STARDUST

2011-02-13T18:37:00.004Z

Friday 13th February 1981 was a regular night. I had recently turned 19 and was working for JWT in their head office in Baggot Street. I very likely went for a drink after work – a habit that used to drive my mother mad in the days before mobile phones and microwave ovens. Most Fridays I arrived home to find some congealed, dried out dinner resting in the oven which I had to eat assuring my very cross mother “it’s fine – not dried out all.” She didn’t believe a word and I am sure got a fair amount of pleasure from the sight of my attempting to eat it without grimacing.

Anyway I do know that I was in bed at a respectable hour. I know because I remember vividly waking up at about 2am having had the most horrific nightmare I think I have ever had. I dreamt that I was in the JWT office at 109 Grafton Street. This was an office I had worked in for over a year. It was located at the bottom of Grafton Street just opposite the side wall of Trinity College. We were regularly asked by tourists where they could catch the bus to Dun Log-a-hair (the 46a to Dun Laoghaire stopped opposite).

Anyway in my dream I am working away when I look up to see a bus at the stop on the opposite side of the road. As I look, a huge crack opens in the ground and the bus begins to fall into the gaping hole. I watch horrified as desperate passengers try to escape. Some make it out the doors but there are a group on the top deck desperately trying to get the small rear window to open. It is stuck. I am helpless to assist them and watch in horror. The nightmare was so vivid and the horror so real that I woke up.

I was really disturbed by the image of the desperate passengers trying to escape disaster. I sat up and decided to read for a while in order to rid my mind of the horrible images from my dream. I looked at the clock on my bedside table. It was 2am.

Like the rest of Dublin and indeed Ireland, I woke the next morning to the news of what had happened at the Stardust Disco in Artane. That night 44 people lost their lives in what is still the greatest disaster to have occurred in this state. A further 4 people died in the following days and weeks. Their average age was 19 years, same age I was. The full scale of the tragedy that unfolded in the former jam factory was conveyed by the news images. Blackened young people stumbling out the main entrance, fire brigade and ambulance personnel assisting them in the general chaos. But what struck me most, 30 years ago were the unfortunates who sought escape through the toilet windows, which were barred. A photo of a ladder placed against the wall in an attempt to rescue them was a poignant symbol. Was it their desperation I picked up, as I slept in my bed on the other side of the city?

I don’t know the answer to that. But I know that my nightmare was one of the most vivid and horrific I have ever experienced. As a Reiki Master I believe in the energetic nature of the universe. The energy of horror created in Dublin that night must have been powerful.

In the following weeks, the reality of how huge a tragedy this was for not just the northside suburbs of Artane, Kilmore and Coolock but for the whole of Dublin was brought to life when I found myself dealing with phone calls from bereaved families and friends as they cancelled holidays they were due to take that summer.

30 years on as I go to bed tonight I will remember the 48 young people who lost their lives in Artane that night. They had a future ahead of them on that night in 1981 just like I did. I thankfully am still living mine. They were not so blessed.

May they all rest in peace.

I CAN SEE THE FUTURE - ITS FULL OF GLADIOLI

2011-02-07T12:02:00.005Z

Yesterday I tweeted something reflecting my frustration with the man who may well be our next Taoiseach, Enda Kenny. His reluctance to engage in the leader’s debate tomorrow night on TV3 with the bulldog of Irish journalism, Vincent Browne leaves me breathless.... with anger. He is looking to be elected to the most powerful job in the land at a critical time in Irish history and he won’t go into a TV studio because he has a problem with Vincent Browne.

Vincent Browne’s interviewing tactics can definitely be suspect at times, but he often is reflecting the anger that most of us, the people of Ireland feel at the moment. His late night programme is also now one of the pillars of Irish Current Affairs viewing.

We desperately need to feel that our next leader will have balls of steel and a natural drive to place the good of this country above all else, during their term of office. If the polls are right, we are about to elect Enda Kenny into this office. A man who at best is holding a grudge and at worst is afraid of what Vincent Browne may expose.

Last week this photo of our leader in waiting appeared in all the national papers. It is a brilliant photo and at first glance gave us all a great laugh. But take a close look at it again. Enda is wearing an expression that is vaguely familiar. Yep, it is one worn by President George Bush. That same unsure, rabbit in headlights, shifty look that Dubya often exhibited. The look that says “I’m about to be found out any minute.” It’s a look that inspires hilarity not confidence. And I am not going to even begin to analyse the look on the unfortunate dogs face. That dog is capturing the emotion that many of us are feeling... the sense that it all is going wrong and we are powerless to stop it.

I have no doubt that we will entertain the world if Enda becomes Taoiseach. George Bush did provide plenty of laughs. It’s all very funny when it’s the leader of another country, even leader of the most powerful country in the world. But we are depending on our next Government to lead us back out of this black hole of recession and debt as quickly and painlessly as possible. It therefore it most definitely not at all funny for the electorate.

Which brings me back to Twitter. One of my British twitter friends (@whyjay99 should you wish to follow her), on seeing my Enda tweet enquired if I meant Edna as she had never heard of the name Enda. There followed a lightbulb moment when I glimpsed our future.

That’s where we are going I’m telling you. Our next Taoiseach shall be christened Dame Enda Kenny. The man who, like the antipodean character who describes herself as a Superstar Housewife, thinks he’s a superstar politican! A misguided man who very possibly will sweep into power on wave of votes the likes Fine Gael haven’t seen in years. And he will think it is because we love him. Get your gladioli ready people!

p.s. I should point out that I am not affiliated with any political party! I have yet to decide how I will vote!

La Le Bride

2011-02-01T10:15:00.006Z

As I sit here at my kitchen table this morning writing these words, the world outside my kitchen window is bright. The sky is washed in a delicate blue and the newly risen sun is spilling it’s weak light at the bottom of the garden.

Last Saturday, for the first time in months the garden called me back outside. I spent some time cutting back some unruly bushes and clearing dead leaves from the flower beds. As I worked clumps of snowdrops were nodding their tiny, delicate heads in the breeze. Beside them, shoots of were just appearing to break through the earth, infant daffodils and tulips. Birds were busy on the bird feeders. Mother Nature has begun to stir. The energy of life which is naturally drawn inward during the long, dark winter is beginning to surface again; a quickening that heralds new life.

Today, February 1st is traditionally the first day of Spring here in Ireland. The natural world confirms this. It is time for planting and growing. Today is also La Le Bride or the feast of Brigid. St Brigid is the female patron saint of Ireland. But Brigid was also a very important pagan Goddess. She is associated with the hearth (heart of the home), poetry, weaving and smithing. She is an inspiring and timeless symbol of caring and nurturing. Yesterday there was a wonderful (short) article about her in the Irish Times which articulates perfectly why Brigid is relevant today more than ever.

Today is traditionally the day for making a Brigid’s Cross. These crosses, made from rushes were hung over the threshold of the home for protection. Farmers also often hung then in cow sheds for the same reason. We live in the parish of St Brigid in Cabinteely and my children go to the local school, St Brigids National School. Every year the girls in 4th class are taught to make these ancient crosses and so our home is never without one over the front door.

So today, celebrate the return of springtime, make plans for some planting in your garden or your window box soon. And may Brigid (Goddess or Saint) bless your home and all who live there.

May Brigid bless the house wherein you dwell,
bless every fireside, every wall and floor.
Bless every heart that beats beneath it's roof,
and every tongue and mind forever more.
Bless every hand that toils to bring it joy,
and every foot that walks its portals through.
This is my wish today, my constant prayer,
may Brigid bless the house that shelters you.

The photo at the top of the page is of a beautiful stained glass window by renowned artist Harry Clarke which is in our local church. It depicts St Brigid holding an acorn and a lamp, symbols of faith and strength.

MOON MAYHEM

2011-01-22T11:44:00.003Z

On Wednesday last, 19th January, I got up at 5am. I headed straight for the kitchen for a glass of ice cold orange juice to wake me up. As I arrived downstairs I wondered who had left what light on. The kitchen was glowing in the darkness of the pre dawn. I suspected a laptop or muted TV. But no. Directly above one of the roof windows January’s Wolf moon was spilling ivory light all over the floor and up the walls.

An hour later I was walking down South Anne Street and again the moon called to me as she sailed slowly over the Westbury Hotel lending the silent city an air of magic. I stopped to honour her magnificence and attempted to capture it on my phone camera. I wondered what the moon was trying to say to me.

My early morning interview on Newstalk Radio done, I headed back towards Grafton Street in search of breakfast. As the moon sank slowly out of sight ahead of the rising winter sun, radios were beginning to pick over the previous nights drama in Dail Eireann, where Brian Cowen had won the vote of confidence in his leadership of Fianna Fail. Michael Martin’s challenge had certainly never looked very threatening. He had cut a lonely figure in a bare hotel room at his press conference. In fact Fianna Fail’s efforts to oust its leader was like watching a tribe of pygmies trying to down a bull elephant with bows and arrows.

The only talking point on Wednesday morning was Mary Hanafin’s apparent crisis of conscience or confidence which led to her picking up an arrow and launching it gently in the direction of the bullish Cowen. Even for a girl it was a rubbish throw and its only effect was to make her look very silly indeed.

Delivery trucks lined up on Grafton Street and the street echoed with the sound of shutters being raised signalling the beginning of the day’s trade. I left to head back to my normal life and Wednesday routine.

As evening fell, Grandmother Moon rose into the sky again, looking even more powerful and beautiful. Her round face seemed to wear an enigmatic smile as she presided over more mayhem. By 9pm the first of a waterfall of resignations was announced as Mary Harney bade farewell to her inglorious tenure as Minister for Health.

By 11pm, the moon was high in the sky and three more ministers vacated their positions. Our Government seemed to be melting in the moonlight.

By the time I awake on Thursday morning the moon is low in the Western sky and wearing a warm buttery rich hue. I am sure she winks at me as I try once more to capture her last moments of stunning beauty.

In Dail Eireann chaos has descended as Biffo attempts to promote lesser spotted TDs into ministerial roles. It was clearly seen as a political stunt to provide some much needed positive PR to elected representatives before they have to knock on doors around their constituencies and it backfires spectacularly. The Green Party throw a spanner in the works. At around the same time it seems that the comatose front bench finally wake up and their barely hidden anger is captured by the amazed political hacks who witness it. There are even reports of Mary Hanafin using the ‘f word’. The day ends with a reduced cabinet double jobbing all over the place.

By Thursday night, Fianna Fail seems to be eating itself. Conor Lenihan gives a stunning performance on Vincent Browne’s programme as he sells both his leader and his brother up the river. His anger explodes causing his face to glow crimson as he attempts to give birth to his new self right there on live TV.

As I head to bed, I search the sky for the moon. She is invisible under a thick blanket of cloud. But I hear her message. Her work is done here.... for now.

Goddess Moon, Grandmother Moon – symbol of feminine power and energy is now waning. But she will be back again in 28 days. I can’t wait.

Photo by Paul Sherwood www.sherwood.ie

FAREWELL PAUL ASHFORD

2011-01-13T23:15:00.003Z

Today I attended the funeral of a man I didn’t know well but who was a constant if irregular presence in my life since the mid 70’s.

I first saw Paul Ashford when my mother brought me to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. The production was meant to take place in the Olympia Theatre but part of the roof collapsed and so the show was moved to the improbable location of the State Cinema in Phibsboro. I remember that as we took our seats, the band/orchestra were making their way through the auditorium to the makeshift ‘pit’. Paul Ashford was not tall but I was about 10 years old. He had a mop of curly hair and the most beautiful blue eyes. I remember him clearly as he strolled down the aisle in a battered leather aviator jacket with the big furry collar up around his ears. I thought he was gorgeous.

At the time, the role of Pharaoh was played by a singer called Cahir O Doherty who did a mean Elvis impression. My mother thought he was the hottest thing since.... well, Elvis Presley. O’Doherty had his own band, imaginatively called The Dazzle Band – this was the era of Glam Rock remember. Cahir O Doherty and the Dazzle Band played in cabaret venues throughout the city. My mother, if truth be told became a bit of a groupie, following the Dazzle Band to such exotic places as The Drake Inn, Finglas, The Tudor Rooms in Barry’s Hotel off Parnell Street and the Noggin Inn in Sallynoggin. She brought me with her, as junior groupie. I was 13 years old, getting into over 18 venues and drinking babycham! Cahir O’Doherty didn’t really do it for me, but I always thought that Paul was very cute!

The Dazzle Band faded out, I became a hippie and hung around with my friends as opposed to my mother. I left school and started working. Dublin was a dull old place and we were in the middle of a recession. Punk rock was spewing out its anger all over the place. But on the southside, a new band hit the scene. Stepaside’s Sunday gigs at the Sportsman’s Inn in Mount Merrion were legend. The band was fronted by Paul Ashford who played a mean bass guitar and wrote the bands songs, their best known tracks being The Last Resort and the impossibly romantic Always Loved You and I Always Will. Paul was still cute. He had a smile that lit up his whole face and a boyish charm. Although by now it was the keyboard player Dennis Woods who turned my head.

The early 80s gigs faded out too. But I still met Paul regularly around south Dublin. He always had time to say hello and ask after my mother. After Stepaside he formed his own band who played at my brother’s wedding in the 90s. Then in the last few years, Stepaside occasionally reformed and played gigs in local pubs. It was a joy to go along and sing along to those same songs we bopped about to in the Sportsman’s Inn.

Today in a church in Bray, I listened to his former band members and friends play soft versions of those same songs as we said goodbye, much too soon to a great guitarist, song writer and nice guy. Thanks Paul for the music, for the memories and for making me feel so grown up when I was 13 years old.

An Unexpected Gift

2011-01-09T16:42:00.004Z

This piece was broadcast on Sunday Miscellany, RTE Radio 1 on Sunday 9th of January.

The recent snowfall, which caused such travel chaos, also brought with it some unexpected and beautiful gifts, which was very appropriate in the run up to the Festive Season.

The uncommon arrival of such deep snow inserted a large comma into the normally manic days preceding Christmas. The kid’s school was closed, I wouldn’t drive and so life took on a whole new way of being. Lighting an afternoon fire and making bedtime hot water bottles became essential and were reminders of a previous, simpler way of life. As Christmas neared, I made two shopping excursions facilitated by my husband and his jeep. Knowing I wouldn’t be venturing forth again forced me to focus on essentials as opposed to striving to create festive perfection. It was the most relaxed Christmas week ever. Trudging through snow to Mass on Christmas Eve was an added magical bonus of the arctic weather.

But more than all that, I just loved the special quiet that a thick blanket of snow brings. That uniquely snowy hush as the earth is wrapped up in frozen whiteness. I was tucking my children into bed one night when my youngest said “mom, listen. What’s that sound?”

I stopped and listened. As I whispered “that’s the fog horn on the end of Dun Laoghaire pier” I was whisked back over forty years to my own childhood bedroom in Blackrock, about a mile from the sea.

How many nights did I lie in my bed listening to that very same, regular sound as it floated out over Dublin Bay? If I listened very closely, way off in the distance, the Dun Laoghaire fog horn was answered by the one on Howth Head. I used to wonder about what ships might be in the bay, hearing the low drone of the fog horns. Who were on these ships? Where were they going? Where they safe? Was the sound of the fog horn reassuring to them or did it sound an ominous warning.

I used to imagine a young deck hand, a boy perhaps a little older than me, onboard one of these ghost ships of my imagination. Was he wishing he could be home, tucked up safely in his bed as I was?

Back then I was in national school in Monkstown where I was very lucky to have a wonderful teacher who was steeped in local history and folklore. She often told us the stories of 18th century shipwrecks that occurred just off the coast of Dun Laoghaire and Dalkey. Her stories were vivid and totally captivated my childish imagination. She told us that many of the victims of these tragedies were buried in the old graveyard on Carrickbrennan Road. So as I lay there on those winter nights, my mind also wandered to their ancient headstones and I wondered if these lost souls could hear the mournful tune of the fog horn. Perhaps if they had been able to hear a fog horn, back on the night their ships sank, their lives could have been saved. According to my teacher, many of them perished because in the foggy confusion they did not realise just how close to the shore they were.

“What are you thinking mom” brings me back to my daughter’s bedroom. “I’m thinking about how much I love the sound of the fog horn and how we have never heard it here before.”

What a wonderful gift the snow delivered – a last chance to fall asleep to the comforting, regular, heartbeat of the fog horn on Dun Laoghaire Pier.

Next Tuesday, 11th of January, Ireland’s fog horns, having outlived their usefulness, will be switched off for good. I doubt I will be alone in missing their lonely yet comforting call on winter nights.

Photo by Paul Sherwood www.sherwood.ie
Painting of Dun Laoghaire Harbour by Jim Scully. See www.jimscullyart.ie

Nollaig na mBan

2011-01-06T12:35:00.003Z

Today, 6th of January is the feast of the epiphany but here in Ireland it is also Women's Christmas - Nollaig na mBan.

To mark the occasion I have written a guest post for the Anti Room Blog which you can read here.

Enjoy!

PHIL LYNOTT

2011-01-04T12:09:00.003Z

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far away, I was about 20 and working for JWT, at that time Ireland’s largest tour operator. It was a great job which I loved very much. Most travel companies at that time were staffed mainly by people in their 20s and early 30s and so the social life was just brilliant. To coin a phrase ‘we worked hard and played hard’.

This was back in the early 80s when Disco was king. Shiny satiny gear, impossibly big hair and bright eyeshadow were de rigeur. We disco danced on multi coloured dance floors in Flamingos and Tamangos and between our disco moves we drank cocktails. It was all very sophisticated in a Saturday Night Fever kind of way.

But at heart I was always a rock chick! I grew up in Dun Laoghaire in the late 70s, hanging out in the infamous Dunelles pub – a dark cavern of a pub in the basement of the not long opened Dun Laoghaire Shopping Centre – where we listened to local musician Dominic Mulvaney playing Bob Dylan and Neil Young. On Saturday night we headed to the late night movie in the Forum Cinema in Glasthule which always seemed to be Pink Floyd’s Live In Pompeii.

My personal music hero was our very own, Phil Lynott who was not only a wonderful musician but also a poet. He was wrapped in the folklore of Ireland which coupled with the fact that he was Dublin’s first black man, made for a heady mix. I saw Thin Lizzy live in the RDS in Dublin in June 1980 and even though I am sure the venue was less than perfect, it remains in my memory one of the best concerts I have ever experienced. Lynott had an electric presence. He was also sexy and gorgeous in the classic Rock God tradition.

Working in the city I did see Philo once or twice striding along Grafton Street grinning from under his curly mop of hair. Such sightings were very exciting indeed.

My work social life with its Disco beat continued with summer BBQs in Joe Walsh’s house, occasional weekends in Ibiza and Majorca and an annual conference which kicked off a hectic Christmas period. But there was one social event in the travel business year to which invitations were highly coveted. A certain travel agent threw a BBQ in his family home, which was large property on the beachfront in Sutton. Only the very coolest and trendiest people got an invite. And for years I was not one of them.

Then one summer, just like Cinderella, I got a call to the ball, or rather the BBQ. I was beyond excited. I had made it, finally. I can’t remember what satin creation I deemed suitable for this important event but I do very clearly remember arriving into the garden in Sutton. I thought I had stepped into a film set. May I remind you that this was the early 80s. Dublin was a dreary place. BBQs were not yet on sale in every DIY shop in the country, nor were fairy lights. So the sight of this huge garden lit by fairy lights in the trees was breathtaking.

In the centre of the garden was an outdoor swimming pool which had been drained for the party and was in use as the dance floor. The BBQ was on one side of the pool and the bar on the other. All around the garden were dotted tables and umbrellas and at the end of the garden a gate opened out to the beach. I took all this in and tried to keep my mouth from dropping open. As I wandered towards the bar, trying to look as cool as possible, I passed a table and almost fell over those familiar long, leather clad legs. At that point I am sure my jaw did drop. I was at a party with Phil Lynott! If I could have imagined heaven at that age, this would have been it.

I don’t remember the rest of the evening. But I do know that although a year or so later I was spending most weekends in The Pink Elephant which was regularly frequented by U2, Def Leppard and the like, there was no one as cool as Phil Lynott. I just wished I had had the confidence to have gone over and planted a kiss on those chocolaty cheeks.

Phil Lynott died on this day 25 years ago.
Ni bheidh a leithead aris ann.

WELCOME TO 2011

2011-01-01T14:59:00.003Z

Finally, we have arrived at the New Year. I love the fresh feeling and hope that the dawn of a new year brings and this year we also mark a new decade. It is a time for looking forward. It is time to stop wasting time with regrets or worrying about the year that has finally ended.

2010 was a challenging and difficult year for Ireland and her people. I, no doubt am not alone is being very glad to see the back of it. Last night, for the first time in many years, we just sat by the fire as a family and allowed the old year to slip into history. (Before you wonder if I have lost it altogether – me and him did have a glass or four of wine!) Today we are looking forward to all the possibilities this brand new year may bring to us.

So what about this new decade? I am hoping that we will make 2011, the year that hope is reborn in Ireland. We lost so much confidence in 2010. We were bombarded by a media obsessed with our economic difficulties. In 2011 I believe, that each of us need to make a conscious decision each day to hold on to hope. We need to focus on the future and on recovery. But most of all we need to hold onto the belief that we can make it happen…. And we will.

Personally, along with hope, I am going to attempt to live fearlessly this year. Many of us are finding that fear is making it difficult to see a way ahead. Fear is a very limiting and damaging emotion and is only useful if you are facing directly and immediately into danger. Fear should be fleeting – not long term.

So I say drop the fear, hang onto hope and march confidently on into the new decade! Fake it till we make it, if you like. Although the last verse of Bette Midler's The Rose also captures the sentiment perfectly:

When the night has been too lonely

and the road has been to long,

and you think that love is only

for the lucky and the strong,

just remember in the winter

far beneath the bitter snows

lies the seed that with the sun's love

in the spring becomes the rose.

May we all witness the blooming of prosperity, justice and peace for all in 2011

Barbara

A Candle in the Window

2010-12-13T13:19:00.004Z

Christmas is a time for memories. I was very lucky to grow up in a reasonably normal home where we had a fairly traditional Christmas. Christmas was a far more modest event back then. Our decorations were of the paper variety and were strung from the four corners of the room to the centre ceiling light. Our Christmas tree was decorated in multicoloured baubles and lots of tinsel. Tinsel also adorned mirrors and pictures on the walls. The only fairy lights were, what we considered to be, very sophisticated Cinderella Carriage lights which were strung on the tree.

As a child the magic of Christmas Eve was always special. I remember the mounting sense of anticipation, tinged by the slight worry that I may not be able to get to sleep. One of my clearest memories is of watching out the windows as the light died and darkness fell. My mother would come into the front room and hitch up the net curtains in order to place a lighted candle on the window sill. I gazed out into the street, waiting as each of our neighbours did likewise. In 70s Ireland the only premises that were adorned in Christmas lights were pubs, shops and hotels. So the simple single candle in the windows of homes all over the countryside was a powerful symbol of hope and of welcome.

I am a great believer in the need for change and for progress. Life is fluid and little remains the same and that is a good thing. I indulge in fairly lights all over the house for Christmas and I string a set into the tree in the front garden – like many of my neighbours. Candles are a common feature in most homes nowadays and are lit year around.

But on Christmas Eve, as the light drains from the sky I often wish it were not so. I imagine a brief pause in all the excitement and a turning off of all the fairy lights – just for a few minutes. In the quiet and in the darkness and with appropriate reverence I wish to could again watch as each house could placed their simple, single candle in the window. Each one spilling its modest brilliance into the darkness of this special night.

But instead I will do what I always do. I will close my adult eyes and re-imagine the darkness of the 70s neighbourhood where I grew up and see again the flickering light in each window. I will recall just how powerful and poignant symbol a hope and of welcome these candles are. And I will take my lantern and light my own candle. And although it will be somewhat lost in the glow of my fairy lights, it carries the same, very Irish message, unchanged for many hundreds of years. There is a welcome here. Hope lives here.

Nollaig Shona Duit Go Leir!

Photo by Arvind Balaraman

LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW.......

2010-12-01T12:00:00.007Z

Finally we have something different to talk about! And to think about.

Snow.

Tons of it.

Snow like I am not sure I have ever seen before in Dublin and I am very old!

This morning as I write this, there is a white out here in Cabinteely. My world has been gifted a thick duvet cover of artic brightness. Our roads are beautifully quiet. The special, gentle hush that snowfall always brings. It’s as if the whole world is an awe of Mother Nature’s ability to so beautify our surroundings.

The cats are bemused and horrified in equal measure and our elderly matriarch is particularly put out! Her old bones are too old for deep snow.

Today we are having our first duvet day of the snowy weather, with the exception of Carla who left the house before the blizzard and caught the bus to work. I do hope she finishes early so she can get home safely.

At the moment the girls are out with their friends, building snowmen and throwing snowballs. Later they will come in, red faced, wet and exhausted and we will do some baking. As the sun heads west, we will light the fire and sit around eating the results of our baking. And I hope we will remember how lucky we are.

So Ireland, I hope everyone is warm and well stocked up and able to enjoy Narnia outside our doors. Check your neighbours – especially the elderly! And don’t forget the birdies… although I got more than I bargained for when I tried to put out bread for a pair of doves! Those are seagulls! Hitchcock does Narnia!!!

"Where has all the money gone?"

2010-11-15T11:34:00.004Z

7 Billion, 24 billion, 35 billion….
Bail Out,
ECB,
Bond Markets,
Ollie Rehn,
Front loaded adjustments,
Budget deficit,
Blah Blah Blah,
Gobbeldy gook
It streams from my radio.
It jumps from the pages of my newspapers.
It scares me to death and yet it is meaningless.
Intangible.
Words, totally unconnected to my day to day existence.
But yet words that are part now of the soundtrack to our lives.

Before these words became common language, long, long ago, at the very beginning of this recession, my daughter Mia, then 8 years old asked me “Mom, where has all the money gone?” At the time I smiled at her innocent grasp of the new financial reality. “Yes, child” I answered her “wouldn’t it be great if the Government could just print some more money for us all.”

I was recounting this anecdote recently to a friend when I thought again of her question “where has all the money gone?” The question stayed with me all day. Yes, where indeed has all the money gone?

Our current financial meltdown was triggered in large part by the property developers. The men who paid hugely inflated prices for parcels of land on which they had ambitious and unimaginative plans to build houses and apartments. We all know what happened next. The property market collapsed. The land became almost worthless and the developers couldn’t pay back the huge loans they had borrowed from greedy and clueless bankers.

So, Mia innocently asked “where did all the money go?” Someone got paid the large sums borrowed from the banks, which we are now effectively paying back! Surely there is a case to be made for an investigation into those who were paid the hugely inflated prices for their land. I understand that this is how land and property speculation works. But it is morally right that this modest cohort of people, whose bank accounts now bulge with possibly millions of euro, should be allowed to hold onto it? Meanwhile our Government considers reducing the Old Age Pension, Children’s Allowance and other benefits, our young people emigrate in thousands and our economy collapses all around us. We in effect are paying for their financial windfall.

To go after this money, would take courage and determination. I know that it wouldn’t solve all our problems, but it would go some way towards restoring a sense of fair play to the rest of us who profited only very modestly by comparison and then only by working hard during the Celtic Tiger’s roar. At the very least surely some kind of extra tax could be levied on the millions paid for what are now useless fields of dreams.

My daughter has a point – “where did all the money go”. We know where a lot of it went, and we seem happy to pay it back in order to protect some principle of a free market economy. I don’t think that Mia, now 10 years old, would consider that to be very fair. And neither do I.

BACK TO THE FUTURE 1963

2010-10-30T12:18:00.003+01:00

The 26th of June 1963 was my mothers 28th birthday. On that evening she stood in the front garden of our house on the Swords Road in Santry with her 18 month old daughter in her arms and together they watched as one of the most glamorous and charismatic leaders the world had ever seen, swept past in his motorcade on the way to Aras an Uachtarain.

I don’t know if the fact that I saw President Kennedy from my mother’s arms explains my fascination with his story. I think most people, particularly us Irish, find the story of JFK compelling. It has it all – power, glamour, wealth, success, Hollywood legends, conspiracy and the ultimate tragedy of a life cut short. To this day and no doubt into the future, JFK is the President many leaders, particularly American Presidents aspire to. Clinton and Obama made no secret of their admiration for the 35th President of the United States and the Kennedy family’s endorsement of their campaigns, was a key element in both their elections to office.

What was it that made John Fitzgerald Kennedy so special? Watch old film of this attractive man, who was 43 when elected, and his charisma is still evident today. Charisma, no matter what your role in life is, is a very useful commodity. JFK had it in buckets. He was by all accounts very charming and had the ability to make people like him. His self deprecating sense of humour also won people over. He was a leader whose two most powerful tools were charm and charisma. Coupled, no doubt, with a sharp intellect and innate understanding that politics is all about people, combined to make him a very effective statesman.

He understood that to connect with people, be they your countrymen or not, was essential. He arrived in Dublin on that June evening in 1963, straight from Berlin where he had made his famous ‘Ich bein ein Berliner’speech. JFK knew how to connect with people alright.

But connecting alone is not enough. Kennedy also knew how to communicate very effectively his vision of the world. He used big broad brush strokes when painting that vision. Many years later, African American poet Maya Angelou said “… people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” And when he came to visit us in Ireland, Kennedy made us feel good, good about ourselves and good about this country we live in. What a precious gift.

When he addressed the Joint Houses of the Oireachtas on the 28th of June, he delivered one of his trademark, powerful orations. It was full of references to Ireland’s proud literary tradition, stressing our relatively new independence, and the role he saw for Ireland in working towards World Peace. Probably the best known passage from the speech that day was when he quoted George Bernard Shaw’s approach to life :”other peoples see things and say ‘Why?.... but I dream things that never were – and I say: Why not?”

Kennedy went on to say
“It is that quality of the Irish, the remarkable combination of hope, confidence and imagination that is needed more than ever today. The problems of the world cannot possibly be solved by skeptics or cynics whose horizons are limited by the obvious realities. We need men who can dream of things that never were and ask, why not?”

These words, delivered directly here to us in Ireland, inspired our country almost 50 years ago. We listened and we believed. Why? Because they were delivered by a charismatic leader, who had a vision to communicate to us and who ultimately made us feel good about ourselves. To me, this is the very essence of leadership.

We should be grateful to Ryan Tubridy for putting the spotlight back on those momentous days of 1963. Because buried among the newsreel footage, the anecdotes and the sheer excitement, is Kennedy’s speech to the Joint Houses of the Oireachtas. It is a speech that is as relevant today as it was on the day it was delivered. Almost half a century later, his words are still a wonderful gift to us. As we flounder from one financial crisis to the next, in a vacuum devoid of leadership and of vision, let us remember that the 35th President of the United States of America, John Fitzgerald Kennedy told us we possessed a remarkable combination of hope, confidence and imagination. And let us hope that he was right!

My Halloween Musings on Sunday Miscellany

2010-10-28T16:47:00.003+01:00

Just a little note to let y'all know that I will be one of the featured writers on Sunday Miscellany this Sunday, 31st October when I shall be, appropriately enough, musing about Halloween. Regular readers will know that this is my absolute favourite time of year!

So, have a lie in and set the radio to come on at 9am for an hour of stories, memories and music. RTE Radio 1. 9am. Sunday 31st October.

Oh, and if you are around a radio on Monday morning, I shall be popping into the East Coast Radio Studio at about 11.15 for another battering, sorry chat with Declan Meehan. Check out http://www.eastcoast.fm/

Happy Halloween

Gimme some of that ole Chilean magic

2010-10-19T12:42:00.003+01:00

No doubt in order to balance Black Thursday, God in her infinite wisdom, decided last week to gift us with Chilean Wednesday. As I watched the events taking place, thousands of miles away in the Atacama Desert of Northern Chile, with the rest of the world, I too cried. For the first time in months I felt uplifted and hopeful. I also swooned slightly due to the constant presence of the handsome Laurence Golborne, Chile’s Mining Minister whose huge smile shone forth from under his hard hat and dominated much of the coverage. He’s apparently now a superstar in his homeland and has been tipped as the possible next President. He’d make a great guest on The Late Late Show, which is having a dearth of good guests at the moment. But I digress.

I know nothing about Chile, except their red wine of which I am very fond. On Chilean Wednesday I discovered that their Spanish is a lot easier to understand than that spoken in Spain. Perhaps they talk slower. There were other things that struck me about Chile too.

Chileans exude an innate warmth and informality. There was little hand shaking at Camp Hope. No, it was all hugs and kisses and back slapping. Both President Pinera and Mr Golborne (did you notice his lovely teeth?) greeted each miner with a huge bear hug. They also hugged and kissed the miners families and loved ones. Although in the same situation I am not sure how keen I would be on Brian Cowan lunging forward to deliver a hug or even, God forbid, a kiss!

Chileans have sex appeal in a way that I doubt we in Ireland will ever have. Considering that they had just endured 69 days trapped in the heat below the desert, these men appeared as Rock Stars as each one emerged from what looked like a miniature reverse rocket, in their Bonoesque shades. Could you imagine how a group of Irish Miners trapped under a bog might look – even with trendy sunglasses? From the oldest to the youngest, these guys all exuded a confidence that only comes from knowing you look darn good!

Their ‘rock star’ make-over included a team t-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Gracias Senor’ or Thank God. Only Chilean Miners led by the gorgeous Mr Golborne could rehabilitate God in such an immediate and effective way, given what the various religions have done to him over the years.

I am left in awe of this South American country. We should be very jealous of them.

We need some of this magic. We need some of the media savvy that ensured the whole world shared in this magical rescue. They took a huge risk in inviting us all to be such an intimate part of the proceedings. Had it gone horribly wrong, President Pinera and Mr Golborne would have been left offering explanations and apologies. But it didn’t go wrong. It worked and beautifully. Why? Perhaps because they believed it would. Perhaps because they had ‘Senor’ onside. Perhaps because they have the sexiest Minister I have seen in a long time in charge. All of which does not bode well for Ireland’s recovery from our financial hellhole.

A PINT AND A HAIRCUT True Irish Stories

2010-10-03T20:37:00.006+01:00

All of us remember the dreadful earthquake that devastated the island of Haiti early this year. I wrote about it here. Haiti has now disappeared from news reports and from the forefront of our minds, which I suppose are not very taken up with our own economic earthquake here in Ireland. However, true to form not all Irish people have not forgotten about Haiti. There are those that are working directly on the ground with Irish aid agencies helping the people rebuild their lives and there are creative and generous people like Garret Pearse.

A native of County Longford but now living in Wicklow, Software Consultant Garret, decided to do something practical to help Haiti. Some months ago he put out a call for ‘True Irish Stories’. His intention was to compile a book which would raise funds for Concern’s work in Haiti. The response came, from established writers, bloggers and brand new writers – proving that old adage that all Irish people have a story to tell, to be true.

After more months whittling down the stories he received and making difficult choices, the book is ready and should be hitting the bookstores about now. Taking its name from one of the stories, A Pint and a Haircut features 70 tales – including one by yours truly! I am proud to be associated with this great project along with other bloggers Eolai gan Feile (whose also donated the painting on the cover), Jane Travers and Maria Duffy.

A Pint and a Haircut retails at €12.99. If its not in your bookstore ask them to order it for you (ISBN 978-1-907536-16-1) or buy it online from the publishers Londubh Books. It will keep you entertained on long winter nights and make a great present. But most of all, it will help those whose lives are still devastated in Haiti.

I Am A Citizen Of This Country And I Am Angry

2010-10-02T14:51:00.003+01:00

I am delighted that the Irish Times today published a piece I wrote last Thursday - Black Thursday in Ireland - when the Government finally came clean on more or less how much this bail out of the banks is going to cost us!

I have been overwhelmed with the response I have had - on the Irish Times website and through Twitter.

You can read it here http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/weekend/2010/1002/1224280160745.html

WE NEED A HERO

2010-09-28T12:24:00.006+01:00

Regular readers of my blog will know that one of my all time heroes is Michael Collins. I have written about him before here. For my overseas readers, Michael Collins was the man who gained Ireland her freedom after 800 years of occupation by Britain.

Many of you will also be aware of the competition currently running on RTE to find Irelands Greatest. The contenders are Michael Collins, Bono (yep, I kid you not), Mary Robinson, John Hume and James Connolly. Each of these great Irish people is being featured in an hour long documentary outlining why they should be voted Ireland’s Greatest. I watched the Michael Collins one (a repeat of the original broadcast) on Sunday night.

I have read widely on Collins and so although I didn’t learn much I didn’t already know, the old news reel footage was wonderful and confirmed most of my opinions about him. Here was a man, a farmer’s son from West Cork, who went to London at 16 to work in the Post Office Bank. He returned to Dublin in time for the Easter Rising and went on over the next 6 years to achieve Ireland’s freedom from the most powerful empire on Earth.

He strode around my city and this country with confidence, vision and a seemingly huge amount of charm and charisma. He managed (in the days before mass media) to sell The Treaty he negotiated with Britain to the Irish people whom he addressed at mass rallies all over Ireland. He was a gifted communicator, a visionary, a soldier, an intelligence expert, a politician, a statesman and a celebrity. His work rate was huge. He was passionate, committed and determined. For me, there is no competition. He is Ireland’s Greatest.

On the same night as I watched the documentary on Collins, millions of people across the US were watching Jay Leno, who began his show by displaying a very unflattering photo of our Taoiseach asking his audience to guess who this man was. Was he a bar-tender, a politician or a night club comic? To huge roars of laughter, he announced that this man was in fact Ireland’s Prime Minister. He finished up by saying “at least we aren’t the only ones with drunken morons”. It was cringe making watching the clip back on YouTube the following day. And who can blame Jay Leno? Our leader, Brian Cowen has left himself wide open to such ridicule by his recent behaviour. But even before the hungover interview on Morning Ireland, Brian Cowen has managed to give the impression that he is weary of having to lead this country. He often comes across tetchy and irritated during interviews, as if it is a real nuisance to have to answer questions about the economy etc. He may have said it is an honour to lead this country, but you would never deduce that from his usual demeanour.

One wonders how Ireland could have gone from having a leader such as Collins to having a Taoiseach such as Cowen. I am angry that he has reduced our country to a laughing stock and a financial wreck. But trying to stay positive I am holding to the old adage that the darkest time is just before the dawn. Perhaps somewhere on this island, a new Collins is about to come into focus; someone who will lead Ireland forward to a new day. I really hope so!

WHEN LOVES COMES TO TOWN

2010-09-25T11:52:00.002+01:00

A shorter version of this short story was published recently by Woman's Way magazine.

Enjoy!

_______________________________________________________________

The short term car park was a cauldron of bad tempered chaos. Negotiating slowly around pillars, cars double parked waiting for a family to load up and move out, and hordes of giddy, scantily clad young women who appeared to have returned to Dublin directly from the Spanish nightclub, did nothing to ease my already frazzled nerves. I sent a plea to the car parking angels to please find me a space and continued my search, as I tried to swallow my rising sense of panic. I was already late. Finally I found a space, albeit it on the roof and in the corner furthest away from the walkway into the terminal building. “Memo to self” I muttered “be more specific when lodging requests with the Angels of Parking Spaces.” It was blowing a biting, easterly gale which was whipping rain in horizontal spears across the car park roof. “Bloody hell, I will be like the drowned rat after she was pulled through the bush backways.” Bloody hell.

In the Arrivals Hall a quick glance at the TV Monitor told me that the flight from Amsterdam had just landed. Putting my faith in the laissez-faire Dublin baggage handlers and perhaps, if luck was on my side, a shift change about now, I made a bee line for the bathroom to attempt to salvage something of my appearance which had been so carefully put together before I left home. I tried valiantly to retrieve my hair from the dark side, dabbed powder to subdue my shiny face and re applied some girliness with more pink lippy and surveyed the result. “It will do” I thought. Although I wished I wasn’t so pale. Last time Pier had seen me I was wearing a honeyed Mediterranean tan. Gathering as much confidence as I could fake, I strode back to the Meeting Point.

I took up a position among the throng of expectant relatives and professional meeters and greeters, trying to look casual and control my jelly like legs. I wasn’t sure if I was suffering from nerves or excitement or both. I squinted at new arrivals luggage trying to spot an AMS sticker. None yet. My mouth was dry. I opened my bag and popped in strong mint into my mouth and sucked hard. Be calm, be cool, I told myself.

In attempt to control my nerves I concentrated my mind on the carved wooden box at home which contained all Pier’s letters. Pier’s funny, beautiful, and loving letters which I had been receiving for almost a year. He wrote English better than he spoke it and his words were full of colour, humour and sunshine. He described his life working for an Advertising Agency in the centre of Amsterdam, his flat which, naturally had a view of a canal, and his beloved bike which took him everywhere he needed to go. He made me laugh with his tales of smoking pot legally in one of the many hash houses he frequented. He wrote about his hippy parents who had retired to live on a houseboat with lots of cats and of the latest concert he had been to. In turn I wrote to him about Dublin, making it seem far more cosmopolitan than it was. My letters were sprinkled with references to Bono and to Phil Lynott, as though they were at least neighbours and possibly friends of mine. I made passing reference to my modest flat which had a view of a car park but from where I could smell the sea, which was not always a good thing. I told him about my job working for a holiday company and my great social life wandering around the pubs of the city which carried echoes of our literary heritage. He kept promising that he would visit Dublin and me soon. And now he would be here any minute.

Also in the wooden box were the photos of that great holiday in Ibiza. We met in an Irish pub in San Antonio and I couldn’t believe that I was having the clichéd holiday romance with a gorgeous blonde Dutchman. I pictured Pier’s long legs and strong arms. When we danced I felt so small, gathered into his tanned chest. He loved music and his funny English and mispronounced words meant we laughed lots during those two weeks. I smiled at the memories. This was going to be a great weekend.

I had a full itinerary planned with every intention of making Pier fall in love with my city. That could be the deal breaker. He must love Dublin. Because I did and I couldn’t really have imagined my future anywhere else. I had planned breakfast in Bewleys, a walk in Stephens Green, a trip on the new electric rail train, the Dart around Dublin Bay, a walk down Dun Laoghaire Pier. We would visit Davy Byrnes Pub and O Donoghues for a live trad session. And I had planned a big night on Saturday night in the Pink Elephant with some friends, and maybe a bag of chips from Leo Burdocks on the way home. He would get the very best of Dublin over 3 days and nights. On Sunday we would wander around the Guinness Brewery and he could buy some souvenirs to take back to Holland.

My two best friends, Niamh and Jackie and their men were joining us in the Pink. They were all almost as excited as me about this weekend and couldn’t wait to meet this Pier they had heard so much about. They had seen some of his letters and his photo and were, so far, very impressed. Although I was aware of a slight whiff of desperation in their enthusiasm. For too long I had been the spare wheel in our circle. Niamh had married her childhood sweetheart the previous year and it looked like an announcement from Jackie who has been dating Alan for a year by then was imminent. The 5 of us went out regularly and whereas it didn’t bother me much, I know that Niamh, in particular, felt that we are unbalanced. We should have been 6. And both of them felt that maybe Pier could just be the man for the job. I knew he was fairly keen on me, now I just needed my country to do its bit. Signs were good – he shared my devotion to Thin Lizzy and had just purchased U2’s War album and could belt out ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ with great gusto after a few pints. He had also been to a Rory Gallagher concert. He was tall, blonde and very handsome and was a graphic designer. And just a little bit alternative which I really loved. He ticked all the boxes. I just hoped he wouldn’t catch them calling me Louise Van der Beere which had been their latest big joke!

“Louise – hello” the suddenly familiar guttural accented English and my heart skipped a beat. Beaming with happiness I turned around and there he was. I opened my arms in speechless embrace. “Oh bloody hell, this could be a long weekend”