My Da and Anthony Foley

The date of my father’s death is October 19th 2015 and so, his first anniversary takes place this Wednesday.  But for me, my Dad died on a Monday, so today is his anniversary.  The day after the annual Kildare Readers Festival closes. I took a day’s leave from work today, partly because I'm tired after a marathon few days, but mostly because I don't fancy the déjà vu of being there at 11am for tea break as I was last year when I got the phone call from my brother Eoin.

The day before my father died, he watched Ireland's Rugby World Cup quarter-final against Argentina at the Millennium Stadium.  He would have been glued to the TV, with the Sunday newspapers spread across the table in front of him, providing a running commentary to my mother throughout the match.  

If he was still alive, he would have looked forward to Munster playing in the European Champions Cup match against Racing 92 yesterday.  The match was cancelled, as a mark of respect after the sudden death of Head Coach for Munster, Anthony Foley.  I only heard about his death this morning, aged 42, the same age as me.  Like many, I felt that collective sense of grief that someone really special was gone.  A true sports man and leader.  My father had little in common with Anthony Foley, except perhaps that they both put themselves under pressure and that they exited this world quickly and quietly.  

I have wondered how aware my father was in his final moments.  What could he hear? The lads hammering and the clink of machinery in the shed in the yard, Radio One wafting up the stairs in the kitchen, my mother calling to ask him to hurry up, the kerfuffle  that followed as family and paramedics arrived?  In my mind, the sound of the calming flow of the river across the road, the sound that he would have woken to and fallen asleep to, almost every day of his life, intensified and amplified to become his closing track.  This morning, watching a video online of Munster Fans singing ‘The Fields of Athenry’ in Paris as a tribute to Anthony Foley, I cried for the big Munster man, for the older men in the video, visibly upset wiping away their tears and also for my Da, who often sang that tune, and who, unlike his daughter, could hold a tune. 

While Anthony Foley was famous in his circles, my father was more of the infamous kind, being stubborn and opinionated.  I don’t know what he would have thought about all I have written about him on my blog since his death.  It's likely that he would have told me off, saying that there was ‘no need to be talking about those things’.  But if I explained the map of analytics showing the number of people who had read about him, and where in the world they are, he would have been amused.  ‘Be the hokey’, he'd say.  He then would have tried, badly, to explain Google analytics to his friends in the pub.  ‘They are reading about me in Russia and Australia, you know.  Jaysus’, shaking his head and laughing, secretly chuffed. 

Writing about my father has given me comfort in processing his death.  Others have told me that it has made them think about their own fathers, 'men of that generation', who won’t be around much longer, men that seem simple in their ways but are as complex as anyone else.  I chat with my uncle Ciaran  about how neither of us expected to really miss my father, a man who didn’t always have a lot to say to either of us.  Ciaran tells me that he sometimes walks around the farmyard, just to remember his brother.  It’s always the little things.  Today I miss being in his presence, him ignoring me while watching his beloved rugby.

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The Mutt With The Butt

Coming from a farming home, I was used to big, shaggy dogs, usually mongrels or dolly mixture collies.  Their purpose in life was in the first instance, to herd sheep.  But I always thought of them as pets.  At one stage, we had a pet lamb called Tubby, who thought he was a dog and no one ever felt the need to set him straight (I have written about Tubby in a previous blog post.  His bloody demise is the reason I became vegetarian).  I was never fond of Jack Russell terriers that occasionally stray onto the farm and found their nippy, wicked temperament hard to accept when I was used to gentle giants who loved me unconditionally.

After that, the only dealings I had with Jack Russell’s was in relation to my surname.  My brother Derek was christened ‘Jack’ in his early days in secondary school.  When I followed him a year later, I was sometimes called ‘Jacqueline’.  What a witty bunch my fellow students were.   Although it’s now over two decades since we finished school, I expect that my brother would still lift his head if he heard someone called out ‘Jack’ on the street.

In early September, a Jack Russell dog appeared at my back door.  I assumed he was a neighbour’s dog out wandering.  The following day, he was still there.   As my daughter pointed out ‘he has a sore butt’.  I was keen to get him home as soon as possible, took his photo, posted it on Facebook and tagged all of my neighbours.  I assumed a speedy response identifying the owner, but no one came forward.  Some days later, I brought him to the local vet to see if the mutt (by now named Charlie by my son) was micro chipped.  He wasn’t. 

At this stage, panic started to kick in.  Charlie had started to take over my house.  He had evicted my humongous Labrador Hudson from his comfortable bed.  I was surprised that Hudson allowed it, as he is so big that he could have easily smothered him if he sat on him.  Instead, Hudson looked at me forlornly, not able to hold back his hurt.  The only time that Hudson stood up for himself was mealtime.  There was no way a greedy Lab would share. 

Feeding time at the zoo really became an issue - Charlie also started to upset my two half wild cats, Spooky and Sparky, belting out the back door between my legs when I attempted to feed them.  On one occasion, he dived on one of the cats and grabbed her viciously by the neck, witnessed by my hysterical daughter.  Thankfully Sparky is also spunky and escaped.  After that attack, my daughter decided that she didn’t really like Charlie anymore and stopped walking him around on a lead.  In the meantime, Hudson became a sulky teenager and spent most of his time in my bedroom. 

The only time there was a ceasefire was when I brought them both for a walk.   I only walked so far to avoid my neighbour who began to complain about ‘YOUR Jack Russell’ potentially leading her dog astray.  I had explained to her that Charlie wasn’t mine, despite the fact I was now regularly pounding the tarmacadam with him on a lead. 

Regular telephone messages and emails to the local Animal Rescue centre were not returned (I’m not complaining – I know they are extremely busy).  Charlie’s butt wasn’t getting any better and his bum vapour was like agitated slurry (townies, you may need to Google this to understand).  The end of my tether was getting closer and I knew that I couldn’t keep Charlie beyond last weekend.  Trouble was, for all his faults, I was getting attached to the little critter.  I made one last post on Facebook to see if I could find a home for him, before I contacted the dog pound, which mostly likely, would lead to a death sentence for Charlie in the following week. 

In what seemed like a miracle, a friend of a friend contacted me almost immediately.  ‘Does he had a sore backside?’, she asked.  I could hear the ‘Hallelujah’ music coming on in my head.  It appears that Charlie (I won’t reveal his real name, to protect the stinky) is a bit of an escape artist whose family were looking for him. 

The following day, Charlie was collected, with a huge sigh of relief for all concerned.

Hudson’s delicate ego is recovering.  He is sprawled out in his basket as I type.  I treated him to a road trip to Clonakilty and a walk on the beach there (thanks Marie and Andrew) to reaffirm that he was the only mutt for me.  

The cats have regained their laid back ‘‘we don’t give a monkeys about you ‘tude’’.  The equilibrium has been restored in Poppy Cottage. 

Til the next drama ….

Desperate in Delvin

I bit the bullet.  I’m blaming my male cousins and brothers.  ‘Sure, you are still lovely Lucy.  Fellas would fancy you, especially now that you have learned how to plough a field’.  They give me tips for internet dating.  I’m horrified, ‘still lovely’.  They mean well, but I feel like an ageing horse, getting my teeth checked, to see if there is any life left in the old nag.  So before I declare myself fit for pasture, I did it.  I signed up for internet dating, on a whim, early one Sunday morning, after another weekend on my own with my mutt.   

But what to share? Oh gawd, the template is looking for a photograph.  Maybe I should upload a pic of my dog.  He’s better looking than me and it would show what an animal lover I am.  It’s times like this that a burka seems like an attractive form of dress.  I opt for a discreet photo, instagrammed to death. 

Then there is the small matter of my name.  With a name like Lucina, there isn’t much hiding.  Adding a simple ‘d’ could give me a disguise.  I opt for honesty. 

Then the much dreaded questionnaire - likes, dislikes, inspirations, the ‘tell us about you’ and ‘what you are looking for’.  I feel like giving up there and then and resigning myself to old age, with just me and my mutt.

A few credit card details later and I’m live.  Within minutes, I swear, minutes, guys send messages saying that they want to meet me.  All before 8.30am on a Sunday. I marvel at the wonder of technology.  I have almost planned my outfits and picked my restaurants.

The novelty doesn’t last long.  Desperate in Delvin*, 62 sends me a virtual wink and another.  And a few days later, another.

Kinky in Kinnegad, 72, sends me a message saying that he thinks I’m sexy.  I’d like to send him a virtual slap of a hangbag, but there isn’t such an icon.

Gorgeous in Galway, 31, is actually gorgeous and I wonder why the hell he is internet dating and more to the point, why he is looking at my profile.  I find it hard to believe that his intentions are honourable.

There’s lots of faceless men out there, like Unhappily Married in Urlingford, 38 who don’t upload photos and seen pushy about chatting, as if this opportunity is what I’ve waited all of my life for. 

The Teacher in Thurles, 37, also faceless, writes 'your lovely'. I reply, stating 'for a teacher, your spelling isn't the best'.  He doesn't know what I'm on about.  'You're', I prompt. We mutually agree to 'leave it'.

Ego in Ennis, 51, another of the faceless crew, insists that he has provided plenty of information about himself on his profile and that if I had read it properly, I would 'clearly see' that he would provide photos by email. Out of curiosity, I ask for pics, which he emails.  He has Donald Trump hair to match the inflated sense of himself presented in his profile.

Dapper in Dublin, 39, looks promising, but then says that we live too far away from each other for a date.  I try not to sound desperate and resist asking him to check the route on AA Routeplanner, like I already have.

Other fellas probably really should have taken a bit of advice on how to take selfies for the purposes of actually getting a date.  A lot of photos make them look like they came straight from Crimeline, with photos taken directly from their PC, showing double/treble chins off to their finest.  And do they not realise that I can see their socks and jocks on the radiator behind them?    

The questionnaires that the guys have completed start to bore me to death.  Who actually gives a monkey’s what their favourite meal is (but, FYI, a large proportion of men seem to prefer their mothers cooking, which is all well and good, but this isn’t a site for a replacement Irish Mammy)

Then there’s the guys who use way !!!!! too many !!!!! exclamation !!! marks !!!! to show what a fun !!!! guys they are !!!!  So, flipping !!!!!! hilarious !!!!

And don’t get me started on the guys WHO USE BLOCK CAPITALS.  It’s as hilarious as the exclamation marks, but IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU ARE SHOUTING AT ME.

Or the ones that use text speak.  No, I don’t want 2 talk 2 U LOL ‘K?

And then there’s the LOL’s and ‘LMAO’, when it’s-just-not-funny. 

There are lots of lovely, genuine guys out there in cyber love land.  Some send lovely messages and mostly I send nice messages back, wishing them well, but saying that I’m not interested.  Some send messages back saying that mine was the nicest rejection they ever received.  They don’t know that I have had years of experience turning down people, as gently as I can, for grant applications.

I won’t be renewing my membership when it expires this week.  I’ll dust myself off and regroup.  But in the meantime, Maybe in Meath, 45 isn’t looking half bad.

*Names have been changed to protect the deluded

The Blessing of the Graves

My father was always a man in a hurry.  He was in such a hurry at his 70th birthday celebrations in a restaurant last year, that he blew out the candles on his cake and had actually left the establishment while I was in the toilets with the children.  In his defense, with the squirty soap, hand dryer, and various contraptions to be examined, the toilet trip took longer than expected.  And there was an 'urgent' football match on TV at 2pm, so urgent that it was close to an emergency.  The family joked afterwards that we would spoon fed him in a chair for his 80th birthday.  But that wasn't to be, as John Russell departed this life 6 weeks after he blew out his candles.  No messing around.

Today is his birthday and I stood at his graveside over the weekend, at the annual Blessing of the Graves in Kingscourt.  Surreal indeed.

I've come to the conclusion that the ideal place for speed-catch-up with family, school friends, people you half-knew but didn't realise you how you knew them and neighbours is actually The Blessing of the Graves.  Don't knock it unless you have tried it.  And let's face it, the financial donation is cheaper than buying a round in the pub and there's less drunks.

There is a predictability to who will stand where, given the static positioning of the various family graves.  Family representation varies over the years.  New additions to the families appear and others take their rest under the soil.  Children play in the chippings and compost on the graves.  Older people rest in their fold up chairs.  There is mighty fashion to be seen and the grey headstones are outnumbered by floral arrangements.

As it happens, it's also a great place to meet people who read my blog (Who Knew ?? Like, seriously ? It's slightly mortifying, but also kinda lovely).  I meet someone who I only know through social media. We hug and I laugh that until now, I had no idea of what height she is, having only encountered her through postage stamps sized photographs on a screen.

All the fretting about being there had passed.  It oddly, feels nice.

The reality of the situation hit home when the priest, in his opening remarks acknowledges all of those who were standing beside a loved ones grave for the first time.  Thankfully he doesn't dwell on it, but I feel a pain in my heart for my lovely mother standing there.  She looks so vulnerable. Hopefully next year won't be so hard.  The first is the worst, or so they say.

I came across this photograph the other day. It's my parents, my brother Derek (with THAT haircut) and little me at the seaside in Port, Co Louth.  The sea is just over the horizon.  Can you smell it ?  I can hear it.  Whoosh .... It feels like I remember that actual day, but I wonder if that's possible as I am so young.  We went to Port every summer, so maybe it's collective memories remembered through that photograph?  The bumpy texture of the seer-sucker thin cotton dress is so familiar, as is the salt water in my mouth, as my father splashes water at me in the sea, the taste lingering long after the event.  The odd sensation of feeling rough sand sprinkled through the cool, slinky grass.  The safe feeling of the weathered palm of his farmer hand against my leg.  I keep the dress for years for a teddy.  Maybe that's why I remember?

I attended a dance performance by Theogene (Totto) Niwenshuti, a Rwandan dancer and scholar, in Maynooth University last week, as part of Kildare County Council's Dance and Movement Summer School.  Totto has survived genocide.  The audience, were led into the performance across scattered clothes, shoes and a number of people lying still on the floor.  They lay in the same direction, face down, as if they had been shot dead while running for their lives.  Individually and collectively, we sobbed quietly for massacred men, women and children and how helpless we all felt, at this scenario and the countless similar scenes worldwide.

Afterwards, an image of my fathers boots paired up the back hall way when I arrived home on the day he died, keeps coming to me.  I think about the absolute privilege that he had of dying peacefully in his own house, surrounded by family and the privilege we had in giving him a funeral that he would have approved of.

It's unlikely that my father's boots will be worn again.  My three brothers grew to be much taller than my father, so much so that my brother Eoin handed down his pair of size 8 tan leather confirmation brogues to him.  It was the source of much amusement at the time, but JR didn't take kindly to being slagged about that.  He would be raging that I told ye.  Sorry Da.  The memories keep you close.

The Kitchen is Closed

So, my foreign students went and left, as they do and I've figured out how to reset my Facebook settings from Spanish back to English.

So folks, but if any of you are looking for any class of hospitality in the coming weeks, don't bother coming to me.  I can direct you to a lovely hotel down the room.  If you insist on coming here, I can point you towards the kettle and the fridge.  I can't guarantee fresh milk, or biscuits, so it's best that you BYO.  (Naturally, there is a universal exception for wine).

I can't stand over the quality of my toilet facilities either.  It's been three action packed weeks of having two teenage boys here, on top of my own 8 year old one.  All I'll say is that, over the last three weeks, that I have reminded of a poster that my aunt Kathleen and uncle Ciaran had in their bathroom when I was a child, bearing a poignant poem that still has developed meaning over the years -  'If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat'.

If you would like early-morning homemade pancakes any time soon, can I suggest the Bay Tree in town?  Because I'm done.  At least until Back to School.  The same goes for packed, flipping, lunches.  I won't fret over a balanced diet, human hair, dog hair in food.  If I run out of mayonnaise or milk, we will do without.  (If you are balking at the idea of dog hair in food, just think of it as protein supplement - you heard the ads about keratin in hair, right?)

As for the Socks & Jocks.

Let's face it.  Laundering clothes and undergarments is a chore.

Your children's - You tolerate, only because you love them.  And to gather ammunition for later years. Who, may I ask, invented white, or pastel Socks & Jocks for little people? I'll tell you -  Someone who doesn't have little people, or who doesn't do laundry, that's who.

Guests Socks & Jocks.  Let's just say that there's a limit to what one will do in the name of international relations.

If anyone needs me, I'll be the one lying back on my own couch, slathered in fake tan, drinking wine at 8pm, because night time Josephine Le Taxi has turned off her sign until the end of August.  I may, or may not wear a bra.  I might be cutting my toe nails.  I might be reading, or writing a blog, like I am now, hooray ! (And just for the record, I'm fully clothed as I write this).

I may actually sit down for the full duration of a meal.  The meal may be cream crackers and jam, or some sort of flat carbohydrate with a paste from a jar.  It's unlikely that there will be a table cloth, or napkins.  There may not even be a plate.  My excuse for not shopping is that I need supplies to go down to allow me to 'see what's there' and to create a better view of the mould in the fridge.

There will be no extended queuing for my one-toilet-only Hobbit House, and if there happened to be, I'll ask my children to pee in the garden.  The bringing of electronic devices into the bathroom shall be strictly prohibited.

I may or may not wash the stack of dishes in the sink, or maybe ever, as an experiment on self-cleaning.

But if truth were told, the house seems quiet and I miss hearing The Spaniard belting out tunes from the shower.

Feeling European

It's the final days of having a Spanish and French student in Poppy Cottage, and the hobbit house will soon to return to a teenage-boy-less zone.

For most of the stay, I've had a rotten head cold, that thankfully no one else in the house has caught. A few days into the visit, I caught my thumb in a door, which was excruciatingly painful and made simple things like starting the car and preparing food difficult.  Had it been just myself and the children here, we probably would have lived on breakfast cereal.

I've already discussed feeding the students in a previous blog.  It's only in the last week that I realised though, how much they all love drinking the milk here.  Apparently the milk in both France and Spain isn't a patch on ours.  I can't buy enough of the stuff.

Getting two extra people up and out in the morning has been a little stressful.  Most mornings, I am standing at the back door jingling keys, with my eye on the clock and sweat on my brow.  All being well, I have dropped off my children for the morning and the students for the day and am sitting at my work desk with a cuppa by 9.20am.  My employer gets great value out of me as I pack a full days work into the morning, before dashing back for a 2pm pick up with the children.  I've used the two hour window before the students arrive home to prepare for 'Back to School'.  No lastminute.com here this year.  The Spaniard noticed that I 'shop a lot'.  I laugh.  If only it was for the fun stuff.

The weather, in case you haven't noticed, has been completely pants.  All of my recent slaving in the garden was undone, as the humidity encouraged jungle-like scenes to develop. On top of that, my lawnmower gave up the ghost.  Apparently it just needed a minor adjustment.  Mr Lawnmower Man didn't even charge me for fixing in, but had the machine for 10 days, while my 'football pitch', as the Spaniard called it, grew out of control.   I try to compensate for my overgrown sporting facilities, telling him that the luscious grass is what makes our milk taste so delicious.

The washing machine, in solidarity with the lawnmower, also packed in the other day.  Fan-bloody-tastic.  I was extremely thankful though that I, at least, hadn't given away my previously unused tumble drier, which has been working overtime in the last few weeks. It doesn't know what's hit it.

Speaking of washing, last week, my neighbour's student came to my house for dinner, before a 7pm disco.  There was a great sense of excitement in the house, the shower was on overdrive and there was no sparing on the deodorant.  The student stood before me with his socks.  'Will you wash these for me for tonight please?'.  'Tonight' was now 90 minutes away.  My Domestic Goddess had been maxed out for the day and I say no.  I offered to give him a pair of mine instead.  He's not impressed. I ask if he would like an individually wrapped Cadbury's chocolate mini roll.  He asks if I have something else with caramel.

I spent the first week of the stay fretting over an interview for a job, something that was advertised with an extremely short deadline.  I slapped in an application at the last minute and was notified of interview a few days later.  It's been YEARS since I went for an interview.  This one required a three minute presentation.  I thought about it and researched for a few days, all while getting used to the presence of teenagers in the house.  I wrote my (not half-bad, even if I say so myself) presentation, complete with a nice range of left-of-centre images, all timed to 3 minutes flat. Almost as soon as I had it complete, I decided not to attend for interview after all.  My heart wasn't in it and doing an interview for 'the experience' just wasn't my thing.  So, if any of you out there need a presentation on Arts Participation, I've got one going a beggin'.

In the middle of all of this, I've managed to get delicious slices of  'me-time', including a mad dash to the Galway Film Fleadh on a Saturday.  A manic five-hour round trip, I managed to see the premiere of 'Revolutions: A Roller Derby Story', directed by Laura Mc Gann, had catch ups and networked like you wouldn't believe.  A few snatched hours in Kildare Village, shopping for me, 'a little' and a luxuriously long lunch for one.  I happened across an Irish food promotion and has Presseco and cake for dessert. It's the little things, isn't it?

My dog is delighted with the rare scraps of meat in a usually veggie-only household.  My children love learning elaborate handshakes and the stamp of approval for their new branded sports gear.  'Just Do It' is the new catch phrase in the house.  Oddly, the setting on my Facebook page have changed to Spanish, all by themselves.  Having a good 'Wiffy' connection here has been has a big bonus for both boys.  

Then there was the unimaginable attack on Bastille Day in Nice.  I worried about discussing it with my students the following morning, as the true extent of it unfolded.  They took the news better than I expected.  Neither of them knew anyone involved and I guess that teenagers world's is quite insular. And maybe, there's an element of becoming desensitised by it all.  I worry that my own children will come to regard this sort of thing as 'normal'.  Nonetheless, I was glad that the students, led by the school principal, had an opportunity to discuss it together in school that day.  After the attack, the fallout of Brexit and the more recent coup in Turkey, I will fret until I know that both of my students catch their flights and get through airports safely.   I imagine that all Irish families who have had European students this summer will feel an enhanced connection, and solidarity with our European neighbours after what has happened,  during our watch.  It's hard to know what to say after that.

Channelling my Irish Mammy

It's a fortnight now, since our Spanish student arrived in Poppy Cottage for a three week language school in Athy College.  He was joined by a French student five days ago.  In the intervening period, it seems that the equilibrium has shifted many times in the house.  The only constants has been the rather miserable weather, the endless supply of laundry and me, standing in the kitchen preparing food.

There are three things that I ultimately wanted out of the students stay
1. That the students were happy
2. That they got on well with the children and that the children were also happy
3. That the students liked me ... and my cooking.  Because let's face it, it's all about the grub.  

Apart from the logistics of converting a dining room into a bedroom and juggling work and childcare during the students' stay, the initial thoughts of feeding two teenage boys created a big anxiety in me.  It's been a while since I've cooked for anyone other than my children in my Hobbit House.  It's been even longer since I've cooked meat.  And it's been over 25 years since I've eaten it.  It was highly unlikely that my teenagers would be vegetable loving vegetarians and they aren't.  The more animal flesh they can get their teeth around the better.

Overall, my cooking has gone down well, so far.  There has been a few blips. I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt when my Spanish student politely said that he 'more or less' liked my homemade apple pie.  'More or less?'  No extra marks for my light touch with pastry?  It appeared not.  (But if I am REALLY honest with myself, it could have done with an extra sprinkle of sugar).  My Spanish omelette had a similar response.  I thought that it looked good enough to be photographed for a magazine.  I guess it was a case of presenting sand to the Arabs and expecting them to be impressed.

This is my third time having foreign students and I have established universal food formulas that seem to work for both vegetarians (the children and me) and sometimes fickle students.  It's simple really - Any combination of carbohydrates (pasta, breads, potato), garlic, cheese, tomato and mayonnaise.  If I was looking for an easy life, we could have dined on variations of this for the duration, but in the interest of balance, I threw in a few extra dishes.  Homemade pancakes, early morning, or late at night always go down a treat.  They are like a big group hug, without anyone having to make unnecessary bodily contact.

Last night I made a Chicken Caesar Salad, with roast leg of chicken, while the veggies in the house had pasta.  A neighbour's Spanish student arrived half way through dinner.  'Can I have some dinner please, I'm hungry', he said.  I was amused as I knew he had just finished dinner with my neighbour. I remembered by friend Maria laughing about her son's 'hollow legs', that could store endless amounts of food.  'We are vegetarian you know Andrieu', I said, taking small talk. 'I know, Borja told me already' he smiled.  Hmmm ... They talked about me. I wondered if the context for the conversation was that I was a rubbish cook because I AM veggie, or if I am an excellent cook, DESPITE being veggie.  I was afraid to ask.

The students devoured their dinner, clearing their plates, then asking for some of the children's pasta dish leftovers.  The veggie bolognese got a similar thumbs up.  I dished up pancakes and chocolate spread for dessert.  They couldn't come from the kitchen quick enough.

My Spanish student put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss.  'My Irish Mother'.

My Irish Mammy heart felt like it might burst.