So, aren’t there any shops in Belfast?

Hi there, I hope you had a good week? The start of June is the time of year when all teachers hear is, ‘I’m sure you must be winding down!’ – nope

On Monday Morning ‘Marking Season’ will begin, it has all the tension of ‘Marching Season’ without the relief of the burger van. I’m marking school and public exams so it will be LOTS of fun.

For the next three weeks I will be holed up in the front room with the papers, every few days the kids open the door and throw in some meat and put fresh straw on the floor. Even JY has packed herself up in the hope someone will take her away from the impending horror.

With this self imposed purdah on the horizon I thought it would be nice to spend some time with Mother. I started to ponder where would be nice to go…….

During the week I was in her apartment (definitely not her flat), we were chatting when out of nowhere (please note, nothing Mother says is EVER, out of nowhere) she observed, ‘you know what, it’s ages since I’ve been to Forkhill’. To the best of my knowledge, neither of us have ever been to Forkhill.

Forkhill is a very small town nestling among the drumlins and peace loving people of South Armagh. It is a very long way to travel for a casual visit. Mother’s motives soon became clear. So.……..

Two weeks ago mother saw a picture of ‘Liz Weir the Storyteller’ on Facebook, she was receiving an honour from the Queen and had a ‘great outfit’ on.

Then last Saturday, didn’t Mother run into ‘Liz Weir the Storyteller’ at the Maritime Festival and compliment her on the outfit.

At which point, ‘Liz Weir the Storyteller’ mentioned that she got the lovely outfit in a Great Wee Shop in FORKHILL.

You see, Mother (and I) are currently in the business of looking for great outfits for a wedding in October. This is not The Bolter’s wedding – the outfit for that was locked in a long time ago.

Mother’s (only) sister recently announced her engagement to marry her partner of 20 years. We are actually very happy, but would have preferred if they had said, were getting married to protect our pensions and avoid inheritance tax. Instead they said (with absolutely no hint of irony) that they were sitting beside a geyser in New Zealand and it just came to them.

Added to this she did not ask Mother, her (only) (did I mention only) sister to be her Witness / Bridesmaid. A potential in-law has been approached instead.

A blind man on a galloping horse could see that this decision has created a little bit of tension, and the hunt for the perfect outfit began. The ‘Liz Weir lead’ set us on the road to Forkhill to find the perfect – tasteful, elegant, takes two stone off me, not weddingy, able to walk in, definitely nicer than the bridesmaid (possibly even nicer than the bride) outfit.

The day began with a nice breakfast at a local co-op. It a great place and the food is fantastic. The local North Belfast intelligentsia pitch up every Saturday morning to buy their sourdough, and feel smug (I can say that because I count myself among their number). If you are going to be a hardcore Co-oper there a couple of must have accessories.

The canvas tote and egg box for the fresh farm eggs. These are mine. The tote can’t be too new or you will look like a ‘try’. This is local parlance for ‘try hard’ as in ‘Oh my God, Sophie is suuuuuuuuuuuch a try’

The outfit is also very important. For men its a cargo short, an (old) band t-shirt to remember your rock and roll youth and a walking sandal. For women this look also works, but a fine knit jumper and , messy bun and a patterned skirt from White Stuff / Boden / Sea salt is also an option – this is worn with coloured hose and a sturdy shoe. Two weeks ago I was there with YC, she looked around and, accurately, observed, ‘sweet Jesus, everybody here looks like you!’

After a lovely breakfast – I had aubergine stew with goats cheese on sourdough we hit the road. On arrival in Forkhill the first thing we had to do was find somewhere to have a cup of tea. Mother is a very talented woman, but her superpower is, ‘Finding somewhere nice to have a cup of tea’. Two minutes in the village and a quick stop off at the local General Merchant / Funeral Director and she had sourced an actual castle which had opened a tearoom yesterday.

Fed and watered we headed back to Forkhill and the ‘great wee shop’.

This is Joy, she owns the shop – and she is an alchemist. We walked into the shop, and after a few quickfire questions (where she completely understood our list of requirements) she stuck her arm into a rack of dresses and pulled out the perfect outfit. Another half hour and Mother had a headpiece and bag to go with the dress.

By mid afternoon, we were back on the road not quite able to believe what had just happened. It was only the occasional glance at the backseat where the ‘great outfit’ reposed that reassured us that Joy had worked her magic. It would be fair to say that a nimbus of smugness had descended on the car.

By next week I shall have been shut in a room for several days thinking deep thoughts about Geography – good thing I have this lovely dress ring I bought today to remind me of the outside world. xx

Out of the mouths of babes….

Hello again, how was your week? After my lovely retreat I started off with great intentions to ‘digitally detox’ (i.e. not being glued to my phone) and to eat mindfully.

The latter is more practical than spiritual – The Bolter is getting married and has made it clear that ‘ a hefter for a bridesmaid is not desirable’ (she actually meant this kindly – so don’t judge – I’ve been whinging about my weight for the 20 years we have know each other. And, to be fair, i’m wearing a fur cape and at my current girth, I would look like a bewildered Yeti who had wandered into a really classy event.

I started off well but in a week where two children were doing public exams and a third was white water rafting in Croatia, it was not an ideal time to be incommunicado. Also being off line would have meant I would have missed Andrea (knitters) photograph of the mammary shaped cheese she spotted in a local shop!

The Mindful eating also took a bit of a hit. I did try to slow down, but felt really daft setting my fork down to ‘think’ after every bite. Also, after a particularly stressful Wednesday I treated myself to the culinary magic which is cooked ham cut up into a bag of smooshed up Tayto cheese and onion. Ooops.

Tomorrow in work (the bank holiday) we are being treated to a ‘Middle Management Seminar’ – I am beyond excited. I am currently wondering if it is possible to take out a ‘gagging order’ or a ‘super injunction’ on myself in order to prevent me from some career ending ‘contributing’.

As I said last last week, as a family we are very very bad at ‘not commenting’. This affliction is hardwired into our DNA – and I am very proud to have passed it on to my children.

YC has said that it is ok for me to share these pictures.

YC has a complex medical condition, part of which means she has a ‘visible difference’. So when it came time for her to go to nursery school (age 3) there had been quite a few hoops to jump through.

One of the questions I was obsessed with was, ‘what will she do if the other children are mean?’ I have no idea why I thought like this – the only negative or unkind reactions YC has ever had have been from adults. But, there was no way I was letting my child go to school unprepared. After talking to her doctors and the Changing Faces charity the recurring message was, ‘giver her the language’.

So, before she went to school YC practiced with her siblings and I answering the following questions.

What is that? – It’s my birthmark isn’t it interesting? Is it sore? – Sometimes Can I touch it? – No, that would be sore Can I catch it? – no, it’s just mine

A few days in and everything seemed to be going smoothly……. then out of nowhere, YC said, ‘a boy asked me about my face today’. We all did a terrible impression of indifference, ‘Oh, what did he say?’ ( I was already writing the letter of complaint in my head).

He said, ‘what’s that?’ I said ‘ it’s a birthmark, you wanker!!!’ (this was accompanied by a duhhhhh noise and a shoulder shrug.

Shit! – ‘What happened then?’ ‘ He cried and I got tooken away from the sand tray.’

When YC was born the ‘big’ children were 4 & 2 and from the day she was born they have advocated for her.

It is a natural reaction for people to look into a pram to see the baby. On seeing YC people were not always able to formulate an appropriate reaction in the eyes of her siblings. MC perfected a strategy, if she was unimpressed, she tapped the ‘viewer’ on the arm, meeting them with her steely gaze and saying clearly and politely, ‘you can trot along now’. It was very effective.

Trot along now!

MC’s view on most things is very clear and this extends to religion. Her thoughts on. Modern Catholicism came to the fore on the evening she received the Sacrament of Reconciliation. When I was the same age, ‘First Confession’ ( before the reconciliation rebrand) was very different. We were all marched over to the church and after a bewildering few minutes in a dark box with the priest on the other side of a grille we were sin free. There were 39 girls in my class, 38 of us were given one Hail Mary for our penance and the 39th got a decade of the rosary (that is hard core). It has been 40 years since that day and I am STILL wondering what the hell a seven year old did to get that penance – it must have been great.

By the time my children were at the same age things had really changed. gone were the dark boxes and the fear of eternal damnation. But, it might be fair to say that things have possibly moved too far in the ‘saggy titted tree hugger’ direction, I don’t even think sin was mentioned. The children are asked to draw a picture of a time ‘they did not please God’, then they sit out in the open beside the priest and have a chat, after absolution has been granted the picture is torn up to represent a fresh start. MC, as you can imagine found the whole thing rather patronising. She elected not do discuss an actual sin (time she did not please God) and made one up instead. Everything in MC’s life is on a strictly need to know basis.

We all trouped down to the church and at the appointed time I accompanied to the altar and stood back watching her transformation to a ‘state of grace’ taking place. We went back to our seat and I looked at my watch (deliberately) – exactly 29 seconds later, MC looked around, and there was another ‘glint’ – ‘Well, isn’t this fu****g boring’?’ (to be honest it was a bit dull)

When it comes to EC, he has a different nature from his sisters but that doesn’t mean there haven’t been moments when my head has been in my hands.

Nearly twenty years ago I took a colony of Beavers (very small Scouts, not buck toothed, water loving mammals) to the local fire station. EC was among them. The lovely fireman was giving them a talk about safety and making sure to close the house up tight at night to stop smoke spreading.

At this point EC puts up his hand and informs the group, ‘Actually, my house was built in 1913 and none of the doors are a standard size so its impossible to get a good seal’ (my pompous arse apple didn’t fall far from the tree). The fireman looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders in a I know! sort of a way, without claiming any kinship) Yep, I actually denied knowing my own child.

I’m sure there is a book somewhere with a title like ’47 habits of being an uncontroversial middle class child’. None of my children will have read it, and do you know what? I’m delighted, because I think they are legends.

One for all and all for one

When to speak and when be silent…..

Well, i’m back from my retreat – turns out I am in fact a 46 year old Geography teacher from Belfast. However, it also seems that i’m actually ok with that. It was a wonderful experience and I game back genuinely enriched and relaxed.

Unfortunately, all that silence also left me a lot of time for observing my fellow retreatants. After a very sort time it became clear that even people of a journey to their essential selves are as competitive as the general population!

For example, when teachers get together the competition usually rages between who has the crapest timetable and the fewest resources. As we were allowed to speak at mealtimes the stage was set for some hardcore ‘Out Jesusing’

These actually are mine. Named Lady Antonia’s beads, because they were found outside the church in London where Mother and Pasty (my grandmother) once sat behind Lady Antonia Fraser at Mass

Once everyone’s bona fides had been established – who was at school with your cousin etc – the conversation slipped seamlessly into ‘what priests do you know?’ (not in the Fleabag, sexy priest sort of the way) and the game begins. It could be compared to a very delicate game of Top Trumps. For example:

  • ‘Spiritual not Religious’ – no points for the liturgical lightweights
  • ‘I heard at Mass on Sunday…..’ ohhhh good opening – regular attender
  • ‘I find morning Mass a great way to start the day’ – now this is really upping the ante
  • ‘ She sits beside me at the Rosary after morning Mass’ – points here for doing something extra
  • ‘ I love the Holy Hour’ – now this is hardcore holiness – for the Holy Hour you have to go back to church
  • ‘Holy Hour is lovely but I prefer the peace of Adoration’ (Adoration is spending time with the blessed Eucharist – it’s lovely)’I go every Thursday Morning’ – now this is big – a regular slot at a ceremony which is optional
  • ‘Oh, I love Adoration – I do the 2-3 am slot on a Saturday night’ – and we have a winner!

A subset of this competition runs around the theme of Pilgrimages. Like most good church stories – there’s a schism. Is it better to have visited more shrines e.g. Lourdes, Knock, Fatima….. or visit the same shrine many times? This is a picture I took on one of my nine visits to Lourdes so far, so my thoughts are pretty clear on the matter.

Later on in the evening – once the ‘silence’ was over for the day, the tone of the competition changes and a new theme is introduced.

Misery

This is a good one – the closer you can link your life to a character from ‘Riders to the Sea’ or ‘ Les Mis’ (though not your dame who married Eddie Redmayne with his rich Granda), the better. If you are a regular reader of this blog you will know that the last year alone would get me straight to he semi-finals. Add to this the long dead Da and the sick child and I could have started engraving my name on the cup there and then. In a departure from form I avoided all of this and went to bed and read my book.

In fact I was so chilled and mellow after the retreat that I ‘lost’ my car for two hours on Monday afternoon despite having taken a photo of where I left it.

This diffidence was particularly out of character as we are a family of ‘speaker outers’ and we all learned from the Master – Patsy.

Patsy is my Maternal Grandmother she died a few years ago and this week would have been her 101st birthday. She styled herself on the late Queen Mother (this is her 90th Birthday photograph) and was an absolute legend with an opinion on EVERYTHING

Patsy was not a woman to allow anyone’s sensitivities or indeed Canon Law to get in the way of her thoughts.

She felt that I got married far too young (I was 23 – I told you she was a wise woman). On the morning I was leaving for my honeymoon, I called in home to say cheerio. As I was walking out the door she called me back – a hug? Nope. Some important marital advice.

‘The Pope (John Paul II, known for his conservatism and hard line on contraception) said in The Universe (ultra right wing Catholic Newspaper – big fans of the Pope – read by Patsy and definitely not me) that you can be on The Pill for two years after you get married (bollocks).

When, two years later (I know!!) my son was born naturally I called home to share the good news. I had taken care to register his birth before I phoned – this is because the name my parents chose for me was not in fact ‘Patricia’ it was something quite different. However on the arrival of Patsy to see me and in response to her wobbly voiced request (she was a master) about my name – suddenly I was Patricia.

So, having registered my precious bundle I made my was to the payphone (this was 20 years ago before we all had mobiles). In Craigavon Hospital the phones were along way from the single rooms (Patsy had organised a private birth and single room). After a C – Section there is a very special walk which prepares you for the multi tasking ahead. It’s a slow, painful shuffle – made more difficult by the fact you are trying to see over your enormous swollen boobs. One hand is occupied literally holding your guts in while the other is holding the wall because you are wazzed on painkillers. Add to this that there is oozing from every orifice and the smell of gently cooking cabbage, if you have chosen to cool your boobs with their leaves, overall its a good look.

Having completed this odyssey I put my coins into the phone and dialled home. Mother answered and after the initial – weight and wellness questions we got round to the BIG QUESTION. I had chosen a very Catholicly name for my son – not Emmanuel but to be honest not far off. It’s a beautiful name and it really suits him. However, Patsy was not initially a fan.

Once Mother shared the news I could hear Patsy screeching from the other side of the room (and it was not a small room).

‘ ********* (insert name) ********** (insert name again). The last *********** I heard of was getting let out of Long Kesh, he’ll never get a job!!!!!!!!’

Well, that was me told – but ahh ha – he was already registered so it was too late.

As soon as Patsy met the baby they both fell in love. They had a beautiful relationship and all the children miss her very much.

A few days before she died she spoke to EC (Don Corleone style [definitely not like Tony Soprano – Patsy would never go to a therapist]) to make him the ‘Head of the Family’ completely ignoring the fact that she had a daughter and granddaughter!!!!

Next week I shall tell you all about how my children have happily assumed the mantle of Patsy’s forthrightness.

I’ve been to paradise…. (or, get thee to a nunnery)

Hello again! Have you spent the whole week wondering what I’m getting up to?????

Well, while you are reading this I shall be three days into a silent retreat at a local monastery. I know!!!!

When I told friends and family of this particular plan it was greeted with chortles, guffaws and even a couple of snorts (Mary O’G, I’m talking about you!!). It would be fair to say that I would generally be described as – talkative, loquacious, voluble, chattering, gabby, wordy and usually just plain loud. Some of my school reports also reflect my inability to shut up!

So why a silent retreat?

Firstly, this weekend represents a magical moment in the school year. The exam classes have just left and the internal exams, external marking and all the crap jobs that we have been putting off to the end of the year have not yet started. So its a perfect time for a bit of headspace.

Secondly, I’m seeing a ‘great woman’ at the minute (counsellor not romantic liaison). She keeps talking about ‘finding my essential self’ – which is probably not a bad idea. To try to do this in a house full of three very opinionated children, Rosa the childminder, JY and Mother on the end of the phone is a touch challenging. So I decided to ‘book in’ somewhere.

All this thinking put me in mind of the Johari Window (you know the one Donald Rumsfeld caused all the confusion with a few years ago).

It was all the rage in education a while back. Around the time we were all obsessed about which of Dr de Bono’s hats to wear (personally I don’t think you can go past a silk turban with an ostrich feather)

Lot’s of people had gone on courses and were bursting to share their wisdom with us. On one particular occasion we were gathered in the hall while a speaker in the vanguard of educational thinking showed us the Johari Window and told us we should be incorporating it into our classroom practice. Any school staff is a widely diverse bunch, but on that particular day a single thought rose into the ether like a cloud.

Mercifully the educational gurus have moved onto something else – these days I think it’s ‘brain based humanism’ and the window is firmly closed – at least as far as work is concerned.

But, I digress – I think my ‘great woman’ might even be so bold as to suggest a touch of displacement!

Years ago a singer called Charlene (not Kylie Minogue – this was her actual name) sung a pleasing ditty entitled ‘ I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me’. I’m just a wee bit concerned that after all the whale music and the navel gazing I might not like what I find!! Or, God forbid, I don’t find anything at all!! It might turn out that I’m a 46 year old Geography teacher from suburban Belfast…… and that would never do!

I’ll let you know how I get on……

Happy Valley? Happy Valley? Happy Valley my ****

Hello – Happy Bank Holiday Weekend.

It’s a new school term and as usual I have started it full of vim and vigour, so I actually did walk every morning this week before school. This has prompted me to share my ‘adventures’ during a walking course last year.

You see, the thing is, I’m not naturally a ‘joiner’ and was often shoved into rooms with other little girls by Mother accompanied by the hissed instructions to ‘be nice, make friends, smile’. Many years later I was to make the same mistake with MC. I decided she wanted to learn ballet (she’s currently training to be a weapons engineer)

Having purchased enough ‘balletania’ to rival Saddlers Wells MC was ‘shoved into a room of little girls and told to make friends’. This is where she and I differ. At the end of whatever torture I was forced to endure (party, Irish dancing class, elocution festival) I would emerge, give Mother a watery smile and say I had a lovely time. MC marched purposefully from the room and calmly announced that she wasn’t going back. In answer to my rather strangled ‘Why?’ (I was thinking of the many many pounds spend on tights, and bags, and skirts……) ‘Because there is no-one there who I want to hold hands with’ – and that was that.

Paradoxically, I’m wild fond of a ‘club and society’ – I was in loads of them at school. I even like their notice boards, they are often found in the older parts of schools with peeling gold lettering – all very non threatening. I was in the Chess Club, the Public Speaking Society (I know – but you aren’t really you when you are public speaking), the Recorder group, the Choir…… What these all have in common is a shared interest which the members can talk about, even better, in the Chess club it was preferable not to talk at all. I’m also very fond of a course – especially if there’s a certificate (serial overachiever). Last year it was the Ottoman Empire, next week I start Ancient Greek.

All this brought me to the point last year when a colleague asked would I be interested in taking a hillwalking leadership course.

This is not as strange as it sounds. I have been involved in the Duke of Edinburgh Award since it began in our school. I even did an abseil from the dome of the local arena to fundraise while I was pregnant with YC. I may not have mentioned this on the risk assessment. I also find walking wonderful therapy when I’m feeling black doggish.

What could possibly go wrong? The fact that I was 13 years olderthan the last time I did a walking qualification, my bod was a playground rather than a temple (Rustler burgers and Pino Grigio rather than anything more risqué ) and I had spent the previous three years eating sausage rolls genuinely didn’t strike me as an issue.

One Friday evening after a long week at work I headed to a Fieldwork Centre in the heart of the Mourne Mountains. I was armed with everything on the kit list (and my knitting). On arrival we were herded into a classroom and required to perform an icebreaker (I should have left at that point) We filled in a slew of forms, most of which could be translated as ‘if you die, it wasn’t our fault’. There was also a medical disclosure form which I completed without much thought.

There were two leaders, one was a large avuncular chap, bordering on geggy – the other was a small, wiry angry little creature (actually quite sexy). |He gave off an ex-special forces vibe and as a result was an Angry Former Soldier (AFS)

The compass, still attached to my pocket as a reminder of my limitations

AFS was teaching navigation. I’ve been a Geography teacher for over twenty years, so do actually know about this stuff. But this guy was something else. He would leap on a bench (demonstrating his pleasing lower body strength [just saying]) point at you and yell, ‘ you are walking for 10k, climbing a total of 50m in windy conditions – how long will it take??????’ ‘I don’t bloody know!!!!!!! – you’re shouting’ He also had something of an obsession about pointing. For 44 years I believed that the index finger of either of my hands was sufficiently pointy – apparently not. He suggested that a ‘thick fingered point’ could lead to a navigation inaccuracy and certain death. I now point at maps, with almost evangelical enthusiasm using the corner or my compass, which is secured to the pocket of my coat (do you know how many people die because their compass falls out of their pocket? – me neither).

We eventually got to bed with a detailed list of instructions – reveille was to be very early. I arrived at the rendezvous point the next morning ready to head to the hills. AFS checked our rucksacks and scrutinised our packing. After this ritual humiliation was complete he did a quick ‘have all the asthmatics got their inhaler’ check, then in a confidential fashion summoned me from the room.

‘I need to talk to you about your medical form’ ‘Oh?’ ‘ There’s one of the drugs we need to explore (explore!!). At the time I was taking anti depressants (and still am). At that point, I was also taking a drug for extreme anxiety (it happened to be an anti-psychotic – but I don’t suffer from psychosis). Fair play AFS, its always better to check. However, even after I had calmly explained my illness and the need for each of the drugs he required more convincing, even questioning if it would be suitable for me to be undertaking this type of course. I was getting to the point of offering to ring my GP for a ‘sanity’ reference. As you can imagine this conversation and the subsequent ‘wary looks’ from the other participants did wonders for my self esteem and wellbeing.

Eventually I was permitted to board the mini bus and driven to a remote car park. It was grim – we walked for hours in the pissing rain. AFS clearly did not subscribe to the mantra that the group moves at the pace of the slowest member (me). Each time I reached a meeting point wheezing like a bulldog, he would immediately head off again at a brisk pace. Bastard! Allegedly we reached the top of Carn Mountain. I couldn’t tell you I was too busy crying with exhaustion and frustration and trying not to die.

Just at the point where I was considering using my credit card to order a helicopter AFS announced we were on our way back. He explained there were two options. A – was shorter but steeper (how could we be on the way back and still going up hill??) B – though slightly longer was flatter and took us through Happy Valley. There are some advantages in spending your days wrangling teenage boys – at the utterance of the word ‘flat’ I took charge of the map and headed purposefully towards Happy Valley – no one else got a say.

If your image of Happy Valley is like mine, sun baked Kenyan Plains, totally unacceptable racism and a young Charles Dance in an evening frock – this Happy Valley is not like that. It was wet, marshy, and long. The only mischief I was indulging in was enduring the chafing caused by my rain and sweat soaked pants – not fun!

After what felt like an interminable walk we reached a fence. In my mind it has been built up like the WALL in Game of Thrones (Charles Dance is rather yummy in that too – even though he must be about 105). In reality (because I have been back since) it is a rather small, innocent, really quite an inoffensive fence. The problem was I couldn’t organise my legs to climb over it. I simply stood bewildered trying to work out what configuration of limbs could get me over. When this became evident to the group – all of whom had simply hopped over – they took pity on me.

If you have ever seen the film ‘The Mission’, imagine that bit near the beginning where the indigenous tribe hoof the Jesuit over the waterfall tied to a cross – just before Jeremy Irons arrives. I simply lay back Christlike and they crowd surfed me over the fence. Scundering.

After a very disturbed night’s sleep we got back into the minibus. We were due to go to the Eastern Mournes this time – someone had observed the previous day that they were flatter. In my dark night of the soul I had translated this to flat (because obviously a mountain leader course would take place on the flat, duhhhhhh). We were divided into two group. I found myself, not unexpectedly, in the group that would be given the fatter pencils and ‘filling in the blanks’ books if we had been at school. We gathered round, led today by Geggy Uncle, and consulted our maps. Even a person with the most rudimentary understanding of cartography could see this route was not flat.

I was done. There was no way I could complete this walk, I had neither the physical nor mental capacity.

I approached Geggy Uncle and explained this. He laughed – he actually laughed. He may have also made some ‘take a chill pill’ type remark. I restated my point – while still laughing he said ‘ we can get you off the hill in 15 minutes’

Through clenched teeth and tears I suggested we save 15 minutes and get me off the mountain now. After a brief standoff I decided to play them at their own game. If they were so concerned about my mental health medication – lets lean into that. I adopted my best ‘Here’s Johnny’ pose and growled that I needed to leave – a minibus was hastily fetched. I am not at all proud of this action. I spend my life campaigning for better understanding of mental health issues and the right of depressed people to recover and not be judged. But on that particular day I really couldn’t see another way to get off that fecking hill. You will note from the photo above that the Field Centre is all boarded up – shortly after my ignominious departure, it closed. Probably better if I don’t comment on that.

Even after this horrible experience I still go walking, in fact I’m heading p the hill with JY as soon as I finish this blog. But I know where my skills lie, and spending time winding yarn for a shawl with a mesmerised dog is much more my cup of tea. I think I’ll focus on stuff like that.

Next week I’m trying something completely different……ohhhhhhh

You could still get pregnant ….even at your age

Hello everyone, did you have a nice Easter? I’ve had a great week footering about and not doing very much in particular. I had planned to write about my walking adventures this – but as I didn’t actually walk the length of myself in the last seven days, that would be a tiny bit hypocritical – maybe next week.

I did manage to finally complete a cross stitch for MC. She has been asking for months – i’m moving on next to a montage of the family’s favourite curse words – it should be ready by the time YC graduates!

I did however get a few jobs done, one of which was booking my next sneer (smear) test. There was a slightly awkward moment three years ago at the last sneer. I was on the couch all stirruped up – the nurse was focused down the business end with her canary and davy lamp (a line I have nicked from the Bolter) when she asks, ‘so what type of contraception are you using?’ ‘None – I replied’ ‘Oh????????? – are you trying for a baby?’ at this point her rather bewildered face appeared from between my knees.

‘No, not trying for a baby’ – clearly at this point the poor nurse thought she was dealing with some sort of half wit. She abandoned her prodding and came and sat beside me, rubbing my arm in a reassuring way speaking in her slowest most pastoral (patronising ) voice she explained that even when you are as old as me (43) you can still get pregnant if you have unprotected sex – not to mention catching something that might require an ungent and an antibiotic.’ Now, you have to imagine that the next sentence I uttered began low and by the end could be heard throughout all of Ireland’s 32 counties and possibly beyond.

‘ Nurse, it’s not a problem, because I haven’t actually had sex with anyone since the 2nd November 2012!!!!!!’ (This was 2016) The rest of the test was conducted in a shocked silence and I was soon on my way. It would have been ok had the door to the nurse’s office not led directly to the waiting room – I sympathetic glances (and appraising looks!) as I walked out were awful. I even heard someone mutter, ‘God love her, November 2012 is a while ago.

‘Having said all that, it’s an important thing to do – so next week – I think I will just lie and tell her that I’ve had to take out shares in a rubber plantation i’m doing that much shagging. I wonder will she believe me?

Have a lovely week…….talk soon….

Dum de de dum dum, dum dum dum dum duuuuummmmm

Happy Easter everyone – I hope you are all having a lovely day – we are. In the best regulated families you will be sitting down following a beautiful meal and a bracing walk – a parlour game might even be in play. Or you may be like the rest of us, the children are full of chocolate and climbing the walls, Uncle Dick is drunk in the corner and Auntie Dora has just said something political……

It seems like the perfect time to share a little more of my childhood story. We left off with my desire for Mother to be a bit more ‘like the other Mummies’ – thankfully she didn’t oblige and I actually feel rather guilty now about asking her to conform.

She once came to my recorder recital (recorder recital!! – I was also in the Chess Club – is it a wonder I’m single?), wearing a full length scarlet wool cape, a Cossack hat and a sealskin muff. This was Larne in he 1980’s – people looked – it was scundering.

My Mother is a gifted shopper – I mean really gifted. There is no task too small or no purchase too obscure. Even before the internet she could find anything – anywhere. When I NEEDED (according to Mother) gold sugared almonds for my wedding favours – gold almonds were found (flown in from Harrods – they were minging).

She does however have one peccadillo – she is VERY particular about how her shopping is packed. Not in a ‘giving the charity bagpacker £2 and then do it yourself’ sort of a way. Oh no, I mean scrutinising the placement and ‘companion’ bagging of every single item.

Once, once, over 35 years ago one hapless assistant in M & S put a pair of shoes in with a silk scarf and it got plucked. Bear in mind, that at this time shop workers in Belfast wore a Pac a Mac clipped to their belts because they spent so much time standing in front of the city hall during bomb scares. The poor girl was probably too worried about getting blasted to kingdom come to consider the structural integrity of a bloody silk scarf. Ever since that fateful day Mother has been the scourge of retail assistants everywhere. Before a bagging transgression has even taken place her shoulders tense and there is an intake of breath. Sometimes, if an acceptable packing configuration follows a drama can be avoided. If an opportunity for substandard ‘bagging’ occurs, there is a little cough, this is followed by (in a faint, wobbly and high pitched voice), ‘ emmmmm, would it be ok if I had another bag ……..it’s just once I had a silk scarf plucked by a pair of shoes’. I think they must have pictures of Mother in all retail staff rooms with,’ For the love of God, give her two bags.’ printed below it in large letters.

TVA ‘silk scarf’ for reference – naturally the original silk scarf is much too plucked to be seen in public

Having said all that she’s great craic with a wicked sense of humour. We often go to social events together, and I get to some great outings as ‘Anne Guest’. One particular night comes to mind. mother was filming a TV series, and it was about half way through with all the prerecords completed (making a facial injury something of an issue). We arrived home very late to my house, possibly having spent slightly too long worshipping at the shrine of Bacchus. I went into the kitchen to pour a glass of water (Mother always needs a glass of water going to bed {for her pills}). All of a sudden there was a yelp, followed by staggering footsteps – this was accompanied by cries of ‘ NOT THE FACE, NOT THE FACE’. Then there was a thud, and silence. I sprinted into the hall to find her face planted at the top of the stairs.

In answer to my concerned enquiries about her wellbeing – she turned to me, grinned and observed, ‘ Don’t worry – my tits saved me!’

Naturally, many years later I asked my talented friend JL to create an embroidery to celebrate the event. Not sure how Mother felt about that.

In addition to their love, the greatest gift my parents gave me was the ability to find wit and humour of even the darkest of days. My Confirmation was a prime example of this.

In Catholic Primary Schools, Confirmation is the highlight of your final year. My time at primary school was neither happy or productive. Despite the heroic efforts of all my teachers who were gifted educators and compassionate women, my card had been marked by the Head Nun. I was the product of a ‘Mixed Marriage’ (my father was Presbyterian and my mother wore capes – I was bound to be trouble.) This unpleasantness (she actually threw the school choices form at my mother because a ‘non Catholic’ school had be picked for my post primary education), was combined with the fact that neither by beloved Father or Grandfather would be in attendance meant no-one was really looking forward to it.

Every girl in the class wanted a job for the big event – after all THE BISHOP would be in attendance. The big parts (the readings) were given to girls who had not passed the 11+ (did they actually think we wouldn’t notice??). I had no hope of a singing part – I can’t sing so that was fair enough. All that was left was the Offertory Procession. The announcement was being made, I held my breath, I was in!! I much have caused Sr. Marcella CP some sleepless nights – could you really leave out the ‘recently orphaned child’ on the other hand……? ‘ Pragmatism won (people would have talked) – I got the water the Priest washes his hands with – not the good stuff like the Bread and Wine – but at least I had a part.

On the morning of the service I got on my ‘outfit’ – petrol blue wool suit (think Margaret Thatcher miners strike chic), a ‘Lady Diana blouse, white tights and the most uncomfortable grey leather shoes in the world. The uncomfortable shoes (with a heel to give me a bit of height) contributed some stigmata style red stains to my tights – fabulous.

While we were waiting for the Bishop, every woman in the church was discussing the latest episode of The Thorn Birds. Everyone had read it and were now entranced by the mini series – what would happen on Matlock Island??????

As he made his entrance and our innocent voices lifted in song. ‘May is the month of Mary’ was joined my the low but insistent thrum of my Aunt Melwira chanting the theme song to the Thorn Birds (you know the one, Dum, de de dum dum dum dum dum dum duuuuuummmmmm).

It was a dark day – but we were smiling.

Next week you can hear about the walking course I thought was a good idea,