Let's Spend Time, Not Money

Port Macquarie, New South Wales and my travelling companions, lily-livered with hangovers, are bedridden and moany. It's raining. My hostel bunk and tired book hold limited appeal so I decide to indulge in some retail therapy. It's been raining for days now and my optimism re the Australian winter is beginning to wane - I thought it would be just like an Irish summer. And it is. I leave the hostel determined to buy a sensible jacket and instead spend the afternoon shopping for sweaters with a little old lady who asked me to choose one for her son, then took a shine to me. She's about 147 years old, so I imagine her son as a pot-bellied and balding bachelor and choose the duds accordingly. Lovely! she exclaims. If only he could meet a nice girl like you... she says wistfully, as we finger some more argyle.

Fast forward two years and a wet Tuesday evening finds me in A-Wear on Grafton St. shopping in vain for Christmas Clothes. Everything seems to be covered in sequins. I am trailing around with a Peter O' Brien dress over my arm, imagining how like Gráinne Seoige I will look in it (ignoring the fact that I have neither her handsome face nor her hugglesome boobies). As I make my way to the changing rooms in order to effect this miraculous transformation, a wheedling American accent tugs at my sleeve.

"Hey miss!" Dum dee dum dee dum mumbles my face as I determinedly ignore her trills for attention. Shoo. I am not in the mood. "Miss!" she shouts, tapping me on the arm and smiling up at me through her orange lipstick and massive teeth in that sweetly formidable way that all ladies over seventy seem to master. Most people are suckers for puppies and small children. Me, I cannot help but indulge the elderly. Which is why I am always the one who ends up sitting uncomfortably on the oul lad's knee at parties, or trying on clothes for ancient American ladies who are shopping for their granddaughters and who surmise that we might be of a size.

I am too polite to refuse, so I reach out, horrified, and take the proffered items.

Mumble pants*. Sparkly mumble pants and, to strike Balance squarely in the knackers, a jumper the far side of dowdy. I pull the leggings on and the jumper over my head, hoping that it is just about long enough to cover all unsightly bulges. The changing room curtain is heavy with my humiliation but I step out, frumpy dumpy, to face ridicule. Instead I am faced with a little old lady, so enchanted by my appearance that she claps her hands in glee. I do a little flounce, a mortified taa daa! before I am allowed to struggle out of them again.

Relieved, I hand them back to her and slip the Gráinne gúna over my head. Seoige svelte and sexy in 3... 2... 1... Oh fuck. Dog's dinner does not cover it. I throw a strop, take a hump and cart my lovely lady lumps home.

*Leggings so tight that you can see the lips move... Blame Felix.

A Buke With Me In It

Click the picture!

There are other people in it too, and they are entirely to blame for my hangover today.

When I Disappoint Myself

Walking down Camden Street on Thursday afternoon I passed an elderly man, sitting on the stoop of one of the Georgian houses. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, he looked rattled. There was a girl sitting with him, one arm under his to support him while he dabbed at the cut with a wad of tissue, the other hand clutching a mobile phone. I was, as I always am, absorbed in my own little world. It was only when I drew level with them that the scene registered with me - he'd fallen and she'd stopped, steadied him and called for help. I didn't stop. Didn't even lower my headphones.

That same evening, I turned the corner onto Mount St. Lower to see the traffic backed up behind a small green car which had broken down in the middle of the street. I watched as the driver struggled out of his seatbelt, opened the door and set himself to push it. He was in his fifties, portly, unfit, flustered. I slowed my walk, shifted the weight of the shopping bags that were cutting into my palms. Thought of the old man with the bloodied face and the worried girl sat beside him. But I didn't stop. After the longest pause, a man at the bus stop put his bag on the ground and moved towards the car to help. I didn't look back, but by the time I reached my crossing the traffic was moving again.

Karma is going to come knocking for me. And I fear he will not be wearing his kid gloves.

The Feed The World School For Kids That Can't Read Good And Want To Learn To Do Other Things Good, Too

Catherine can't knit and I can't sing, so a charity hit record is out of the question. She likes bukes though, and philanthropy. Being as altruistic as she is pretty, our very own little Midge Ure has decided to ask you folk to write one for her so that we can use them to build houses for other folk who don't have any.

Her idea is simple -

I’m looking for eighty stories and twenty photos from Irish bloggers and photobloggers, all around the theme of “home”, which will be compiled into a book and published via Lulu.com. Self-publishing means that the book will be available on December 8th (just in time for Christmas!) and 75% of the profits from each book will go straight to Focus Ireland.

You'll find the details filed under Nitty Gritty over here, but it couldn't be easier. Donate a post. It need not be a story if that's not your thing; pen a poem, take a photograph, write a recipe. Whether you're a blogger, a commenter or a casual reader, your contribution will be welcomed. And put into print, for posterity. So make it a good one.

It's Not Butlins, You Know

"How come you got a nice navy one?" Mam asked, the implication being that she was less than enamoured with the blue polo shirts they'd been told to put on to mark them out lest they stray from the group in Heathrow or - heavens forfend - Nairobi. "When you get into trouble, look for this colour" retorted its wearer, bustling off to dispense more well-meant but redundant advice to his adult charges. "Management" nodded my uncle wisely, sniggering and shaking his head.

My parents, my uncle and my beautiful leggy creature of a cousin are all off to Malindi (on the Kenyan coast) with a small Irish NGO to do some work with a local school, I was doing my bit for world peace by dropping them to the airport. After all of the upsets my parents have had in the last month (my Crash Grandadicoot's death, Conor's loss, the sad news that their friend has terminal cancer) I am hoping that the next fortnight in the African sun surrounded by what is by all accounts an energetic, vibrant and welcoming community in Watamu, will give them heart.

I'd have that "manager" in the navy t-shirt buried under 2 tonnes of concrete by day 3.

Sometimes It's Good To Be Home

Tramping around the racecourse this evening with the Blonde rolling ecstatically in the grass and the Urchin tugging at her leash, wearing my miniskirt, my wellies and my big coat (which GingerBeard says makes me look like Brenda Fricker in Home Alone II). Watching the sun go down over Naas and my fingers turn blue with the cold. Eating pizza on the couch with my mam and dad, watching Addams Family Values and trying to decide who I'd most like to be - Wednesday or Morticia (Morticia, definitely, she got to kiss Raul Julia). Sharing my brother's Lindt Easter bunny (Santy didn't bring us any Easter eggs this year - instead we've bought bicycles for some kids over in Kenya that my folks are going to visit. I was confused by this too). Dressing the Urchin in the chocolate bunny's ribbon and bell and laughing as the Blonde bodyslammed her into the kitchen presses in an effort to rip it off her. Having five people to cook for instead of one (unless you count Great Friday, when I cooked for everyone I've ever fucking met). Getting used to home being home again.

And having my own little corner of the city to retreat to tomorrow when it all becomes a bit too much for me.

I Just Have One of Those Faces

I was walking back to the office this morning after a meeting in town when an elderly gent tapped me on the shoulder and requested my assistance. "It's me legs, you see" he whistled at me through the gaps where his teeth should have been "I've a touch of arthritis in one of them, and it does be very stiff in the mornings, but if I could take your arm and walk a bit of the way with you it'll ease it out". Em, okaay...

So off we set. I was suspicious, to say the least. There were plenty of other people passing where he stopped me and my hurried pace and my massive headphones clearly signalled to the world that I was not in the market for casual conversation. I removed the 'phones in case a natter was all he was after, as I can well understand that. Sometimes folk just want a chat and find that unless they ask, nobody will give them the time of day. No skin off my nose to oblige them if I can. But he was content to walk along arm-in-arm, exchanging just the minimum of pleasantries. I walked with him for some 10 minutes until we had almost reached the canal. He then politely asked if I would take him just a little bit out of my way, down the next street on the right. Sure... I'm a foot taller than him and about 427 years younger, I thought, I'm safe enough. Unless he's old fashioned and uses chloroform.

We hadn't gone far when we reached the door of the Lower Deck pub. "I'll be fine from here, a chroí" he said "They'll look after me. And thank you again for helping me to get this far. You're as kind as you are pretty". And with a wink, he shuffled off inside.

I'm glad he stopped me, and that he thought to flatter me in his gratitude. Would that people were always so considerate.

For the Love of God

I met a nice boy in work yesterday, a musician. Cute, bright, smiley; after he finished his gig we went for a cup of coffee (of course when I say coffee, I mean tea. I'm not sophisticated enough to drink coffee, or even earl grey. Milky, milky tea...) and got to talking about his day job. Turns out he works in a shelter for Dublin's homeless. Genuinely interested, I started asking him all sorts of questions about it and quietly admiring how he does what he does and the easy way he talks about it. I had somewhere to be and so did he, so we walked a bit of the way, chatting more. I mentioned that I'd like to get involved in that kind of work in my home town and asked him which organisation he was working with. Turns out it's the Legion of Mary.

I didn't really know what to say. Raised a Catholic at least until my early teens, I should probably know who they are and what they do but I hadn't a notion and I really didn't want to ask. The name conjured up images of militant Eucharistic ministers wearing pious looks and pearls and smelling faintly of piss, so naturally I was having trouble reconciling that with the cute and scruffy boy I was flirting with. Fuck it, I thought, play along and google it later, see what brand of mentlers he belongs to.

I think of myself as an agnostic atheist* and I find that despite myself, I feel very uncomfortable around devoutly religious people. Most of all around those whose beliefs would have them spread the word and recruit others to their cause. Given that I'm very comfortable in my non-belief it shouldn't bother me in the slightest, I suppose, but it does. So where I should have maybe asked the cute scruffy boy for his number, I balked and went on my merry way. I did think about it, but his offer of a miraculous medal as a parting gift was just too much for me, so I ran.

Not literally, just in my head. Hightailing it off down Fleet St without so much as a handshake is too rude even for me.

*Summed up by Wikipedia as "I don't know, but I don't think so".

Scuba Steve

After mam's dramatics, my day improved. Pretending to be musicians, my brother and I blagged our way into one of the gigs (this one, as it featured my love interest from that weekend in An Cheathrú Rua...). Typical me, The Festival of World Cultures and there I am, hanging out in the Gaeilge tent. From there we headed up to catch a bit of Dónal Dineen's set in one of the hotels and again, typical me, I ended up drinking in the car park instead and talking to random strangers. Interesting ones though; these boys. I must keep an eye out for their work.

From there we got a lift into town from a kind if directionally challenged friend (we ended up taking a spin in the wrong direction down Harcourt St's Luas line but beggars can't be choosers- the queue for a taxi in Dun Laoghaire would make your eyes water). On to the POD for a bit of a Pogo and more vodka than was strictly necessary, and then my brother and I barrelled drunkenly into Aprila's chipper, in Portobello, for a bite of dinner. Civilised drunkards that we are, we strolled down the leafy-with-love banks of the Grand Canal and sat down on a bench to enjoy our fare. I had just stood up to shake the curry chips out of my skirt and start for home when I noticed a figure about 20 yards away, standing on the path and wretchedly puking on his own shoes. "Look at this poor fucker!" I exclaimed in glee (always fun to see someone drunker than yourself) and my brother craned his head for a gawk, just in time to see the poor sot pitch head first off the footpath into the canal.

I ran to his rescue, with all the grace of a flat chested C.J. Parker. Just as I reached the spot he'd launched from, a hand shot up from the reeds, and then another. He struggled to standing in the 2ft deep water, huffing and puffing, and breaking his bollix laughing. I helped him out, and backup arrived (in curry-chip stained jeans and a fit of the giggles). "Are you alright, mate?" More giggles. From all three of us. He began fishing various sodden items from the pockets of his biker's jacket, a dripping mobile phone, wet banknotes, smelly canal weed. I asked him if he'd far to go and he explained -with the frank honesty of the truly drunk- that he was close to home, he'd been drinking in The Barge Pub and had just wandered down "for a dump". How glad am I that he wasn't mid shite when he toppled in. "Have you a pen and paper?" he asked. "Take my name and address, and remind me that this happened. Not tomorrow though, in a while, like. Maybe next year. No, in three years time. My name's Stephen, Stephen Boyle. Nice to meet yiz."

I made him promise to walk on the lower path, away from the water, and he staggered off, leaving a dripping trail and laughing spastically to himself. I hope he made it home.

A Fuzzy Head and a Sore Arse (My Triumphant Return)

Tá ceann cipíní orm ar maidin. My Belarussian tales of joy and wonder will be recounted in time, but this morning (afternoon?) I'm too shaky to make sense. The trip was amazing though, and at the risk of sounding like a soppy socks-an-sandals-wearing do-gooder, I have to say that I feel very privileged to have been a part of it.

I didn't do any cycling though. (The sore arse was as a result of some nice lady doctor and a syringe full of antihistimine)

And I managed to learn only two words of Russian over the course of the week, a poor result indeed for someone who considers herself to be a cunning linguist. Tellingly, they were "thanks" (spasiba!) and "cheers" (sounds like "nostarovia" but I've no clue how to spell it).

I learned that I can drink straight vodka if I put my mind to it, and that I have quite a goo on me for champagne.

I discovered that I am a more patient and more compassionate person than I thought, and that if I take anything with me from my trip, it should be that.

I'm off to the doctor now for antibiotics, tetanus boosters and a hug.