A North Sider At Heart

Until I was old enough to know better, I thought that the boundaries of Dublin City Centre were the Phoenix Park, the Mater Hospital, Croke Park and O'Connell Bridge.  This has largely to do with the fact that I grew up in North Meath and the main thoroughfare to Dublin was via the Navan Road.   My many teenage trips to Croke Park to see Meath play.  Winning All Irelands.  The exhilaration.  

The legendary Sillan Tours, AKA, 'Roe Bus', was the only decent public transport from Kingscourt, depositing people at the church on the Navan Road, the Mater and Parnell Street.   A huge amount of shoppers and commuters from the Shercock/Kingscourt/Navan have availed of the bus into the city.  I knew that the bus had one further stop, but I didn't know then that the bus continued to a place called the 'South Side'.  I didn't know what or where the South Side was.   I had everything I needed within walking distance of Parnell Street.

The first time I remember having an awareness of the South Side was when I went to an AC/DC concert when I was fifteen.  Myself and my friend Allen Gogarty headed up on the bus.  Somewhere along the way, we met his older sister Adeline, who seemed terribly grown up and sophisticated.  I seem to remember a bus to UCD.  I was a newbie vegetarian.  In 80's Ireland, that pretty much meant spuds and vegetables, with no meat on the plate.  Adeline, was the hostess with the mostess.  'I heard you are vegetarian ?', she said warmly.  'I know just where to bring you for food.  Somewhere that makes a lovely strudel.  Do you like strudel?', she said.  I nodded, pretending I knew what I had a clue about what she was talking about.  The strudel arrived.  Filo pastry, what must have been pine nuts, cheese and spinach.  I thought that I had died and gone to heaven.  'This South Side isn't so bad', I thought.  But after we got to see AC/DC that night, in
The Point,  I forgot that this place existed and  I retreated to familiar territory.  

When I was looking for a flat in Dublin, I naturally headed for familiar climes, that were convenient for my my new job in Finglas.  My little third floor flat, on the North Circular  Road with its yellow woodchip wall paper and brown threadbare carpet.  I loved it there.   I knew every crack on the footpath between there and Phibsboro.  It was a great location for visitors, if you could really call them visitors.  Relations en route to hospital appointments in the Mater, my brother, home from England, friends availing of the convenience location to crash on the floor, after attending gigs, neighbours from home looking for somewhere to stay for a week or two until they got set up in Dublin.  It was often as busy as a train station and I loved it.  I could write a whole series of blogs about the people who lived in the the apartments, but that's for another day.

I loved the smell and the sounds of the fruit markets in Smithfield, before the area was refurbished, getting my grocery shopping on a Satuday and going for a pint in the Sackville, hidden behind Clery's.  Mooching around the fabulously tailored Karen Millen clothes in Clery's and keeping an eye out for a Sale Rail.  Arnott's.  The Italian shoes.  The handbags ! Everyone there always seemed to be thirty years older than me, but I didn't care.   Quality stuff that was not the run of the mill.  The Bargain Basement.   Jervis Street Shopping Centre.  Top Shop.  The Point Depot.  There really was no need to go any further.   My universe was complete.  

'I usually don't set foot over the North Side of the Liffey', a friend said to me one evening.   I didn't really understand what he meant a first.  It was then that I copped that he meant that South Siders were DIFFERENT and not in a good sense.  Really ? Feck.  How had that passed me by ?  I was so caught up in my little life that I couldn't see beyond it.  I felt a bit like the last person in the classroom to find out what a virgin was.  But, in my defense, this was pre Ross O'Carroll Kelly, so I didn't have him to tip me off.  

I later got a teaching job in the secondary school in Stanhope Street in Stoneybatter, or 'No Hope Streeeeee' as the students called it.  I loved working with the students, although I wasn't too keen on the politics of the staff room.  Iy was a miracle that many of the girls made it to school at all, given the chaos in their lives.  I liked that the girls who had been labelled as 'non-academic', or worse, could flourish in my art classes.  

When I started my new job in a local authority in Kildare, my mother lamented that my stories about Council officials weren't a patch on what my students would get up to.  I left Dublin with a heavy heart, the place of my formative years, my first job, my first love, life long friendships.  I am up and down to Dublin fairly regularly now, but it's mostly work related.  It's often a matter of getting in and out of there as fast as I can.  

Last Saturday,  I attended some Dublin Film Festival events for awardees of the Cine Talent Awards for All About Eva(shameless plug).    It started with a Brunch networking event in the Merrion Hotel.  All very lovely and grown up.  I found myself with a few hours to kill before the next event.  I made my way down Grafton Street, which was jammers with shoppers and buskers.  A sunny afternoon and everyone was in good spirits.  I milled around there, soaking in the atmosphere.  

But I could hear it calling me.  

The North Side.  

As I headed up Liffey Street, past the shop with the white sateen and lace puff ball communion dresses, I felt a new sense of ease.  Arnott's was calling me.   I could feel a warmth in my throat as I walked through the doors.

Mango clothes.  How could I have forgotten how fabulous you are ?

And there they are.  The Italian shoes.  Feel that leather ! Smell.  Divine.

Back on the street, a young woman is shouting 'Straaawwwbrieees, two for three euroooooo'.  I looked at her, to see if she was one of my past pupils.  She wasn't.  

Pity I hadn't time for a pint in The Sackville.  Next time.  

An early morning date with God

Last Sunday morning there was a mass in Philipstown, near Ardee, Co Louth for my aunt Aine, my Mam's sits who died two years ago.  My aunt that bought me to get my ears pierced as a child, who gave me her left over navy eye shadow and hand-me-down clothes as a teenager.  In return, I gave her my time.  

The mass was at 9.30am.  I wanted to leave Athy at 7.50am to arrive in good time.  I was full of great intensions to be organised in advance, to just hop out of bed and get on the road.  But I wasn't too well on Saturday, so none of the intentions were realised.  

I set the alarm for 6.40am, hoping to have a leisurely ten minute shower before I woke the children.  

5.30am  I'm wide awake, anxious about the day ahead.  I dose off, eventually.

7.20am  I finally drag myself out of bed.  A five minute shower I thought, but by the time I washed my mop of hair, it's 7.35am.  Shite.  No hair straightener today.

The kids were hard to stir.  They complain about having to go to mass, a very rare event in our house.  
'It's SOOOOO boring Mam.  Why do we HAVE to GOOOOO ??'  
'Because we do.  For Aine'.
'Oh'.  They liked Aine.  They don't protest much more.   

I carried Mya up to the sitting room to get dressed, multi-tasking, by giving her a cuddle along the way.  She said she wanted to get dressed on my bed instead.  A swift turn around, tying not to whack her leg off the door.  'Guys, I'm in a REAL hurry.  I need you to get dressed as quickly as possible'.  

My sensory boy is hard to buy clothes for, refusing to wear new clothes if he doesn't like the feel of them.  He has a thing for beige skinny jeans and has four pairs that look pretty much identical.  I marched him around Penney's the day before, determined that he wouldn't go to the mass wearing the same 'good' clothes that he wears and washes, wears and washes.  

  

'Will you wear this ?'

A quick feel. 

'No'

'Oh look at this Leon, isn't that cool ?'

'No, I don't like it'.

'This one ?'  'THIS ONE ?' 'This ?' 'Leon, please ?'

Eureka.  We made a number of purchases and none of it is beige.  

The following morning, I had Leon's new outfit laid out.  'Get dressed Leon.  I'm in a hurry'.  

Despite having a wardrobe to die for, my little woman is happiest in a slim fitting t-shirt and black leggings. Today, I insist on a a little red polka dot guna deas.  Mya agrees.   'Stange', I think, but I don't question it.  I relish the rare moment.  Guna deas needs a belt.  I spotted a thin leopard patterned one.  

'That doesn't match !' she says.  

'I know it doesn't Mya, it contrasts with it'.  

'What does contrast mean ?' 

'Bloody hell ! … It means that it's the opposite, but that it looks nice with something, you know ?'

'Oh', she said, nodding.  

She got it.  We have a Fashion Moment.  Me and my gal.  Aine would have approved.

We hoic on her tights.  Now fully awake, she speaks in a high pitched voice and tells me stories from school.  I nod and laugh, but I'm only half listening.  Time is ticking on.

While I was accessorising Mya, I thought that Leon was dressed, but instead, the seven year old is reading the Irish Times weekend supplement.  Roisin Ingle's column to be precise.  Normally, I would actively encourage him to read, but not this morning. 

It's 7.50am  There is a heavy frost outside.  I run out and defrost the car.

'Does anyone want breakfast ?'

Silence.

'Does anyone want breakfast ? … 'Hello ?'

Two grumpy heads tell me to stop asking questions and that no, they don't want breakfast.

'Are you sure ?  It's a long drive'.

'Mam, stop talking'.

7.55am.  Flip, look at the time

I throw on a dress that I haven't worn in a log time.  It feels a bit tight and looks too short.  I breath in and pull it down.  No time for a style dilemma today.

I threaten the children that I am not stopping in the motor way if they need to go to the toilet.  I make wild threats (the sort of thing that you said you would never escort to BC before children) to encourage them to go to the toilet.

After not eating anything for two days, I suddenly feel hungry and put two slices of toast on.  I look forward to eating them in the car, with my cup of green tea.

Leon has his head under the sink.  He pulls out a flask.  The boy who doesn't drink tea  asks, 'Can we make tea Mam ? We can have a picnic in the car',.02 he says enthusiastically, his little face lit up.  I feel a pang of guilt as I say, 'No Leon, get in the car' and I escort him to the door.  'I can give you juice instead ?' 'I don't want juice'. 

8.00 am  Two children in the car.  

8.02 am Toast buttered, I grab juice cartons, throw blankets in, to keep the kids cosy ,lock the house and hop into the car.

'Mam, that toast smells nice.  Can I have it ?'

'Of course son'.  

I'm actually starving now.  I run back into the house and grab two two slices of left over pizza.  

8.07am   We are off.  Finally.  My dog looks at me with sad eyes, as I reverse out the gate.  'Later, Hudson, later.  I promise', feeling that I've neglected him lately.

It's a largely uneventful journey.  Two cosy kids playing games on their tablets.  They protest when I turn on the radio.  I turn the radio off.  Anything for an easy life.  The cold pizza goes down okay, but the green tea is an odd companion.  

'I want a juice Mam'.  

I blast on the heat in the car and 'blow dry' my hair.  The kids complain that they are too warm.  They want the 'hot heat' turned off.  I glance in the mirror and see that my hair looks like Mick Wallace TD's.

9.18am  I panic as I see the signs for Drogheda and curse myself for not consulting with AA route planner to find out exactly how long the trip will take.     

9.27am  I take the turn off for Dunleer/Collon and I'm on familiar turf.  The Sunday visits to my Mam's family.  I start to feel at ease, but warn the children to run as soon as  I park the car.

9.31am  I park at the church.  I slap on a bit of the customary ed lipstick.  I try to tame my Mick Wallace hair into a pony tail and pull down my too-short skirt.  I didn't do too bad after all.

Everyone is standing as the priest does his introductory rites, in his border county accent.  Familiar faces in the congregation.  Cousins, cousins children, aunts, second cousins.  My Mam.  My brother and his children.  My children smile shyly as they recognise them, knowing they will have fun playing together later on.  The cool air, the texture of the wood, the light in the church, all brings me back to childhood weekends with Aine and my Nana Bride.   

I didn't do too bad after all.  Aine would have appreciated the effort.

My Irish Mammy

For Mother's Day

I'm sure that mammies world wide are brilliant, but my experience is limited the the Guaranteed Irish ones.  My Mam, Kay.  The Salt of the Earth variety.

I have never seen anything like the Irish Mammy for producing vast quantities of food at short notice. Growing up on a farm, my father could appear in the door with a number of men who had helped him out, or perhaps were just passing through.  All strapping lads.  All hungry.  From out of nowhere, Kay could produce a Loaves and the Fishes type feast.  Her home made brown bread is legendary.  If you came on the right day, you could get a slice of her apple tart or an iced bun.

The Irish Mammy was the original 'cute hoore'.  The main skill here is to plant ideas in others (often males, adult, living in the same house, usually married for years) and let them think that the idea is theirs.  I've seen Kay in action over the years.  Smooth as you like.  Before you know it, the male adult is telling you about this great idea that he had.  Kay is in the kitchen,  her shoulders shaking, having a little laugh to herself.

Kay wore an apron around the house for many years (and may in fact have worn it to mass under her coat on one occasion).  The apron was presented as a practical solution for keeping one's clothes clean in a busy kitchen.  However, it was actually worn to store the intercepted post that my mother collected from the postman.  If the letter was franked from 'O'Carolan College', it was a (fairly regular) invitation from the school Principal to discuss one of my two younger brothers.  Is it any wonder that Kay turned grey ?

When I was younger, I was the painter/decorator/gardener for my parents.  I would book holidays from work to do some work around their house, while Kay provided around the clock refreshments. But when I bought my own house, with an unwieldy garden and then my twinnies arrived, I found that I didn't have as much energy for doing things in Milltown.  Maybe it was my MS creeping up on me.  Since my diagnosis, Kay has cranked up her Irish Mamminess.  She brings me a cuppa and her brown bread in bed, while she minds the children.  Having a lie-on in Milltown, listening to the river across the road, the background hum of the farmyard, I feel safe.  Loved.  At home.  I'm a ten year old again.

Kay in an angel, but even angels have their faults.  She has been known to say the odd expletive.  A few years ago, she tried to shoo away a stray Tom cat that was causing havoc with her own cats.  She called the cat a 'bastard' and may even have made a half hearted attempt to throw a kick (not ACTUALLY kicking the cat, no need to call the ISPCA).  My children were there at the time.  They thought that Nana Kay cursing was the funniest thing ever.  I have heard them reminiscing several times since about ''the time that Nana said the 'B' word''.  

Irish Mammies are also Queen's of the Bad Jokes.  The word 'corny' springs to mind.  Christmas cracker stuff.  Never smutty.  Never jokes with bad language - that's strictly reserved for threatening menacing cats.  Kay has fair bit of competition here from my aunts Ann and Kathleen.  Some might say that it has been their coping mechanism for living with the Russell men in Milltown.  I couldn't possibly comment.

My Mam and I got into gardening when I was a teenager.  Neither of us has a clue.  We brought her sister, my aunt Aine on our gardening journey. Bless us, we hadn't a clue.  Between us, we accumulated a lot of knowledge, to the point that we now sound like we know what we were talking about.  I loved finding a new garden centre, or garden to bring Mam and Aine to, when they came to visit me in Kildare.  On one memorable trip, I brought them to Dunshane Nursery outside of Kilcullen.  A gardener's paradise.  We left with the boot of my car jammed with plants, the three of us inpatient to get home and start planting.  Aine died two years ago, this week.  I think of her often and cherish those precious days.  It's hard watching your Mam grieve her sister and friend.  I smile when I remember a conversation about Leylandii trees in a man in a garden centre.  'You won't buy them around here.  They are filthy things missus.  Dirt catchers.  You don't want them about the place. Pure filth'.  Aine was disgusted with him and went back down to Louth to acquire the contraband trees.

A role that I have always enjoyed, is being Kay's personal shopper.  Her very own Gok Wan, without the sharp haircut.  Mam is quite happy to sit down and let me pick a selection of outfits for her to try on.  On more than one occasion, she picked the first outfit that I selected.  No messing around there.
... I was going to tell you about the time that Kay's paper bag with new underwear inside ripped open on the bus home from Dublin, but I better not.  She would kill me ...

I love seeing my Mam with her eight lovely grandchildren.  Proud as punch of her beautiful little flock.  The children, oblivious to how lucky they are to have their grandparents.  

I am regularly told that my little girl Mya is 'the cut' of me.  As well as the physical attributes, I think we have similar personalities.  She reminds me of me as a child and my relationship with my mother. It's touching to sit back now and watch her converse with my Mam, independent of me.  My Mam brushing her hair.  On the other hand, my boy Leon's main source of communicating with my mother is through his stomach.  Nana Kay's house is full of contraband, worse than the Leylandii trees.  Fizzy drinks, yoghurt with chocolate balls and other goodies at a seven year olds eye level.  I just give in.

I'm heading up to Milltown this weekend for Mother's Day.  I'll try to spoil my Mam, but knowing her, she will beat me to it and spoil me instead.

Music : The Power to Transform

Dedicated to Tony Fenton.  Music Man.  RIP

Being a busy gal, my main 'me' time is driving.  Alone.  Sans children.  Doors locked.  Heating on.  I've solved the problems of the world and have had (seldom, but wonderful) work retailed brain waves while driving.  So productive is my drive time, that I think that my employers should send me off on a long drive at least once a week.   From Broadford in North West Kildare (trying to stay within the Kildare boundary and not hit any 'Welcome to Offaly' signs) and Castledermot in South Kildare.  Who knows what revelations I would come up with ?

The other thing I love about 'childless' driving is that I can listen to what I want on the radio.  Given my job and responsibility to promote music, I do have the odd listen in to Lyric FM.  I do enjoy classical music, but I prefer to watch a live performance.  (That's my story and I'm sticking to it).  Truth is, I'm a chart music kinda gal.  Always have been.  It is the stuff of my childhood.

On Thursday nights, I pushed the Lego over to one side of the sitting room floor to dance along to 'Top of the Pops'.  Sometimes you missed a bit of Lego and stood on a piece in your socks.  Ouch.  Keith Chegwin and Mike Read, with dodgy jumpers and even dodger mullet haircuts.  I remember the hype leading up to the release of Madonna's 'Like a Prayer' video.  Madonna kissing a black Jesus.  My lasting impression of it when I seen it is that I wished that I could carry off Madonna's blonde look and that Jesus was a fine thing.   

The release of Michael Jackson's thriller had similar hype.  Wow, what a video.  It scared the bejaysus out of me at the time.  All these years later, my little boy needs reassurance that the zombies 'aren't real'.  I try to reassure him, while also looking under my adult bed for monsters.

'Take Hart', the 1980's  BBC art programme for children was a weekly treat for me.  The programme featured a gallery of children's art.  I was always envious of the work and wishes that mine was included - despite the fact that I never sent anything in.  While the artwork was displayed, 'Cavatina', the classical guitar piece by Stanley Myers, played in the background.  It was only years later that I realised that the music was from a film, the theme tune from The Deer Hunter.  I have had to check myself when talking to classical music people not to describe the tune as 'Take Hart' music.  

I heard 'The Power of Love', by Frankie Goes to Hollywood recently.  It brought me back to New Year's Day in Niall and Ailbhe Carolan's sitting room in Kingscourt.  I was ten.  Their older brother's were talking about how brilliant the song was.  I didn't fully appreciate it's brilliance at the time, but remember thinking if older cousins said it, then it must be true. 

Similarly, I heard 'Frankie' a 1985 tune by Sister Sledge a few weeks ago.  I had a flashback to a chip shop in Kingscourt.  Just myself and my Dad.  The most delicious taste in the whole world.  My Dad had taken some last minute notion to watch some boxing matches in town.  Until then, I doubt I knew that either chips or boxing existed in Kingscourt.   'Frankie … do you remember me ...' on the radio.  Sweaty boys from the boxing.  I was out of my depth and felt a little scared.  

Between 1984 and 1987, MT-USA came on our screens.  It featured Vincent Hanley, moustached and wearing a heavy winter coat, walking about New York City, interviewing celebrities and introducing music videos.  Amazing stuff, like Dire Staits animated video for 'Money for Nothing'.  Other worldly stuff.   

Although I'm partial to a bit of Dolly Parton, I'm not a fan of Irish country and western music.  Occasionally though, I flick between radio stations in the car and find myself listening to songs I didn't mean to listen to, like Bridie Gallagher's 'A Mothers Love is A Blessing', with lyrics like 'For you'll never miss a mother's love 'til she's buried beneath the clay'.  Bridie, we don't need reminding !!  

On the other hand, Patsy Cline's ''Tra La La La Triangle' reminded me of my late aunt Olive, who died in her early thirties.  Way too young.  When I hear the tune, I can see her on a stage, at a family event, singing the song,  dressed in a blue dress, with matching tights.  Her long blonde hair.  She looked like a superstar to me.  

I'm not remotely religious, but a good choral version of the 'Our Father' gets me every time.  It brings me back to Sundays in Kingscourt church.  The cool air.  The tiled floor.  The scent of the carved timber.  The other worldly stained glass windows.   My Father singing.  I asked him why he didn't join the choir.  He should have.   Similarly, children singing 'Away in A Manger', or any Christmas carol for that matter.  Pass the tissues please … 

Studying Art and Design in Galway Institute of Technology brought lots of new musical experiences.  Scooby Doo on the TV.  TV turned upside down.  Pink Floyd on the stereo.  Watching the pitter patter of Scoobies paws.  Joyrider supporting Therapy? in The Point Depot on New Years Eve.  Skunk Anansie in Paris.  Enjoying being a groupie and feeling like you were somebody, but at the same time, thinking that everyone was far cooler than me.  

Moving swiftly forward.  Everyone needs a Break Up Song.  Mine was Nickelback's 2009 tune 'This Is How You Remind Me'.  The Summer That Love Broke Down.  When I left my flat in Dublin and moved back to my parents house with my tail firmly between my legs.  I commuted to my job in Newbridge, coming home to Irish Mammy Dinners to help with the healing.  That was Ryan Tubridy's heyday on 2FM, when he was fresh and new.  Song of the week, Nickelback giving it loads, while I cried in my car on the way to work.  

These days, my two seven year olds largely dictate the car airwaves.  Thankfully we have some similar likes.  We are partial to a little Ellie Goulding and love her new tune,  (aside from what anyone thinks of Fifty Shades of Grey and no, I didn't discuss that with the children !).  We drove to my parents in Meath last weekend and played John Legend's 'All of Me', blaring, on repeat.  Will the children look back on these days and remember their Mam belting out a tune, without a note in her head ?  Maybe give them a warm fuzzy feeling ? I hope so.

Fabulous Forty : A Year in Review

I'm in the final weeks of my 40th year, so I've had 340 days + to consider this.  Forty.  40.  Two score.  Naughty 40.  The big 4 - 0hhhhh.  Blind 40.  

The thirties nostalgically placed on the shelf.  A time to reflect and look forward.

I had a 40th birthday party in February which was great craic.  Unfortunately, I didn't appoint a photographer with a decent camera on the evening, so all pics are a little hazy.  Maybe just as well, because I forgot to put a belt on the dress that I bought for the occasion.  The draught beer and stone baked pizzas supplied by Ray were a big hit.  'The best pizzas EVER apparently.  Although intended to be a 'grown up party', quite a few children come along.  I was stressing out that they were going to be bored, but the weather was super - A crisp, dry night.  The little people charged around outside in the moon light playing dares - Sorted !  I was really touched that so many of my nearest and dearest made it along, even though I had flip all time to talk to any of them.  I was reluctant to invite the guests to my house the following day as 1. I was so hyper, I hadn't slept the previous night and 2. The heating oil ran out and the house was freezing. Typical !!

I had a 'no presents' rule for the party, asking for poems instead.  I got plenty of lovely poems that are stashed away and I'm very grateful for them.  But some of the guests broke the rule.  I'm glad that they did, as I'm still living off the goodies - fab stuff that I wouldn't buy for myself.  Like expensive lipstick.  The adverts are true - it REALLY does last longer - Would ya believe it ? After years of living on cheap lippy, I ain't never going back.  

I'm one of those lucky gals who doesn't have grey hair (Thanks Dad and the Russell genes).  A few sneaky stray greys appeared earlier this year and I wasn't too impressed.  I took the plunge and did a rather fetching plum coloured home-dye for my brothers wedding in May.  After that, I decided to go blonde and stocked up on peroxide in the chemist.  Here's the science thing though -  You can't just put one hair dye on top of the other.  The blonde took to roots of my hair and nowhere else.  It was a flipping disaster.  I looked like a wet badger.  My little girl asked me to 'bend over so I can look at your hair' and she would run away hooting with laughter 'Oh Mammy … !'.  

There was nothing for it except to go to the hairdressers for a proper 'do.  One that takes at least four hours to do (or in this case, undo).  One that required me to sit on a chair and read glossy magazines on a Saturday, instead of spending time with my kids.  A 'do that I probably couldn't afford.  One that requires attention every eight weeks or so.  But you know what ?  

I'm worth it.  

I deserve two-tone hair.  

And to sit and read about B-List celebrities love lives/divorces/weight gain/loss for four hours, while someone beautifies me and brings me tea.  It has only taken me 40 years to come to that conclusion and to allow myself this indulgence.

In January last year, my journalist buddy Siobhan asked me if I would write an article for the Irish Examiner, about my diagnosis with MS a few years ago.  My article was published on 28th January 2014.  I didn't have much time to think about writing it, but didn't hesitate.  It was only when it was republished in The Kildare Nationalist, that I thought, 'flip, now lots of people know this THING about me'.  Wouldn't you think that I would have considered this before hand ?  In hindsight, I'm delighted that I did write it.  

As a result of this article, the MS Society asked me to join their blogging team 'MS and Me'.  It's a lovely feeling to be part of something 'bigger' than me and to think in some small way, I can make a difference.  The 'MS and Me' blog was nominated for 'Best Group Blog' in the Irish Blog Awards last autumn.  We didn't win, but the nomination was a real pat on the back for our work.  The award ceremony was great fun.  In a room full of bloggers and tweeters, I felt surprisingly comfortable.  

While I'm happy to share my experiences about MS through writing, I really don't want to be defined by it and I certainly don't want to think about it all the time.  My medical condition bores the pants off me. 

The fact that a real life journo had faith in me to write something was a big boost to me.  It's probably what led me to start writing my blog last April.  This blog is my 50th piece of writing so far.  Fifty ! Imagine !  I wouldn't have dreamed of writing like this a few years ago.  I get a real kick out of it though, gathering ideas in my head, taking notes on my phone or in notebooks as I go.

After a life time of being a 'walker', I did a 5km run in Athy during the summer, only because our visiting Spanish student wanted to participate,  as detailed in an earlier blog 'Run Lola Run'.  My morning stroll became a jog and then a run.  I always felt good after a walk, but felt exhilarated after a run, so good, that I often felt like going back out for another run.  Sadly, my new found running regime was short lived.  I had a nasty fall one Sunday morning lat August and made bits of one of my knees.  Xrays showed up no damage, but for months afterwards, putting my foot on the clutch in the car caused me great pain.  Raging I was.  I'm itching to get running again. 

My lovely twins turned seven last October.  What a great age.  Maybe the best age.  All of that spoon feeding/nappy changing malarky behind me.  They can both read and write, so there is N-O more spelling out W-O-R-D-S that you don't want them to hear.  This can be a pain in the A-S-S.  They can read Teletext, so they know when Father Ted, Grand Designs, Top Gear, Mrs Brown's Boys is on.  Most of their favorite programmes aren't exactly age appropriate, but at least we can enjoy them together.  I'm enjoying their independence, watching them grow, even if it is slowly growing away from me.  Not looking out the window of the school bus to wave goodbye to me (sob !).  Thankfully, there is still times for cuddles, even if it is when no one is looking.  I'm cherishing their innocence.  Their sense of discovery and wonder.  The 'twinnieisms' that I enjoy sharing with you, dear reader.

Through my work, I had the opportunity to produce a film 'All About Eva' last year.  It was a terrifying, but energizing experience, which has generated a lot of attention and that has and will open doors for people.  I'm looking forward to building on this with three new film projects lined up for this year.  All of these projects were developed to promote film making in the county, but personally, I'm getting a fierce buzz from it all.  It's feeding my ENFP personality type, that thrives on new ideas (in other words, I get bored easily). 

I remember when I started my current job.  I was 26 and my boss was 40.  I respected her, admired her, valued her friendship, but definitely considered her 'older'.  My role model.  I look at 26 year olds that I know and wonder what they make of me.  Most probably think 'older', if not wiser.  I think of the bright young thing I met at Electric Picnic last year, who drunkingly marvelled at me looking 'so glamorous' for my age.  Let's face it, 'glamorous' is a word that you use for old dolls, like Helen Mirren or Sophia Loren .  But thankfully, 40 year old me isn't as self conscious as I once was, so it doesn't matter so much.   I always admired Helen's poise and Sophia's cleavage anyway.  

I was very uncomfortable in my 20's puppy fat skin.  I was finding my feet throughout my 30's.  Now I feel that I've arrived.  41, let's be having ya !

Four Young Lives Lost

Last Tuesday night, when I cosied up on the couch, and maybe you were too, four young girls were killed and three people were injured in an horrific car crash, just a seven minute drive from where I live.

I didn't hear about the crash until the following morning.  I hoped that there had been a big mistake, that reports were overly dramatic.  But sadly, no.  My second thought was who were these girls ?  I was filled with dread.  'College students', the reports said.  I thought of all the young college goers that I knew around Athy.  I phoned a neighbour.  It seemed that we didn't know any of the dead.  I felt a sense of relief.  Then I felt guilty for feeling that sense of relief.  They were someone's daughters.

I usually drive to work via the road where the accident took place.  It's a slightly longer journey, but I feel safer driving on the motor way.  I feel that too many people take chances on the 'old' road from Athy to Kilcullen.  But the morning after the car crash, I reverted to driving on the 'old' road, shedding tears as further news drip fed in on the radio.

I cried for the four girls whom I do not know, shocked at the way they died.  The opportunities they will miss.  All the things they had yet to experience.  That family event they won't attend.  That empty place at the table.  Motherhood.  Supporting their parents as they get older.  

I cried for their parents, getting that awful knock on the door.  That pale faced Garda knowing that he or she was going to change the lives of that house with the delivery of that news.  No easy way to break it.  No way to make that news any easier to hear.  Except maybe that their daughters died amongst friends.  I could almost hear their youthful, infectious chatter in the car, talking over each other, the way that friends do, probably right up until the moment of the crash.  Easy in each others company.  Reviewing Christmas and the New Year.  Bargain clothes bought in the New Year sales. College exams and plans for 2015.  

In the coming weeks and months there will be much talk about what happened to cause this accident, but I don't want to speculate.  In those weeks and months, the girls families and friends will probably be full of 'what if's'.  If the girls had that extra cup of tea in someone's house.  If they hadn't dropped in to pick up the laptop.  If they stopped at a shop en route.  If the van driver had stopped to get fuel for his journey.  Was this their destiny ?  Or just the wrong place at the wrong time ? Why, oh why, so young ?  Why all together ? If only I got to say goodbye.  To tell her how much I loved her. 

I drove home by the scene of the accident last night.  It was dark and there was a spattering of rain.  The road was quiet and I had an ominous feeling.  Apart from some flowers on the roadside, a bent road sign and a scattering of sand on the road, there wasn't much evidence of the dreadful scene a few nights previously.  The flowers will fade away, the road sign will be straightened and the sand will blow off in the wind.  

But the four bright, youthful faces that smiled out at us in the media over the last few days will be remembered by people, many of whom never met the girls or their families.  For generations to come, their story, or this part of their story, will be immortalised in the story of Athy and of Carlow.  

As I write, Finbarr Furey is singing 'When You Were Sweet Sixteen' on The Late, Late Show.  

'Come to me or my dream of love is o'er

I love you as I loved you

When you were sweet

When you were sweet sixteen'

Sleep tight Aisling, Chermaine, Niamh and Gemma. 

Forever Young

.................................

Good wishes to the three survivors of the car crash

2014 In Review

So, there we have it.  'Another year over, a new one just begun ...' as John Lennon once sang.  It's only two days into 2015 and already I've ditched last year and am plotting and scheming for the next twelve months.  I will take down this years (rather lovely) Christmas tree tomorrow (I can hear you gasp at my breaking of tradition for not holding out til the 6th, but I'm back to work proper on Monday and frankly, it's getting very dusty.  Time to go.  Out to the hens, to give them a new bit of greenery to peck at in these barren January days.

Given that I'm so focused on the coming year, I'm not feeling reflective.  Maybe not the best head space to be in to write a reflective piece.  On the other hand, it may cut out the romantic, rose tinted thoughts that I had in the weeks running up to Christmas.

Lots of good things happened in 2014.
MAKING ART
I started drawing again, after a few years without as much as a doodle on a serviette.  All thanks to Lizzie Longwill's 30 Day Sketch Challenge.  It was a really simple idea - draw something, anything, take a photo and upload onto a Facebook page.  Seeing the drawings of others, many of whom I had never met, was great fun.  I made three drawings of wedding bouquets as wedding presents.  I felt like I was back in the saddle.  But I soon fell off - life became very busy and my pencils were temporarily shelved.  In my work capacity, I am surrounded by artists, many of whom are living on air, who have dedicated their lives to making art. I sometimes feel a bit of a failure about this regard.

But onwards and upwards ! I've two more drawings of wedding bouquets to make.  The guilt is getting the better of me now.  I'll pick up that pencil, root out my water colours very soon ... If I ever remember to buy 'day cent' paper ...

RUNNING
After a life time of being a 'walker', I did a 5km run in Athy during the summer, only because our visiting Spanish student wanted to participate.  As detailed in an earlier blog 'Run Lola Run', I got a great buzz out of it.  My morning stroll became a jog and then a run.  I always felt good after a walk, but felt exhilarated after a run.  When I came home, I felt like going back out and running again.  Sadly, my running regime was short lived.  I had a nasty fall one Sunday morning - the one time I didn't bring my phone with me - and made bits of one of my knees.  I X rays showed up no damage, but for months afterwards, putting my foot on the clutch in the car caused me great pain.  I'm itching to get running again.


garden

brothers wedding

21st April