Ode to a cream coloured couch

It was indeed love at first sight. You were lying there, all sparkly and virginal.  Hardly touched by human hands. Your crisp appearance was accentuated by your deep red accessories. 'Stain resistant', she said. 'You just zip off the covers to wash in the machine', she said. So smitten by your loveliness, I wanted you there and then. I needed you. My brand new apartment with my brand new boyfriend was furnitureless (Have I just invented a new word ??). I needed somewhere to sit, or lie, with afore mentioned brand new boyfriend.  I couldn't wait to get you home (the couch, not the boyfriend). And so you came into my life.  Twelve whole years ago now.  The more time I spent with you, the more that I loved you. We had many happy times, didn't we ? We looked well together. So many photos of you and me, you and cute kids, you and our many visitors. Sometimes, you, me and my new boyfriend, doing bold things together.

Then we had to move on. Our relationship became claustrophobic. We needed space. So we moved to Poppy Cottage. Thing is though, that we got an acre, but there wasn't as much room for you. But we loved you all the same. We made arrangements, so that you would fit right in.

If anyone were to ask me where it all went wrong, I would say two words 'Boil Wash'. Yessireee. So much for the effortless laundering of the covers – Unzippping them was one thing, but putting them back on required training in tantric yoga. I don't even think it was a boil wash, maybe 60C, to shift the stains from the 'stain resistant' covers. The stains may have shifted, but the covers also shrunk.

But I still loved you. Your fine wide frame meant that two adults could sleep on it comfortably. I wish I had a guest book of all the visitors who you warmly embraced. Late night movies, cuddling up together. And if we feel asleep together, who cared ? Those times in the middle of the night when you supported me and my restless infant babies.  Your warm embrace.

The zips on your cushions broke and I had to stitch you back together after each wash. And eventually, the stains became permanent. I could blame the children. I think they loved you too, but they didn't appreciate how vulnerable you were and how much more vulnerable you would become without the TLC that you once received.

Then our dog arrived last September. It was then that our relationship really started to deteriorate. I know you did your best to resist his mucky paws, but it was futile.  Despite my best efforts, doggy decided to sleep with you every night. Let's face it though, you had lost your looks at that stage. I was finding it hard to look at you.  I started to cringe when we had visitors. I did try to help you – looking at options to make you look better.  But do you know how much upholsterers cost these days ? The final straw came a few weeks ago.  Hubby decided to wash you, but to soak you first in bleach. A lot of bleach. Your poor covers are not the better of it, with fabric thinning here and there. Clean, but certainly not a good look.

So now, dear Cream Coloured Couch, you must go.  In fact you must go tomorrow.  The lure of a new, shiny leather couch from Harvey Norman was too much. Besides, HN was willing to give interest free credit over three years.  I feel a sense of loyalty to you, but come tomorrow morning – you are out on your ear. I don't even know where you are going. The lawn will have to do for now.  Goodbye dear couch.  May you find love again.

Roadside Etiquette

We had a new arrival in Poppy Cottage last September.  Hudson was tall, dark and handsome, like his namesake Rock Hudson.  An athletic three year old black labrador cross, he needed to be out and about.  The first few months Hudson had regular, if sporadic walks.  In the manic weeks and short days in the run up to Christmas, neither Hudson or the humans in Poppy Cottage had any fresh air.  Come the New Year, I knew that I had to make a plan.

Working full time with small children means that evening times are both precious and action packed.  I decided that the only way that I would fit a decent bit of exercise in was to get up earlier that usual to walk the mutt.  In January, the alarm clock went off at 6.40am.  All being well, we were on the road by 6.50am.  It was pitch dark at the time, so I was kitted out with a high vis jacket and torch.  When I spotted cars coming towards me in the distance, I shone my torch ahead to warn them of our presence. Although it is a country road, it can be busy, with lorries using the road as a shortcut to get to the M7 motorway.  Usually the same cars and lorries passed by, so they knew to look out for me.

Early morning walks became a lot easier (and safer) when the clocks went forward in March. Walking in daylight, watching the world wake up is a pleasure. Sunrise and morning skies are often breathtaking.  There is always something new to look out for.  In the last few weeks, dainty yellow cowslips and snowlike whitethorn are particularly eye catching.  My mutt loves his walks.  If he sees my high vis jacket, or runners appearing, or if I say 'walk' aloud, he goes crazy.  But with this new found brightness came a whole new dilemma.  To wave or not to wave ?

When I was a child, growing up on a similar county road, it would be unthinkable not to salute passing traffic, or for them to salute you. If you were really lucky, you might get a Tractor Boy salute. (I'm convinced that American rap artists hand gestures derive from Irish Tractor Boy salutes). A good Tractor Boy salute was one where he nearly knocked the windscreen out with the strength of the wave.  All the better if it was a young fella that you fancied.  If you met Tractor Boy in person, you would be greeted, in a Meath/Cavan/Monaghan/Louth border acent, with a slowly drawled out 'Well'. If you have difficulty placing the accent, think of Hector O'hEochagain. Tractor Boy was usually a man of few words, so 'well' could be taken to mean 'hello, how are you, great silage weather, sorry to hear that you had a death in the family, can you and me go steady ?' Given the allure of Tractor Boy, I adopted 'well' as my greeting of choice in my teenage years. But it was short lived.

I went to Galway/Mayo Institute of Technolgy to study Art and Design when I was 18. To me, the rest of the class seemed cosmopolitan, sophisticated and confident. I decided it was time to drop 'well' as a salutation and to adopt 'hi'. I remember the initial awkwardness saying 'hi', thinking if the folks back home could see me, they would think that I was getting notions.  I guess that I am just a traditional gal.  All these years later, I'm still struggling with emails that were once signed off as 'All the best, Michael', now being reduced to 'Best, Michael'.  'All' 'The'. It's only an extra 6 letters and a space, for flips sake !!! Like bottled water and mobile phones, I can't see it taking off.

Back to present day, this waving business while walking is a tricky one. When the bright mornings first came, I saluted all of the cars and lorries that passed me. There was the worry that a neighbout could drive by and I wouldn't recognise them. If I didn't wave, they would surely think that I was getting notions. I could almost hear them, 'that one thinks she is something, now that she has her name in the paper and is on the radio.  Doesn't she work in the arts or some shite like that ?' But how far should I go ? Do I actually make eye contact with each driver, or pretend to be distracted by the dog ? Everyday 

Depending on who is running late, I either meet traffic head on, or they come up behind me. It's a relief when I don't have to meet them head on. I had noticed that Black Van Man had stopped saluting me recently, so I stopped saluting him. But the other day, he waved and I didn't ! Oh, the guilt !!  Life was much easier, pre doggy when I walked in the GAA pitch.  A muttered hello when you met someone was the agreed code of practice.  This daily salutation dilemma was becoming too much to bare and had started to interfere with my enjoyment.  

Eureka, I've just come up with a solution. With two 6 year olds, I cannot believe that I didn't think of it sooner.  Sunglasses.  When I put them on, I become invisible.  No salutes. No guilt.  Sorted.   

Of course, the other aspect of roadside etiquette is dress code.  It's not a big issue in the wintertime, when the main considerations are 1. be seen and 2.  be warm.  I may need to rethink the 'no need for a bra' look as it comes towards the summer months and layers of clothes are shed.  

Easter

So, my first blog.  I had to start somewhere.  An Easter Bank Holiday Monday is as good a time as any.  Although I have been writing blog-like posts on Facebook for some time, I'm a bit nervous about this.  Silly really, but there you have it.  It's a bit like getting a brand new notebook.  You don't know where to start.  And you wonder if you have anything worth saying.

I do think that it is important to write things down though, to archive and document.  Writing on a laptop allows the freedom to cut and paste, in a way that notebooks don't.  This suits my 'all over the shop' writing style (reflecting my chaotic brain).  I got the loveliest of surprises last year, when my cousin returned a bag of letters that I had written to my aunt Aine who died recently.  Aine lived alone and I was close to her.  She had kept my letters and postcards written by teenage me (as well as cards and letters from other people).  I cried my eyes out when I got the letters, touched that she had kept them, even if they hadn't been read in years.  I laughed out loud when I read through the letters.  Too many starting with 'sorry I couldn't visit you last Sunday with Mam.  I was meeting a fella'.  I had written things that I have no memory of now.  Aine must have been entertained by my teenage dross.  I was so glad that I took that time to write them.  In some way, those letters led me to this blog.  That and encouraging comments from friends.

I've called my blog Poppy Cottage Diaries, after the shebeen where we live.  Our postal address was originally '540 Russellstown'.  It was a bit misleading and suggested that we lived in a huge housing estate.  On our first Christmas here, I got a number of calls from people checking our address, afraid that our Christmas card would get lost in a sea of over 500 houses.   Having an address the same as your surname (Russell/Russellstown) confuses people too.  (Of course if I hadn't kept my maiden name, it wouldn't be an issue - that's a blog for another day !).  We decided to call our house Poppy Cottage.  Right now, Dandelion, Daisy or Buttercup Cottage might be more fitting.  I'm working on upping the poppy V weeds ratio in the garden.  It's an ongoing process.  Most of what I have written so far involves my children or nostalgia, so I'll stick with my formula for now.

We had an Easter Hunt in our garden yesterday, Easter Sunday.  We invited a 'hape' of children.  Making a list on Saturday, I could feel a mild sense of panic when I realised that almost 50 children were coming.  As Poppy 'Cottage' suggests, our house is small and dinky.  We have done lots of entertaining over the years, but I draw a line at having 50 excited chocolate filled children, with their grown ups indoors.  Our plan was 100% reliant on good weather, so that all of the entertaining could take place outdoors.  Our eyes were glued to the weather forecast for Easter Sunday.

Despite it being an outdoor party, I felt the need to clean the house from top to bottom before the Hunt. I knew that it was unlikely that any of the little visitors would care if I had cleaned under my bed, but it had to be done.  In the Irish tradition of having clean undies in case you get run over by a bus, a gal must be prepared.  Especially one who wants to give the illusion of being a Domestic Goddess.  And there was always a chance that a stray child could ramble indoors and look though my sock drawer (or worse), only to be sought out by a grown up.

Meanwhile, hubby blitzed the garden with mowers, strimmers, spades.  The place was looking great.  But the battle with dandelions will never be won.  At times, I think that we could sort it all out with a blast of weed killer.  But seeing a garden full of ladybirds puts a stop to those thoughts.

I was awake from 5.30am on Easter Sunday as my 6 year old boy came into our bed, too excited to sleep.  It was cold and frosty when I brought the mutt for a 7am walk - my 'me' time before the madness.  I was thinking of dew laden grass and all of the children running into the toilet, with wet freshly cut grass stuck to their shoes.  I was wondering if all the floor cleaning the previous day had been necessary.

The thing about an Easter Hunt is that you have to leave a lot of the prep until the last minute.  The dog, rooster, slugs, fellas-with-long-tails-that-we-don't-like-to-think-about-in-the-country, could be having a nibble at the chocolate and goodies, so they are put in place shortly before the visitors arrived.  We had a Hallowee'n Hunt for the children's birthday a few years ago.  Bertie, our pot-bellied pig was locked in the shed, but escaped just as people landed.  I found him eating his way through 20 of those sweetie necklaces - the ones on the elastic - including the plastic wrappers.  Not even the plastic was left.  Bertie  left us soon afterwards, when he got all hormonal, having sniffed out a sow up the road.  There was no stoping that pig.

I digress.

My boy seemed determined to undo all of my good cleaning work in the kitchen an hour before visitors arrived.  He took a notion to empty the crumb tray under the toaster.  Needless to say, there was crumbs everywhere.  Then he went looking for something to gather sweeties in.  Of all the bags in the house, he found a cloth bag that someone had given me with potatoes from their garden.    He dumped the potatoes, complete with clay all over the kitchen counter.

Then they came.  Not quite 50 children, but 44 anyway.  And their grown ups.  By 11am the grass was dry and the sun was warm.  Hubby set up a marquee and had sausages, rashers and eggs cooking al fresco on the BBQ.  The Burco was on and the scones were heated.  It was hard to contain excited little people, to wait for late comers, so we kicked off quickly.  I gathered the children around me to brief them on the 'rules'.  It was only then that I realised what a crowd there was.  Again, panic.  That there was enough goodies for them all.  Too late now.

Off they went, scattering around the garden, looking under trees, on pathways, in trees, in oddly placed containers.  You might expect lots of noise, but the children were concentrating on what they were doing, so there was a lovely sense of calm.  Half of the red heart shaped balloons that I had staked to the ground had burst, but no one seemed to notice except me.  Enough for everyone.  We even managed an impromptu hunt for late comers.

Easter baskets filled, they sat on the lawn to compare their stash with others.  Kicking ball.  Pairing off to have chats with their friends.  On the swing.  Making new friends.  Grown ups enjoying the sun.

Then they left.  To family dinners.  To relax.  To eat chocolate.

Myself and the hubby did the post mortem.  A success we reckoned.  Counted our blessings on the weather.  Already planning for next year.  I asked my boy what was his favourite part of the day.  He said 'everything'.  My little girl said 'I liked best that people liked my doggie'.  So there you have it.  Happy Easter folks.