PLANE CRASH....

Last night Channel 4 screened a horrifically mesmerising programme called Plane Crash in which a team of scientists flew an ultimately empty 727 airliner to a desert site in Mexico where it was deliberately crashed in order to retrieve data from many sensors, cameras, computers and high tech crash test dummies onboard.  

A worthy exercise which was turned into entertainment by the adding of an interactive element.  We, the viewers could log onto the website and check in for this flight.  We could choose our own seat and later we would find out if we were likely to have survived the crash or not.

It was, as I said, mesmerising.  The aircraft crashed and it turned out that most of us (except for those who plumped for First Class) did ultimately survive.  But I did feel very uneasy afterwards as the scientists investigated the wreckage.  

An air crash although a rare occurance must be beyond horrific.  Let me tell you a story.....


At 1.15pm on Sunday 27th March 1977 a bomb exploded in the florist shop in Las Palmas Airport in the Canary Islands.  A warning had been given and no-one was killed, although eight people were injured, some seriously.  A follow up phone call from the group responsible hinted that there may be another bomb, leaving the airport authorities with no option but to evacuate the building and temporarily close the airport.  Incoming flights were diverted to the nearby island of Tenerife.

35 years ago Los Rodeos was Tenerife’s only airport.  It was a sleepy place which was built in the mid 1940s and it still carried the echo of those days when flying was glamorous and romantic.  But although Los Rodeos gave the impression of an airport lost in the mists of time, it was also regularly shrouded in the mist that descended from the nearby Mount Teide.  Mount Teide is Spain’s highest mountain and dominates the scenery on the island.  Usually snow covered, it presence gives the island almost two different climates.  The south is dry and barren and gets the best of the weather with plenty of sunshine and little rain.  The north however is wetter and misty days are not unusual giving a very different environment which is both lush and tropical.

The 27th of March 1977 was just such a misty, damp day at Los Rodeos when KLM flight 4805 made its final approach.  Like most of the other aircraft on the apron at Los Rodeos that day, the KLM flight, which was a holiday charter for Holland International Travel Group, was en route to Las Palmas.  Onboard the giant 747 were 234 passengers (including 3 babies and 48 children), all no doubt looking forward to a sunny holiday on the island of Gran Canaria.  On arrival, they disembarked the aircraft and stretched their legs in the now crowded terminal building.

About a half an hour later, another fully loaded 747, Pan Am flight 736 arrived through the mist.  This flight had originated in Los Angeles via New York and onboard were 378 passengers, mostly of retirement age.  They were also headed for Las Palmas where they were to connect with Royal Cruise Line’s ship, Golden Odyssey for a 12 day cruise.  By the time they arrived for this unscheduled stop in Tenerife they had been onboard the aircraft for 13 hours.  As the terminal was now full, they were not given the option of disembarking although the doors were opened.

At about 3pm Las Palmas airport reopened.  At Los Rodeos the apron and taxi-ways were full of aircraft and so the controllers on duty began the job of getting everyone airborne again.  As the Pan Am passengers had not left the aircraft, their flight was ready to go but because it was parked behind the KLM 747 they were dependent on the Dutch aircraft leaving first.  Along with re-boarding the passengers the KLM captain decided to refuel, probably in an effort to save time in Las Palmas.  He was keenly aware that his crew were in danger of running out of flying hours which would prevent them from flying back to Amsterdam on the return leg of the journey.  There was nothing the Pan Am flight could do except to wait behind him.  It was about 5pm by the time the KLM aircraft began to taxi.

By now the runway was covered in thick fog.   The KLM aircraft was to taxi to the end of the runway for a turnaround in preparation for takeoff.  The Pan Am began taxiing behind him and was instructed to leave the runway at taxiway no 3.

The KLM flight began its take off.  The Pan Am aircraft was still on the runway, not having yet come to taxi way 3.  The thick fog had significantly reduced visibility so that by the time the KLM captain saw the other aircraft he was committed to take off.  He tried to climb quickly and the Pan Am tried to move off the runway onto the grass.  It was too little and it was too late.

A total of 583 people lost their lives on that damp spring day at Los Rodeos airport.  The crash is still the world’s worst aviation disaster (aside from 9/11).  There were 61 survivors from the Pan Am aircraft (although 9 died later of their injuries) and just one from the KLM, a holiday rep who ultimate destination was Tenerife anyway and so never re-boarded the flight.

Although the air accident report placed the blame fairly squarely on KLM Captain Van Zanten’s shoulders for taking off before being given ATC clearance to do so, like most aviation disasters, there were numerous factors which all played a part in the crash.  The bomb at Las Palmas, the fact that it was a Sunday and only two air traffic controllers were on duty at Los Rodeos, the number of aircraft which were suddenly diverted to this small airport, and the fog all conspired against those whose lives were lost.

After the disaster in 1977, a new airport Aeropuerto Reina Sofia was opened in the south of the island, leaving Los Rodeos to handle the inter-island flights and flights from the Spanish mainland.

I spent many blissfully happy times in Tenerife in the early 1980s.  I regularly flew in and out of Los Rodeos Airport as it was nearer to my destination of Puerto de la Cruz.   It was small, intimate airport completely devoid of the hustle and bustle one normally associates with an airport terminal.  I haven’t been there recently but know that the airport has been significantly extended and upgraded and is again handling international flights.

But Los Rodeos airport, on the foothills of the majestic Mount Teide remains in my memory as the relaxed, informal, welcoming terminal it was all those years ago.  However I never passed through it without thinking about how it was also the scene of such unimaginable horror which began to unfold just after 5pm on 27th March 1977.

The image is of the memorial to those who died in the Tenerife Air Disaster

RELAX, REFLECT, RECHARGE...IT'S AUTUMN

"I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” 
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

Autumn seems to be a little later than usual in arriving this year.  Here we are in the second week of October and I wonder, can you feel it yet?

I am just beginning to sense it.... that delicious feeling of the earth slowing.  Of Mother Nature settling down and preparing for the deep slumbers of winter.  Her message is carried on the damp night air but it emanates from deep within.... deep within the earth and deep within our own psyche.

It is the feeling that makes you want to make your home a little cosier, to buy throws and comfy cushions to throw on the old sofa; to make sure you have lots of fat winter candles; to order wood and coal for the fire.  It is the feeling that makes us crave root vegetables for soups and stews.

The natural world provides us with sensual cornucopia.....
the smell of woodsmoke,
the sound of crunching leaves underfoot,
the sight of the trees wearing their warm tones of russet and golden leaves,
the touch of misty mornings,
the feeling of energy being drawn inward.

Mother Nature whispers her message to our deepest selves.  She tells us that now is time to take stock, to pause, to be gentle with ourselves and others.  It is preparation for spiritual and psychological hibernation.   It is time for reflection and remembrance.  A time for gratitude and for nurturing.

It is simply my very favourite season...... and I fully intend to do as nature intends us to do... relax, reflect and recharge.

“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”
― George Eliot

HANDS OFF OUR CHILD BENEFIT

One of the few ‘right’ things we did as a country during the boom years was to take a few steps towards valuing, in a real way, the work of caring for children in this country.

Back in 1992 debate began around the provision of childcare in Ireland for families where both parents worked.  The Commission for the Status of Women recommended that there should be a tax relief for the payment of childcare for working parents.  However that immediately led to parents who cared for their own children in the home feeling (rightly) discriminated against.

By 2000 we were also discussing child poverty and in the end it was felt that an increase in the universal child benefit scheme was the best way of addressing all of these concerns.

So parents in Ireland although not getting tax relief for childcare were paid what looks like a generous children’s allowance which could offset some of the cost of childcare while equally recognising the work of the army, of mainly women, who stay at home to care for their children themselves.  This seems to have been somewhat forgotten about although an excellent opinion piece by Evelyn Mahon intoday’s Irish Times goes some way to correcting our absentmindedness on the subject.

We all are familiar with that old cliché that we live in a society not an economy.  This is one area where that cliché is worth fighting for. 

Regularly we talk of how we lost ourselves completely in the excesses of Celtic Tiger Ireland; we got ideas above our station and lost our values completely.  Some of that may be true but in the midst of all the material madness we did one right thing.  We said that the work of caring for children has a value.  We recognised that value and we went a little way towards compensating the carers for that work.

That work has lost none of its intrinsic value.  Children are our future and our country’s greatest asset. 

Almost a century ago the Proclamation of the Irish Republic stated this new Republic’s aim of “cherishing all the children of the nation equally.”  We are only now getting around to beginning doing something about that as we prepare to amend our Constitution to include children’s rights.    

Isn’t it then ironic that at the very same time our Government are considering once again taking away the only value that has ever been given to the work of caring for children?  Talking out of both sides of their mouth?

Well hear this Minister Burton – Get Your Hands Off Our Children’s Allowance.  Let’s shout it loud and clear.  Our children are depending on us.

If you want your voice heard you could start by signing this petition 
http://www.causes.com/causes/795632-don-t-touch-our-child-benefit-irish-government?utm_campaign=home

OUR WASTED YOUTH

As I write this morning, thousands of kids around the country are receiving their Junior Cert results... there will be tears and there will be whoops of joy. And later there will be lots of underage drinking and tomorrow some of our papers will carry photos that will strike terror into the heart of lots of us parents.

I myself will be heading into this scary teenage territory again in the coming years.  I have been there before as my oldest is now 25 but I am fairly certain that things in this country have gotten a whole lot worse since she did her Junior Cert in 2003.

How do I know this?  From friends and neighbours who have 15 and 16 year old kids.  From hearing them worry endlessly about how much freedom is enough but most of all from listening to their worries about their children drinking.

From talking with these parents I know that is not just their own children and their friends they have to worry about.  They are also often trying to enforce a ‘no drink’ rule in an environment where other parents are willing to either turn a blind eye to the fact that their 15 year old is drinking or who have decided to allow them a ‘couple of glasses of wine, cos sure they are going to do it anyway.’  You know the logic – the one that says it is better that they drink at home than in a field!!

The drinking culture that up until now we have in Ireland seen as an integral part of having the craic has led us to have a way too relaxed attitude to teenage drinking.  If the stories I hear are true, Dublin city on a weekend night (or possibly tonight) will be full of our young people some so drunk they can’t stand up.  They are vulnerable and they are at risk.

Add into this alcohol fuelled mess our over made up, tangoed, slapper looking teenage girls and we have the right recipe for disaster. You know the look - skirts barely covering their ass, cleavage hoisted to below their chin and vertigo inducing heels that cause them to develop a duck walk would be funny except that increasingly I feel these girls are sometimes living up to the image they are portraying.  Until recently I dismissed the tales of young teenage girls in ‘no alcohol’ discos run in rugby clubs giving blow jobs to boys as urban myths.   Now I wonder.... and I worry.  How we have gotten to the place where our educated young women think that dressing like a hooker and then acting like one is empowered living is beyond this old woman’s comprehension.

As I see it we in Ireland have two major problems with our youth that we need to urgently to address.

The first is our problem with teenage drinking.  As parents we need to wake up.  Allowing our precious very sensible, well brought up 15 year old ‘a few beers or glasses of wine’ is not the sign of responsible parenting.  It’s an abdication of our responsibilities.  We don’t live in a bubble.  We live in a society where alcohol no longer tastes like alcohol (making it so easy to drink by the gallon) and where drinking to excess is seen by our children as an essential part of a good night out.  As parents we need to remember that teenagers (even the well brought up ones) are usually unlikely to tell you the whole story or the truth.  Most of their drinking is not done in the local pub it is done at home or in the homes of a friend.  “No mom, no one will be drinking much, honestly” – don’t believe it – check it out if you can.

As parents I believe we have a right to be over bearing and embarrassing if we feel we need to in order to double check what is going on.  And yes, you will be told “no-one else’s mom is like you,” or “oh mom please don’t embarrass me”.  I say go ahead.  Your teenager most likely doesn’t hold you in very high esteem at this stage in their lives anyway.

I would also welcome the introduction of a no tolerance attitude by the Gardai to drunken behaviour on the streets.  Anyone who is so drunk they can’t stand up or who is caught engaging in ‘lewd behaviour’ on the streets should be rounded up and put in some kind of holding facility overnight.  No comforts, just access to water and toilets and somewhere they will be safe until 9am next morning.  A doctor could be in attendance so that these drunken messes don’t end up clogging up and being a nuisance in our A&E departments.

Radical? Perhaps and for someone who is proud of her leftie credentials I am surprised at my solutions but I really feel it is time as a country we practiced some tough love on our young people.

The other problem I see is one that is not so easily dealt with.  As the mother of girls it is something that bothers me hugely.  Why do our young women think that dressing like slappers is attractive?  They are poured into dresses that are a size too small, too short and too revealing.  They are unable to walk in ridiculous shoes.  Their beautiful skin is plastered in way too much make up.  They have fake nails, fake eyelashes, fake tans and possibly fake boobs.  I know I now sound like a right crabby, bitter, old woman but how have our daughters lost the feminine instinct to be a little mysterious, a little enigmatic.  They put it all out there, piled high like a cheap stall in a car boot sale.

Isn’t it ironic that at a time when women are supposedly at their most empowered (although we still have some way to go yet – but that’s another blog post) we have a generation of girls who think their power lies solely in their advertising their sexuality in the most overt way possible?  How has this happened? How do we change it?

Media’s portrayal of women is probably the single largest factor in this skewed idea of what female empowerment is about.  From music videos (well especially music videos) to movies to advertising, women are largely portrayed as bodies, and surgically enhanced bodies at that.

As the old adage goes “you can’t be what you can’t see”.  We as parents need to be conscious of this constant and very subtle undermining of women’s true power which pervades our everyday.  It’s on buses, in magazines, on the TV, in the cinema and our young girls who are at that stage in their lives of trying to work out who they are, are very open to this brain washing.  

All we can do as individual parents is to be very aware of these almost subliminal messages our daughters are getting every day and try to counter it and highlight what is happening.  We need to actively seek out positive examples of real female power and bring them to our children's attention.

I would urge you to also visit the Miss Representation website and view the trailer of their powerful documentary.  It will certainly help you understand what is going on.  It might be the first step in us redressing the balance.

In the meantime congratulations to all who received their Junior Cert Results today.
Enjoy celebrating this milestone – but please remember your parents... and your dignity.

Tiger 1996 - 2012.

I remember very well the day in winter of 1996 when I went to collect you.  You were lounged nonchalantly on a bed in a small townhouse in Bray where the owner had christened you Florence.  You were about 3 months old.

I took you home to our little rented house in Blackrock where our then 10 year old daughter rechristened you Tiger.  You lived an indoor life for a few months and then we all moved a few miles further south when we bought our house in Shankill.  Do you remember the endless entertainment your still kittenish self had with the hidden water sprinkler in the back garden of our new house?

In Shankill you were on hand to welcome home our babies, Roisin in November 1998 and Mia in September 2000.  You also knew my father, Michael before he passed away in 2002.

Then one day you were gone.  I called and called you.  We searched our neighbourhood.  I drove up and down the nearby motorway looking for a body.  All in vain.  You had just vanished.  We were all sad as the realisation gradually dawned that you were gone.  But life was busy – with two babies, a teenager and both Paul and I working hard.  By now our family had expanded to include another cat – Simba.

On a Saturday morning, some months later, I arrived half asleep into the kitchen to find you were back.  Sitting up on the high stool and meowing your head off, clearly telling me of your adventures which hadn’t seemed to have taken any toll on your beautiful appearance.  We were delighted and stunned and never ever discovered where you went for those missing three months.

We moved again in 2002 to this house in Cabinteely and the following year added another two cats to the household.  But you Tiger were always the matriarch.  Beautiful, elegant and slightly aloof.  You were no lap cat preferring on occasion to sit beside someone but rarely on a lap.

When Dylan the dog joined us five years ago, it was you Tiger who very definitely taught him that he was the very bottom of the food chain in the house and that cats rule!  You taught him well – he has never forgotten.

Tiger helps Mia with her homework.

You were so affectionate. Like lots of cats – an open book or newspaper on the kitchen table was a signal for you to come and make yourself the focus of our attention instead of our chosen reading matter.  You would head butt the paper and wind yourself around a book making reading or doing homework a challenge.

You were always here Tiger.  As you got older the outdoors was fine for an hour or two in the sun on mild days but what you really loved was to curl up on your blanket under a radiator.

Your other favourite thing was to sit on the back of the chair and look out the front window where you could watch the neighbourhood comings and goings.  You also had a handbag fetish and loved nothing more than investigating a good handbag – the more expensive the bag the more you loved it.  More than a couple of friends left this house with their designer handbag covered in cat hair!

Like many of us in this house, you were a great talker. You knew your name and often responded to being spoken to with a series of meows.  Those meows took on added impetus in the morning when you demanded to be fed at once! Paul was your food slave!  And like Simba, you loved it when I started preparing dinner.  You sat on the floor to the left of the cooker (while he took up position on the right) and waited till I dropped a piece of chicken or some other tasty morsel.  Sometimes you stretched up and tried to hook a piece of meat for yourself!

Your last year or so were marked by your inability to groom yourself as effectively as you would have liked but that meant that we could give you a girly grooming session in the garden which you loved.  Only last weekend we spent about 30minutes together at the picnic table at the end of the garden and as I brushed your coat you purred your pleasure.

Sometimes we both got distracted at My Kitchen Table and spent long minutes watching birds in the garden or just thinking about life.

In the last week or so we knew you were fading Tiger and we vowed that as long as you were comfortable, eating and sleeping we would not force any intervention.  That stage came to an end yesterday when we knew you were no longer comfortable.  It was an unbearably sad morning as we all spent what we knew were our last hours with you.  But ever the lady and a cat who always knew her own mind you spared both of us the trauma of euthanasia in the Vets surgery as you breathed your last in the car beside me.

Tiger you were witness to all the events, big, small, happy and sad of our family life over the past 16 years.  Your constant presence in our home is no more but you remain in each of our hearts and our memories.
Tiger Sherwood Scully, cat, friend, part of our family left us on Saturday 25th August 2012.

Cats are synonymous with female energy, magic and the moon...

I hope Tiger that somewhere you are winding yourself around the legs of one Mr Neil Armstrong and that you might find a celestial kitchen table where you can sit and he can regale you with tales of how it felt to walk on that moon!  You'd like that!

In memory of Tiger Sherwood Scully.

1996 - 2012.

Thank you Tiger -  we will miss you but never forget you!

SCOOTER'S INCREDIBLE JOURNEY

Fostering kittens for the DSPCA is always interesting but the kitten we took delivery of on last Wednesday has a particularly special story.

Last Monday (13th August), a woman left Edenderry, Co Offaly and drove (without stopping) to Dublin.  On arrival and when she got out of her car she was very surprised to hear a cat’s cries seeming to come from inside the engine.  She lifted the bonnet and sure enough there was a white and black, quite terrified kitten looking back at her.  The kitten had hung on and survived the journey the entire way.  Thankfully the driver contacted the DSPCA who took the kitten back to their HQ in Rathfarnham where they checked him out.

This is Scooter when he arrived at the DSPCA after his epic journey in a car engine

Miraculously the three month old kitty survived without injury.  When we met him on Wednesday, he was still a bit dishevelled and grimy looking.  We took him home for some rest and recuperation.

Although the DSPCA had called him Eden, he was immediately rechristened Scooter in our house and we think this name suits him perfectly. He didn’t take too long to relax and soon was relishing the comforts of a cosy blanket and a safe place to sleep. In the last few days he is regaining his looks as he grooms away the dirt and grime from his engine journey.

Scooter at home!

Scooter brings with him such a great story of survival, of the kindness of strangers and of hope in the face of the seemingly insurmountable odds.  And the amazing thing is that he seems to know how lucky he is and he is so grateful for a second chance.  He is the most affectionate cat you could meet.

We are due to return him to the DSPCA for rehoming on Friday!  Mmmmmmm... I think this is one kitty foster we may just fail on!

Kittens and adult cats can have a dangerous habit of climbing onto car engines because they (foolishly) consider them warm and safe places to sleep.  Most cats would not be as lucky as Scooter was.  If you have cats in the vicinity of where your car is parked it is a good habit just to bang the bonnet with your hand before you get into the car.  This should help dislodge a sleeping cat.  Cats in car engines can be a particular habit of farmyard cats!

REDEFINING BRITISHNESS

Being married to a Brit I have always taken a lively interest in the goings on of our nearest neighbours.  I have two children who are half English and, if I am to be very honest, that part of their heritage is not ever something I was that excited about.  Their Irishness contained all the attributes that I would have considered preferable for life – an ability to talk the hind legs off the proverbial donkey, an inner knowing of what ‘the craic’ is, the love of a good party and an understanding that slagging someone you love is really a show of affection.  Other than great organisational skills I was unsure what other national traits their English heritage gifted them.  I suppose you could short hand all this by saying my attitude to the Brits is that they’re grand – a bit boring and predictable – but grand.

To back up this dodgy theory I would regale my kids with the story of the first time I travelled to London to spend the weekend with my beloved.  I was to accompany him to a wedding – a daunting prospect as I knew absolutely no-one.  The wedding itself took place in a beautiful ancient English church complete with lychgate and with real bells tolling to announce the newly wedded couple.  The reception was in an equally lovely country hotel with duck pond and gorgeous gardens.  The day was sunny and warm.  The people I met were all very nice too and made me feel very welcome.  But it was all over by 9pm.  The bar closed and everyone went home.  I couldn’t believe it.  This to me summed up England – grand but a tad dull.  And yes I am quite aware that this was a very lazy view of the neighbours.

So when I sat down to watch the Olympic Opening Ceremony I was expecting to see a well executed show complete with a dollop of Royalty and the usual line up of British greats from the world of music.  What I was not expecting was to see was Her Majesty playing a cameo role in a Bond skit where she apparently jumps out of a helicopter into the arena.  What was this?  Were the Brits laughing at themselves?
The great organisation I had come to expect was there alright – but it was used to create a show that was chaotic, quirky, exuberant and magical.  Sure there was great lighting and pyrotechnics but over-riding all this was a creativity that was mind-blowing; the cyclists with the luminous wings, the children jumping on hospital beds, the Mary Poppins’s who floated into the arena – breathtaking and enchanting.  And there was powerful symbolism too, particularly in the lighting of the magnificent ceremonial bowl of flame by the next generation of young athletes.

The Opening Ceremony seemed to set a tone that was miles away from the bad press in the weeks leading up to the games with stories of Olympic Lanes forcing motorists off the road and the security shambles.  For the last two weeks we have watched an Olympic Games where almost everything was golden – from the smiling volunteers to the good humoured crowds.

I wondered if the Closing Ceremony would revert to type.  We already knew that we were going to be treated to a ‘symphony of British music’, but once again the Brits surpassed themselves and surprised me.  We were all invited to join in a wild party with performers singing on juggernauts, in convertible Bentleys and on top of Taxis.  Annie Lennox appeared like some kind of warrior Goddess on the prow of a ship singing Little Bird.  And best of all The Who, closed the show delivering My Generation to at least three younger generations of British musicians who joined them on stage.

As I watched I began to feel that this Olympics was about so much more than sport.  Over the last two weeks our neighbours have redefined what it is to be British.  They have revitalised Brand GB into something alive, colourful, witty, creative and magical.  It has been a joy to watch.  And I am very relieved for my children and think I will stop with the wedding story now.

One of the most poignant moments of the Closing Ceremony was when the face of John Lennon appeared on the screen singing Imagine..... “you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.  I hope one day you’ll join me.  And the world can live as one.”  London 2012 came very near to providing us with an insight as to what such a world would feel like.  Maybe the Mayans were right after all about 2012 heralding in a new era of peace and understanding on this troubled planet.  I hope so.  But, seriously who would have ever thought it would have been the Brits who would deliver the goods.

Bravo GB.  What a wonderful couple of weeks and I am very pleased to have better stories to tell my kids about what it means to be English!