Her Name Was Lola

There has been great excitement in our house since the arrivals of our new hens a month ago.  Elizabeth, Georgina, Bella, Dot, Lola and Egward the rooster.  Okay, it was probably a mistake, calling a hen 'Lola'.  But the six year old girl who selected it, was thinking more of a cartoon character than 'a showgirl with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there' *.   But in fairness, Lola was a good looking bird, with white feathers, finished off by an impressive black feathered tail.

My wee boy Leon often wakes in the morning and runs down to see if any of the hens have laid eggs. Being beginner hens, only one of the hens lays eggs daily, so Leon is often disappointed.  Last weekend, Leon ran down to the hen house, with myself, his sister Mya and the dog tagging along after him.  He opened the coop quickly, only to find Lola in the nesting box.  The dog lunged at the box, and before you know it Lola was doing the cha-cha across the garden.  It was like a Benny Hill chase on TV - a flapping hen, an hysterical little girl, a wee man roaring like a cave man, 'it's's not my fault, it's not my fault', and moi, in pj's and flip flops trying to capture Lola.

Note to self for chasing runaway hen

1. Lock the over excited dog in the house

2. Lock the hysterical children in the house

3. Do not wear flip flops

4. Consider your attire, should you intend crossing ditches, running through neighbours fields, jumping in nettles etc.  This is an important consideration for two reasons

(a) Your neighbours may not want to see a grown woman in a pair of Betty Boop pj's

(b) You may just flitter your legs on aforementioned nettles, brambles, etc

5. Have a look in the mirror, to check for panda eyes from last nights make up.  See (a) above

6. Have an action plan.  

7. Do not direct the hen into the most overgrown part of the garden (you know the part that you always crop out of photographs, when you are pretending you have a perfect garden/life on Facebook)

8. Learn from you experience.  When you give up on finding the hen in the undergrowth, only to spot her in the garden hours later, note 1-7 above (minus the pj's - you don't think I would wear them in the middle of the day, do you ?)

When Lola disappeared into the undergrowth for the second time, it wasn't looking good.  I felt that if she started out overnight, poor Lola would surely be killed by a fox or a dog, in a bloody scene similar to Rico and Tony on the Copacabana.  He consoled his sobbing sister saying, 'Mya, don't worry, is Lola is D-E-A-D, we can always buy another white hen and call her Lola.  Little sister was not beyond consoling.  

The children went to bed.  A wee girl very upset that Lola would 'be lonely'.  Wee man shouting out from his bed 'it wasn't my fault'.

The following morning, who landed home but the bold Lola ... In the dress she used to wear, faded feathers in her hair, sitting there so refined ...  Quickly and quietly Lola was caught and landed back into the coop.  Her tattered wings and my tattered limbs have just about recovered.  Not so sure about the neighbour though, after seeing the rare looking hen in the flip flops and Betty Boop pj's ...

* Copacabana (At the Copa) Barry Manilow 

Foreign Student in De House

For the last two summers, we have had a foreign student staying with us for a few weeks.  Last year, a 16y year old Spanish girl called Marina and this year, a 16 year old French student called Maelys.  They went to language classes in Athy college during the day.  I didn't quite know what to expect last year, but thought that it would be a good experience for my children - to see beyond their small, little world.

If you are thinking of having a student yourself, you might like to consider the following.

* Do not renovate/decorate your house just before the student arrives.

Last year I had some renovations done to the house, just before our student arrived, including the messy job of ripping down a ceiling.  With all that was going on, I didn't have time to repaint the bedroom, so I touched up the wall, with what I thought was the same coloured paint.  It wasn't.  It was car crash stuff ... and too late to change ... At least it was clean ... New shower doors were only fitted the day that our student arrived.

This year, having learned absolutely nothing from last years experience, I found myself on a step ladder, painting a bedroom ceiling, the night before our student arrived.  It really needed a second coat, but I was afraid that it would actually drip on a tired student on her night of arrival.

Having said that, use the opportunity to have a bit of a Spring clean.  I found that the house was never cleaner and the fridge was always full.  The grown ups tend to be nicer to each other too (even if it is through gritted teeth).


* It is essential to Spring clean the entire house, taking note of areas that will be of particular interest to 16 year old girls.  I started cleaning under my bed and in the attic.

I pretty much cleaned the whole house, except for the children's bedroom.  Having given it a good clean a fortnight previously, it now looked like we had a break in.  Of course, it was the first place that the children brought our student into.

* Throw caution to the wind.  Go mad.  Do stuff you wouldn't normally do.

Use the opportunity to rediscover what is on your doorstep.  Last year, I brought our Spanish student to the church and graveyard in Kingscourt where my grandparents are buried.  This may not sound like a riveting day out, but Marina was fascinated by all the vastness of it and I enjoyed it, and remembered how beautiful the church was.  There was actually a Polish mass going on when we called into the church, which was a new discovery for me too.

This year, myself and our French student ran a 5km race in Athy.  (See my previous blog post for details).    Initially Maelys had said that there was a 'marathon' in town that she would like to participate in.  If that was the case, I would have been on the sidelines.

Thankfully we have had glorious weather for both visits, which makes everything easier.  It reminds you what a pretty little country we have.

* Throw caution to the wind Part II.   Such as allowing chocolate spread in the house.  I bought it, as our French student liked it.  My kids couldn't believe their luck.  Breakfast, lunch and tea, they wanted the stuff.  At least they had it on pancakes (not quite French crepes, but hey!), which diluted the badness.  I had a romantic notion of collecting eggs from our new hens every morning for the pancakes, but only one hen  is laying so far.  Shop bought free range ain't too bad.

* As the previous point suggests, there was a lot of pancakes during our student's stay this year.  Having said this, I would suggest not feeding your student the same meal for 5 days in a row.  Given that there is a wood burning pizza oven in Poppy Cottage and the weather was rather fabulous, we invited friends over one evening and French students over another evening for pizza.  We also had a day trip to the beach in Wexford, where we ended up in a 'pizza or nothing' restaurant.

We were then invited to a friends house for dinner the following night.  Beef stroganoff was on the menu for meat eaters - and a bit of variety for out student, I thought.  But the way things worked out, our student was leaving early, going to a student get-together.  So our friends had prepared ... you guessed it .... pizza ...

Disclaimer * our French student told me that pizza was her favourite food, and cooked in a wood burning oven, they are mighty fine *

*  Expect your children to make an absolute show of you.

This year especially, my children were pure bould for two weeks.  I can blame the excitement, late nights, early mornings, the heat and most of all, their daily indulgence in chocolate spread.   I was starting to sound like a broken record, saying 'they aren't normally like this ... '.  Leon, having a thing for older, pretty girls, has been charmed by both exotic beauties that we have had to stay and is the small boy equivalent of a cave man, pounding his chest, ready to drag a gal by the hair into a cave.

The children were also manky dirty most of the time.  Late nights meant that I couldn't always face the battle to put on the pj's, so they often went to bed in their clothes, without as much as a lick of a face cloth, never mind a shower.  And I confess, maybe no teeth brushed ... When I arrived home from work the following evening, they were often still wearing the same clothes.

I looked at a rather distinctive pair of green socks that Leon was wearing on a Thursday and remembered that I had put them on him on Sunday, when we were going to Wexford.  Mya, having a wardrobe the size of Penney's children department only wants to wear two pairs of well worn shorts, that she can barely tie the button on.  I tried to explain to Maelys my son's attachment to his flittered, stinky school shoes that he wears, instead of his brand new runners.  I'm sure that I had a similar conversation with Marina last year.

* Try not to cry when your student leaves.  Especially not in front of all of the other students and parents.  If you do, (a) blame the student for starting it and (b) pretend that you have dust in your eye.  In either case, vacate the scene as soon as possible, avoiding eye contact with any of the locals to ensure minimal embarrassment to you student and yourself.

Overall, we have had a great experience with our  two lovely girls.  It's a few days now since Maelys has left and the house feels different.  We hope that we have developed life long friendships with the girls, whom I hope will visit us again and sure, you would never know, we may turn up on their doorsteps in Spain or France !

Right now though, I'm just glad that the chocolate spread is finally gone

Run Like a Girl

I don't 'do' running.  I never have.  Walking on the other hand ... 'LOVE'.  As described in previous blog posts, I walk every morning with my doggie Hudson.  Initially the walks were more about him getting a good start to the day, but now, it's more of a mutually beneficial thing, with a good dose of exercise for me.  I don't listen to music.  I just like taking in the daily changes in the hedgerow and taking in the countryside waking up.

I have thought about developing my walking into a run.  I didn't think that I would enjoy it. Mostly it's because I thought that I'd look and feel like a feckin' eejit.  I'm not a natural athlete and am built more like a Shetland pony than a race horse.  If truth were told, I'd like to look like Lola in 'Run Lola Run' when I pick up speed.  She looks so goddamn cool.  But is it her funky hair, or how fab she looks in those jeans that I really yearn for ?

In the recent viral video advertisement, 'Like a Girl', I seen how I imagined myself running - the flippy, flappy hapless girl, with arms and legs everywhere.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjJQBjWYDTs

I felt a bit guilty.  I had pigeon holed myself into a self image that I didn't want my little girl to have.  Although she has a physique like me, she is a strong runner.  Lately she told me that she was a 'tom boy' (also noting that her mammy is a girlie girl).  I was kind of horrified.  I asked her could she not just be 'a girl' ?  I didn't feel so bad when Leon, her twin brother, decided that he was a tomboy too.

Between myself and yourself, there is a little bit more to me and the running malarky.   This is going to sound ridiculous, but since I was diagnosed with MS 4 years ago, I'm a bit protective of my wee brain.  I'm afraid of causing damage and maybe creating more lesions.  See, I told you, ridiculous.  There is no neurological evidence of danger (no more than your average person anyway), but I tend to avoid things like bouncy castles and swinging the kids around.  Running was on the no-no list too.

It came as a bit of a shock to me therefore, that I accidentally ended up running a 5km Pop Up Race, along the banks of the River Barrow in Athy this week.  It was the fault of the French student, Maelys, who is staying with us for two weeks.  She wanted to do the run, so I said that myself  and the children would go along and maybe walk the route.  It was a very professional set up.  All runners were registered and got a chipped number badge that would record your time.  I was reluctant to take one, as I felt that the kids wouldn't last the 5km in the heat.

Anyway, I registered.  Then we met friends, who were watching their mam run.  The daddy offered to mind the kids, so I could do the run by myself.  Flip.  Panic set in.  I had no excuse.  Looking around at all of the runners with their athletic legs wearing their go faster sports gear.  Some of them had just completed a swim in the Barrow.  I could never compete with these guys !!

I was still wearing my work clothes, but at least I had a decent pair of runners. Feck it.  What did I have to loose ...  I thought to myself that I would walk the route, but before you know it, there I was, with one leg moving in front of the other, kinda fast.  I was RUNNING !  I paced myself and walked for a while when I needed to catch my breathe.

I was sorry that I didn't have a bottle of water.  I was raging that I was wearing THAT bra.  The facing on the collar of my dress kept flapping up on my neck and driving me crazy.  I didn't realise that I had my sunglasses on my head at the start of the race, but by the end of it, they felt heavy - I felt like firing them in the river.  At least I had removed my ceramic/wire/ribbon necklace, or myself or the other competitors could have lost an eye.

Despite all of that - I  REALLY enjoyed it.  It was a different feeling that walking.  The adrenaline was pumping and it felt good.   I instantly felt like running some more.  I can't believe I'm saying this myself ... An outsider looking in (me until my initiation this week) would have thought that it was an exclusive club, but there was a great sense of us 'all being in this thing together'.  There was no judgement about ability or speed.  Of course, many very fit people were there to better their personal bests, or to fit in with their exercise regime.  But there was room for us all.  I did the 5km in 39:55.  Not bad, all things considering !

I decided I would give running a go the next morning, with my mutt.  But only on parts of the road where I wasn't passing people's houses.  I had an ear out for oncoming cars too.  You would think that I would have learned from my lack of preparation with the running wardrobe the previous night, but no.  I was wearing my much loved boyfriend jeans.  Great with a pair of navy patent heels, but a disaster when you pick up speed and they slouch off your hips.

This weekend, I'm going to buy some go-faster running gear.  And hopefully I will run like a different kinda girl.

Happy work anniversary to me, Happy ....

It was my14th work anniversary yesterday.  14 YEARS !  How exactly did that happen ?  I initially had a 6 month contract, that got extended and extended and before you know it ...  My job is an arts officer in a local authority.

Before that, I was teaching art in Dublin, mostly around the North inner city, but really anywhere that would have me.  I had 7 part time teaching jobs before I left Dublin.  I didn't drive at the time, so it was a constant back-and-forth to my house to collect art materials and Art History notes.  

I loved teaching.  Loved working with children and young people.  Loved helping kids to tap into their creative selves.  Knowing that you made a difference.  I wasn't so fond of school staff rooms.  As a part-time teacher, you never quite fitted it. As an art teacher, or artist in residence, you definitely didn't fit in.  I worked for a number of years in a convent secondary school in the North Inner City.  Many years before I worked there, there was a waiting list to get into the school, with three generations of girls attending the school.  As suburbs grew in Blanchardstown and Clonsilla, girls continued to commute into the school until, eventually, schools were built in those areas.  By the time I was working there, the population of young people in the North Inner City was declining and the school could no longer be as selective with their choice of students.  It was the early years of multi-cultural Ireland.  I had a number of students who came to my classes with no English whatsoever.  It was great to see them flourish in this artistic language and in time, develop their English language too.

There were many lovely teachers there, but I didn't like the way that some teachers spoke about, or to the students.  I felt that some of the girls deserved a medal for getting themselves to school in the first place, given their chaotic home circumstances.

One teacher in particular did my head in.  One day, she was complaining that teachers were restricted on when they went on foreign holidays - Easter, summer, Christmas, making it very expensive on them.  I was sitting there on my 7 hours and 20 minutes a week contract listening to this.  I didn't get paid for Bank Holidays or attending Parent Teacher meetings.  I couldn't afford to get sick.  That particular teacher put me off joining unions for life.

Moving to a local authority was a big change.  I was totally unfamiliar with Kildare.  I also had little exposure to the art forms I was now working with.  There were also lots of a rare breed that you don't find much of in teaching - men - Engineers and architects and people that spoke in technical foreign tongues.  The language of strategy, policy, integration and social inclusion was foreign to me too.  Looking back, 26 year old me wasn't that confident either.

I have a horrible memory of the first exhibition that I spoke at, soon after I started my job.  A local TD and his Cllr wife were there.  Thankfully they left before I started to speak.  I had a great speech in my head, but it came out like a liquidised dictionary.  A verbal car crash.  I was morto.  I hope that no one that was there remembers it.  Ever since that I always write out my speech, usually word for word.  It's more of a comfort blanket at this stage, but I'm taking no chances.

In the 14 years, I have become more comfortable in my skin.  I know most of the bi-roads of the county (although I still have trouble in West Kildare - many a time, I have seen signs saying 'Welcome to Co Offaly').

I didn't have an email address when I started my new job.  Doesn't that sound crazy ? It was ONLY 14 years ago.  I remember standing over a Fax machine in the office, sending an important advertisement around the country.  We still have a Fax machine in the office, but I don't know where it is, or if it is turned on.   I'm going to have to look at my use of emails though.  Being able to access work emails 24/7 is not a good thing.  You (I) feel pressure to constantly check in and with that, an inability to switch off.

I've been around now long enough to see that work stuff comes in cycles.  We came to terms with social inclusion and multi-culturalism.  We built arts centres and commissioned Public Art.  The need to include new technologies in the arts programme had to be considered.  There was a year of major pressure, to address Child Protection, insurances and Garda Vetting for Artists.  It is expected that we will work on inter agency projects, pooling resources - The theory of this is great, but in practice, it can be tricky if the other partner doesn't want to play ball.  Being a glass half full kinda gal, I try to embrace these changes, to see them as new possibilities.  And if the worst comes to the worst, I know that 'this too will pass'.

I was at a retirement do this week, for a colleague, Pat who retired after 43 years in public service. Although, this was a happy event, when Pat spoke about his memories, I was thinking of his knowledge and experience that he was taking with his as he left, like many more before him.

Since 2009 hundreds of people have lost their jobs in the public service.  In the media, these lots of jobs have been presented only as a huge saving to the public purse.  How come when staff loose their jobs in the private sector, it's a tragedy, but in public service, it is presented as a cause for celebration ?  No one seemed to connect that many of these public service people went straight on the dole queue.  That loss of knowledge and expertise, literally walking out the door.  The media coverage of the hand over of water services to Irish Water is hard to listen to.  The valuable services that local authority Water Services staff have provided (and continue to provide) for many years has been disregarded.   You would swear that every public servant is either chewing on a pencil in an office all day, or leaning against a shovel somewhere.

Recent media coverage of the arts in Ireland hasn't done us much favours either.  The nightly coverage of the early days of the Limerick City of Culture on the media in early 2014 was a sorry mess.  There were no winners.  Thankfully, the City of Culture seems to have gathered itself and the events that I have attended have been super.  The main losers for me, was the arts sector generally.   The media, and individuals on social media talk about a lack of coordination and commitment to the arts in Ireland.  Newspaper articles tend to be poorly researched and generalised.  But I look at myself and my colleagues around the country, busting our tail ends to develop meaningful arts experiences, to develop strategic links and long term partnerships.  There is so much wonderful arts practice out there, that was kick started or nurtured by arts administrators countrywide.  If we are guilty of anything, I would say that it lack of promotion for our work. But the nature of our work, means that the media might not always be interested in it.

Over the last few years, I've received CV's from artists who were born when I was in college.  And yet I still feel like a young un, except with lots more confidence.  We are now in the era of procurement, amalgamations of Town Councils and creative economies.  The changing nature of my work is challenging and demanding, but also exciting.  I had a meeting the other day that hopefully will lead to artists in all art forms becoming involved in development of computer games.  I wonder what's next ?  

Twinnies

'I can see two', the nurse said as she did an ultrasound scan on my 7 week pregnant tummy.  'Two what ? I said. Legs ? Arms ? Eyes ?'.  'No', she smiled and said 'heartbeats'.  It was official, I was expecting twins.  For the next 6 weeks or so, I was afraid to cough or sneeze, but then gradually grew confident about my growing bump.

I looked forward to further ultra sound scans.  A glimpse of a face, a little hand and even the moving blobs.  My obstetrician began to record their positions on my medical notes, with little doodles.  I loved the way that each scan shows how my twinnies had wrestled around inside me, intertwining and moving off again.  Bum to bum, then head-bum, head-bum, head-head.

It reassured me that they would be good friends when they arrived.  In my pregnant fuzziness, I had notions of them sleeping together until they were 5, or maybe 10 years of age.  So, before they were born, I bought them a large cot to share.  In reality, the large cot quickly became too small and I up/down sized to two smaller individual cots.  

I’m not keen of single-sex schools anyway, but I was determined that they would go to school together and be in the same class.  Not that I thought that they would be glued at the hip while at school.  It’s just what I wanted, their shared experiences, linked to my romantic, warm, fuzzy feeling about what it means to be a twin.  I knew that they had different learning styles and have resisted comparing theie work in school (which is easier said than done).

My aunt Ann, who lived just down the road from us, had twin boys thirty-something years ago, Damien and David.  I remember the excitement the night they were born.  Ann’s four other children were in our house and we were watching Hithcock's ‘Dial M for Murder’.  (Given that our average age at the time was about 8 years, this was an odd choice perhaps ?).  As far as I remember, we enjoyed the film anyway and didn't suffer any long term trauma.  My main memory of Damien and David as children was seeing the pair of them, with divilish heads on them, charging towards me on toy tractors, with loaders, aiming for my ankles. It is only now that I am writing this that I am wondering about their careers paths as bus operators … All I'd say is - if you see them driving a bus AT you, get out of the way. Fast.  It was lovely to see how close the boys were as children and are now as adults.  I must confess that I still get mixed up on who’s who.  But I’m not the only one – It has been the topic of conversation at many-a-wedding !

Having girl/boy twins means it is unlikely to mistake who is who.  Having a blue eyed/blonde boy and brown haired/browned eyed girl made it easier too.  Having said that, when my babies were younger, I did get asked if they were identical.  I bit my lip and resisted saying that 'he has a willy and she doesn’t’.  Leon is a head above Mya now, so it's not obvious that they are twins.  Yet people still remark how close they are.  

They pretty much do everything together, or at least, alongside each other.  They even got the measles within hours of each other.  Although they are interested in very different things, they often play side by side.  They have separate bedrooms, but they choose to sleep in bunk beds in the same room.  (This is common in twins - I've heard that my grown up twin cousins Damien and David still share bunk beds).

In the last year, two big things have happened. 

1. Sometimes only one of them gets an invitation to a party, usually because it's a 'boys only' or 'girls only' party.  And that's fair enough.  That's life.  It's just hard to explain that to a little one.  The nice thing about that it that it gives you a couple of hours with one twinnie on their own, to do something special.  I've started to look forward to those rare times and they seem to enjoy having you all to themselves.

2.  The competitive streak has really kicked in.  Everything and anything is analysed - Who can eat the most pasta in one sitting.  Who is the best gardener.  Who can tie their shoe laces better.  Who can pee standing up (guess who won that one).  I don't care about them winning things,  but it was a relief this year when they both won medals at the school sports day.

Recently they began on a mission to learn to cycle their bikes without stablilisers.  It wasn't going too well.  Mya was frustrated because her little Shetland pony legs couldn't reach the pedals on the bike that Santa brought her.  Leon wasn't too bothered eitherway.  I was tired of running along behind them, holding the saddle.  Mya abandoned the big bike and went back to the pint sized one she has had since she was three.  Fair play to her, she was cycling all by herself within hours.  Proud as punch she was.  Her brother was not impressed.  In fact he was raging.  'How come SHE can cycle and I can't ?!'.  The competitive streak kicked in and soon after that, there he was cycling his big bike. All. By. Himself.  Then he started boasting to his sister 'You can only cycle the BABY bike.  I can cycle my BIG bike'.  Mya didn't give a monkeys, because she mastered the art first, and there was no taking that from her.    

To add insult to injury, on the very same day, Mya's first tooth started to wobble.  Straight away, Leon started to yank at his mouth.  All twinnies teeth have remained in place for now, but I can imagine the competition when the Tooth Fairy actually lands.   I think that Mya is going to win that race ... 

With learning to cycle their bikes, came the inevitable.  A day or so later, Mya crash landed off her bike and cut the arm off herself.  There was lots of blood. And lots of screams.  And floods of tears.  I carried her into the house for a cuddle and to survey the injuries.  What was really lovely to see was the way that Leon spoke to his sister.  He usually shouts and roars, but he spoke softly to her, reassuring her.  He stroked her hair.  He asked her if she wanted to sit on his knee.  He went to his wallet and gave her a e2 coin (this is from the boy who does not like parting with money).   The last time I remember him adopting this role was on their first day at school, when my wee girl was very upset.  

Eventually Mya's tears stopped.  Leon asked for his e2 coin back.  He said that 'it was only for a lend'. 

One of Dem Days

It was one of those days where I had a plan.  Mutts walked bright and early and grocery shopping done before work - I was feeling smug.  The plan was to be in my secret office in Athy at 9am (if I told you where it was, I'd have to kill you).  I would work until 11.50am and get the train to Dublin for a Very Important Meeting this afternoon.  I would do a spot of catch up reading on the train.  Sorted.

When I got to the secret office before 9am, I realised that the locks had been changed.  On a Tuesday, other staff are on a late shift.  I couldn't catch anyone on the phone.  I waited, hoping that someone would come in early.  In the meantime, I had a look around the Athy Market, which takes place every Tuesday.  It is the strangest thing.  An excellent people watching opportunity.  There was  fair amount of bling for 9.30am on a Tuesday.  I was thinking that we should have shot some of our film 'All About Eva' there.  It would have had NO relevance whatsoever to the storyline, but would have looked fantastic.

I eventually got into the office after 10am, with a sense of determination.  But someone had been using my PC and had locked the password.  A call to the IT Dept and another half hour gone, I set down to work.

It was soon time for the train.  I sat across from a guy in his early twenties, who had a baby carrier beside him, with an infant boy.  'How lovely ... father and son !', I thought.  Twentysomething made a phone call to Damo.  It didn't take long for Twentysomething  to tell Damo that he was going up to the flats to 'reef the fucking head off Anto'.  It seems that Anto went up to Danielle's Nanny's flat and tried to 'wreck the gaff'.  Poor Danielle's Nanny is 75 and dying of cancer and Twentysomething had to come back from his holidays in Tramore because of that.  He is going to 'shoot the fucker' and knows that Anto won't attack him back, because 'Anto has no bleedin' weapons, the gee bag muppet'.  Similar conversations took place over the next hour, while Twentysomething fed his baby a bottle, still in his baby carrier.  None of the other train passengers knew where to look.  Twentysomething offered to give Damo some 'yokes' when he seen him.  He is obviously a generous lad at heart because he offered me his Star newspaper as he headed off the train, with his beautiful baby boy.  I felt like asking him if I could have some of his yokes instead.

The Luas was pretty uneventful.  When I got to Trinity College, there was a sense of mayhem.  The street, already full with tourists and roadworks, had three fire engines and crowds of lookers-on.  I looked up, where everyone else was looking.  It looked like a young boy, but it was a man, on the roof of a building, six floors high.  It appears he was going to jump.  There was a sense of anticipation.  The scene was reminiscent of people watching the tightrope on Colum Mc Cann's 'Let The Great World Spin'.  Apparently the guy has been topless earlier in the day, but had a hoodie on him when I seen him.  I thought it would be ironic if it was an Abercrombie and Fitch top, as he was on their rooftop.

.http://colummccann.com/books/let-the-great-world-spin/

I pushed through the crowds and around the hoards of Spanish students.  I edged softly by an older man.  Without warning, he swung his arm out and punched me in the stomach.  Not a bad effort for an auld lad.  He didn't exactly hurt me, but an impressive attempt all the same.

If was a relief to be behind the confines of an office building for my Very Important Meeting.  It was one of those multi-partner meetings where all parties were given plenty of time to speak' meetings, that went around the houses and back again, but went nowhere.  The thing we really needed to discuss wasn't discussed and the meeting was drawn to a close.  I smiled politely and we all agreed that it was a good meeting.  Back in two weeks for more of the same.

I couldn't wait to get out of the heat of the city.  Everyone had eaten tea before I got home, so it was a quickie frozen pizza for me.  With salad, to make it all healthy.  Then the kids came in with their friends and pretty much scoffed the lot on me.  I got one miserable slice.  Too tired to make anything else, I decided to have a scone with jam instead.  'Oooohhh, jam !', said Mya.  'Can I have that ?'.  'Go on', sez I.  I got another one.  'Oooohhh, jam !', said Leon.  'Can I have that ?'.  'Go on', sez I.

Friends called around.  Realising that we had no tea bags, I opened a bottle of Cava, a pressie from my 40th (can't believe I am still milking the birthday gifts all these months later).  Twas lovely.  But I was a little tiddley (I didn't have much to eat remember !).

The kids are thrilled with themselves with their new found cyling skills sans stabilisers.  They pleaded with me to go for a cycle.  My bike is punctured, so I went for the big boy bike.  Not used to the bike, and slightly tipsy, I pulled the front brake and bashed my unmentionables against the bike frame.  Ow, ow, ow ... OW !  Won't be doing that again ...

I' ll try to get out of the bed the other side tomorrow.

News reports this evening say that Abercrombie and Fitch roof guy got down safely.