A Papal Baby

Those of you who are old enough to remember the 70's, will probably remember where you were when Pope John Paul II came to Ireland.  I can clearly remember 5 year old me sitting on the bottom step of the stairs in my parents house, crying my eyes out.  I wasn't overcome with emotion at the presence of the Pope in Ireland.  Rather, I was gutted that I had a new baby brother and not the baby sister that I longed for.  I already had two brothers.  Enough for any girl.

Eoin Paul Russell was born on 29th September 1979, around the time that JP was making an appearance in Drogheda.  His birth was even mentioned in the newspapers.  After giving birth, my mother queued up for a pay phone to call her mother.  As her money was running out, my mother had to interrupt my Nana talking about JP to quickly tell her that she has a new grandson.

Meanwhile, I spent a few very boring days, going from house to house with relations with nothing but wall-to-wall television coverage of the Papal visit.  JP Mania had well and truly gripped Ireland.  It wasn't all praying though - I have it on good authority that at least one indecent incident between one young couple happened under a currach in Galway, while en route to see the man himself.

As a result of the mania, the country is now flush with fellas in their mid thirties, imaginatively called Eoin/Owen/Eoghan, Eoin Paul, John Paul, JP. I met a neighbour recently, called John Paul.  I asked him if he was born the year that the Pope came to Ireland.  He said 'no, I was born the year that he was shot', which I remembered with a much greater sense of wonder.

That, and JR getting shot in Dallas.

Being five years older than Eoin, I took on much of his child care.  He was a lovely baby.  I changed his nappy.  I fed him.

I was there when he took his first steps in the garden under the swing.  Proud as punch I was. And who knows, without me, he might only still be crawling ?

When he went to school, I was often landed with the job of helping him with his spellings and tables.  A mammoth task as he spent most of his time gazing out the window/at the ceiling/anywhere but at the page.  It was TORTURE.  I get flashbacks to this now, reading through homework with my easily distracted son who reminds me of Eoin as a child.

I got my own back on Eoin though, using him as my fashion guinea pig, allowing me to dress him up in ensembles of my own making.

Although I say 'allowed me', I don't think that I gave him any choice in the matter.  He seemed happy enough to pose for photos though, so I'm not expecting him to sue me for sibling abuse at this late stage.

It is strange though, that Eoin let me dress him up and yet fought with my mother about wearing new clothes.  You almost had to drive over them with a mucky tractor before he would consider trying them on.  And funnily enough, my boy has similar tendencies now.  Those flipping genes again.

He scared the life out of us when he peddled his toy tractor straight onto the road outside my parents house when he was aged about three.  He was hit by a car.  I can still hear my mother's screams. Thankfully his toy tractor took the worst of the impact and after a few days monitoring in hospital, he was fine.

Growing up on a farm doesn't mean that you are naturally drawn to animals, but Eoin was.

He spent much of his childhood cuddling and tending to sick and terminally ill animals, no shite-covered cow too smelly, no puss-filled abscess too gruesome.

He was also the designated injection giver and the put-your-hand-up-a-cows-bum guy, while the rest of us would run a mile.  Growing into a giant of a man, he could carry small animals, when others might have needed a trailer.  

Getting away from farming life, Eoin studied in Dublin and stayed in a flat beneath mine on the North Circular Road.  Finding it hard to cut the motherly ties, I made him dinners, for fear that he might fade away.  Little chance of that as he ate like a horse.  My cooking was boot camp style though.  I didn't tolerate the 'won't eat onions/vegetables/will only eat chicken nuggets every day for a week' demands that my mother did.

If there was angry words, it was when I went to my fridge, looking for my lunch, running out the door for a hectic days teaching to find that Eoin had got there first and the cupboard was bare.  No wonder we called him 'Eoin of the Seven Dinners'.  And no wonder that he grew to a six foot plus lad and I remained a short ass.

Despite the clear-your-fridge-without-asking-you tendencies, Eoin was and is a thoughtful and generous kind of guy.  I remember one Christmas Eve when he landed home on the bus from Dublin with gifts, plus a new toilet seat and a huge lump of frozen ham for my Mam.

Fast forward to today, the eve of Eoin's 35th birthday.  To this day, I can see how I have influenced him.

He still eats onions.

He still remembers how to spell and count.

He has a dapper sense of style - influenced no doubt by all that dressing up in scarves and braces.


I never got my longed for baby sister, but each of my brothers landed themselves with lovely wives and partners, so I kind of got my sisters in the end, without all the bickering over toys and clothes.

Eoin is now the father of 4 very cool children with a lovely partner.  All grown up.  But he will always be my baby bro.

Happy birthday kid x

Loosing My Religion

This post first appeared on the MS Society blog site 'MS and Me' on Wednesday September 17 2014 

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

We have all had those conversations with ourselves - 'what would my last thoughts be if I was on a sinking ship?’  As a non-believer, I've wondered if I would I hedge my bets and start to pray to a (wo)man above. The closest I've come to that sinking ship 'moment' was in the days and weeks around my unexpected diagnosis with MS. In those long days, I was overwhelmed with good wishes, cards and gifts from family and friends. I was given religious relics, mass cards and messages saying that I was in people's prayers. I appreciated each and everyone of these gestures, but I confess, it did nothing to draw me back to the teachings of my Roman Catholic upbringing. Rather, it reinforced my lack of faith. Would I say that I am a full blown atheist? Probably. This can be tricky living in Christian Ireland, when education, births, deaths, marriages and everything in between is immersed in religious ceremony. But I am happy enough to go along with these and actively participate at times. Am I a hypocrite? Probably. 

I met someone soon after my diagnosis who asked me, 'Have you thought, why me?' My initial response to her question was to imagine myself on a Eurovision stage, having a Linda Martin moment, belting out her tune 'Why Me?’. My second thought was 'Why NOT me?’ I certainly didn't ask the God that I don't believe in, 'how could this happen to me?’ It's just the deck of cards that I've been dealt and I may get on with it.  However, I know that family and friends continue to pray for me and I genuinely appreciate that. I feel if they can get comfort from their own prayers, or if their faith helps them come to terms with my diagnosis, that's good for me.

So, am I ‘faithless’? I don't think so. I have faith in my medical team in Beaumont Hospital. In a way, I feel that I have almost transferred a traditional religious belief onto them, willing them to make the best decisions around my care. In a wider context of medical research, I have faith in new developments in medical treatments and ultimately a cure for MS being found in my life time. Perhaps this is unrealistic, but that thought helps me stay optimistic about the future. 

If you are religiously inclined, there is no point in praying to God to win the Lotto, unless you buy a ticket. In the same way, I have not passively handed myself over to a medical team to do all of the work. I'm working damn hard to be well, trying to strike that balance between meds, exercise, lifestyle and general well being. I try to practice mindfulness as much as I can, to appreciate the moment, to see beauty, to embrace life with both hands. I continue to be touched by gestures of human kindness. And so, I'll keep the faith.

The Day We Caught the Train

If you have read my previous blogs, you may have picked up that I am a tad hyper and find it hard to justify just doing nothing.  Even my hobbies, such as gardening and walking have purpose.  I blame, I mean 'attribute', this to my upbringing on a North Meath farm where there was always something to be done.  And if there wasn't something to be done, you looked busy anyway.  

  

I remember one teenage afternoon, standing in a gap in a field in Aghamore, where my only duty was to stop the brainless sheep running through.  From out of nowhere, my father appeared across a hill in a mucky car,  like the A Team van (minus the de-de-de-dee, de-de-de theme tune) beeping the horn and banging his hand on the roof, a Major cigarette in hand.  

He roared at me and said 'would ya look lively, would ya?'.  So even then, standing in a gap, I was supposed to look busy. I wondered if I should have knitted a pair of socks, or maybe peeled a few apples for tarts, to maximise my time while gap guarding

You can see how my problems started, can't you ? 

One of the few places that I feel I can really relax is on a train.  Trapped in the confines of a metal carriage, your choice of activities are limited.  I find the constant, gentle rocking motion of the train soothing. A slave to my iPhone, I could spend the entire journey online, but I don't.  I prefer to people watch.  To ear wig.  To observe habits and rituals.  Having chats with random strangers.  Passing judgement on people that you don't even know, a live Jeremy Kyle show before your eyes.  A pretty young mum sucking the life out of a cigarette before you hauls a buggy on the train. 'Do you not know he risks ?' I say silently.

German tourists, confused by the Irish accent in the announcements on the intercom.

Three nuns, their necklaces, the only identifier of who they were.  But looking at their plain clothing and modest clothing, I would have guessed anyway.  Their quietly spoken words and way of being.

I sat beside a bubbly young woman yesterday on an early morning train.  She was eating crisps and working eagerly on a college project, her hand writing suggesting her young years.  An 'Event Management' student, she said.  My ears pricked up.  'Oh, I'm involved with Culture Night.  We had 56 events in Kildare last week'.  I was met with a blank face.  She never heard of it.  'Is that a new initiative ?'  'Kind of', sez I, 'it's been around for 8 years or so'.

A frail looking older man, accompanied by his daughter.  He looked anxious, but nodded and smiled as his daughter talked him, through what would happen when he met his consultant. I imagined the contents of  his hold all.  Newly purchased pyjamas, a wash bag full of toiletries that he wouldn't use at home.  She touched his hand. 

Immaculately presented staff politely offering 'tea or coffee madam ?'

Two women, around my age.  Talking about their friend.  'Too thin'...  'Yeah, too thin'.  'It's surprising really ... you know ... given all the wine and chocolate that she eats ...''. 'Yeah ...'.  'Is she still smoking?' 'No, she gave up when she found out that she was pregnant'. 'Oh, right.  I could have sworn that I seen her smoking lately.  It must just be the odd one now and then'.  'Yeah, it must be'.

The surfer dude with low slung jeans, showing off his cheap boxer shorts, listening to too-loud music on his iPod.  Does he not worry about his hearing ? 

Regular commuters with serious faces, furiously working on laptops, getting an hour in before they get to the office - giving them a chance to get home early tonight to put the kids to bed.  Women in tailored suits with ugly runners, ready to rush onto the Luas, before changing into heels as they arrive at their workplace.

Checking out the style.  A fabulous stitched leather handbag.  A great pair of boots for walking around the city.  The perfect 'day to evening outfit', clever I thought.  Gleaning ideas for my future outfit combinations.

A couple in their 70's.  They looked like they were 'comfortable' financially. They (the wife probably) had gone to great efforts with a picnic. A flask (a heavy yoke to be carrying around Dublin all day, I thought), a knife to peel fruit, an impressive sandwich collection.  The woman served the hubby refreshments, who was reading the Indo.  She fixed his collar, told him that he 'missed a bit' shaving. Country folk on a day out.  They reminded me of my own parents.  I felt a pang and wanted to be at home in Meath and have tea in the kitchen there and then.

We are almost in Heuston.  The usual scramble to gather bags and put on coats, forming a queue, saving thirty seconds in travel time.  And we arrive.  And with that, the promise of a brand new people watching experience.  To do a Maeve Binchy on it - to listen in incognito, observe and gather ideas for stories

Electric Picnic : A mature reflection

Having a one day 'only' ticket to Electric Picnic is a bit like bringing children to Smyth's Toy Store and telling them that they have one minute only to pick a toy.  Not that I am looking a gift horse in the mouth. I was rather pleased to acquire a ticket via a draw for Stradbally residents, who can enter a draw for a Day Pass, in exchange for a charitable donation.  (My Mammy in Law lives in Stradbally and at 92 years young, decided to give the Picnic a miss this year).

I would have preferred to go to EP on Sunday as the line up was more my cup of tea, but my sensible self said that Saturday would be a better option, with work 'n' school 'n' all on Monday.

The night before I went to Electric Picnic last year, I got stung on the arm by a bee.  By the following morning, I had a bicep like Popeye.  'You may go to a Doctor with that', the chemist said, with a concerned look on her face.  'Nooooooo !!!', sez I.  'I have to go to Electric Picnic', with a look of a child who couldn't pick out a toy in Smyth's in a minute.

I weighed it up and reckoned that there would be more emergency services in EP than in Poppy Cottage, and took my chances.  Unfortunately, my Popeye bicep was painful and heavy, so after my fix of Ocean Colour Scene, I spent most of the day in the comedy tent.  Dosed with anti histamines, there was very little gargle.  So, this year, I was determined to cram as much in to my Day Pass as possible.

It seemed that the odds were against me going on a bender again this year, when I fell while running and banjaxed my knee badly a week before EP.  I recovered well enough and off I went.

Two delicious not-an-offspring-in-sight pints in Stradbally. a chat with random strangers (who happened to know someone who knew someone I knew and turns out that we are all going to a mutual friend Siobhan's wedding in October.  'OMG, small world'.  Donchta just love Ireland ?) and the last pee of the day in a decent loo and we were all set to venture inside.

Despite all of the write up about 'what-to-see' in the run up to EP, I had no plan in my head about what I wanted to see, except that I wanted to start off in the Literary Tent.  Start the day with a healthy dose of culture.  Song by Iarla O'Lionaird with poetry by Paul Muldoon and Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill was a sensory feast, with Gaeilge, humour and intensity.  I came away from it wanting to be a Gaelgoir and a poet.  Thankfully, I also managed to escape without someone asking me for a grant (artists can really pick their moments).

Having no list of where I wanted to go/act I wanted to see, I relied on random strangers recommendations.  I found myself in a tent which was 'best of Irish' kind of a thing.  There was a bright young singer, with a Florence and the Machine vibe going on.  Rubenesque red hair and a gold lurex mini skirt, overlaid with a floor length black gauze skirt.  Giving it socks, she was.  I wished that I had her confidence when I was 21.

Soon after, Cathy Davey was belting out the tunes.  She looked so goddamn cool in jeans and a t-shirt.  I wanted my bum to look like hers in jeans.  I had total blonde hair envy.  The last time that I was this envious, it was Wendy James from Transvision Vamp.  An uber cool chick that can sing and play the guitar.  I decided there and then that it wasn't too late for me to learn to play the guitar.  My little girl wants to anyway. It could be a Mamma and daughter thing.    

Being vegetarian, I tend to get excited at the possibility of getting decent veggie food.  I was practically drooling at the promise of the veggie burger on the stall's menu, but it tasted of pearl barley and nothing else.  In need of soakage, I ate it all the same.  Similarly later on, a tantalisingly described wrap was filled with rice and very little else.

My favourite part of EP is people watching.  Boy, things have changed since the skuzzy Witnness festival.  Then people seemed to wear the same clothes all weekend.  The girls might have brought a change of undies, maybe even baby wipes, but the fellas - highly unlikely.

If I could describe the dress code in EP this year it would be 'groomed'.  The fellas really pulled the stops out.  Many of the hipsters were better coiffed than the women.  Clipped beards, tailored jeans, brogues, pocket watches. The office types on their weekend off wore combat shorts and hiking boots.



Although on Day 2 of a largely outdoor festival, the girls have fabulous hair.  Fish tail plaits and straightened tresses, with garlands of flowers.  Lean legs in shorts, flowing silk tops.

Within this again, there was another subsection of dress.

(a) The 100% totally over the top look, such as the party of guys in pink tuxedos (of the not very well tailored variety, in nylon that probably gave them friction burns).

(b) The trying- to- give- the- impression- that- you- didn't- try- too- hard ensembles, even though you had been planning your outfit for weeks.

(c) The let's- be- comfortable- and- remember-that- it- might -rain ensembles

I fell somewhere between (b) and (c), going for boots, jeans, a tres sparkly top and a (fake) sheepskin gilet, topped off with sparkly hair thingy.  It appears that my efforts paid off.  I was chatting to two (more) random stranger young ones.  They asked me what age I was.  'Eh, forty', sez I, 'why?'  'You look, like ... so ... glamorous'.  (I knew that they actually wanted to finish with '... for your age ...', but thankfully they stopped short).  That's the kind of thing that I say about Blondie and Helen Mirren.

I'd like to say that I listened to lots of bands, heard every word of my favourite tunes, but truth is, I MAY have drank a little too much.  Okay, a fair bit too much.  I know that I'm admitting this on the WWW, but I'm usually spouting on about clean living, so get over it !  I missed most of the bands that I really wanted to see, or caught the end of them, mis-timing the long walk between stages and allowing time to pee.  The Body and Soul area, with its' natural amphitheatre was a great hang out spot that it particularly good for people watching and stuff going on.

I spent most of my time in the Heineken 'Brooklyn Block Party' zone.  With a DJ, graffitied walls, basketball court, table tennis and large quantities of beer, I felt like I was in the 'hood in the US of A.
It was SO cool !  I felt energised and care free.  I thought about emigrating to the States, there and then.  I (kinda) snogged my girlie friend Siobhan (remember her from earlier - the one that's getting married ?).  The snog wasn't saucy enough to be an internet sensation, or for me to get hate mail, but it was enough to get a stir down in the pub in Athy.

Surrounded by options to hear so much fantastic live music by bands I will never see again, I confess, I mostly danced with the DJ and anyone who would have me, to 'Stolen Dance' by Milky Chance and the like.


I'm sorry Paulo Nutini.  I love you and you were great, but it was all a bit hazy. You too Debbie Harry, oh glamorous one.  I'll catch yiz next time

ALL IRELAND SUNDAY

All-Ireland Sunday and I'm back in childhood football Sundays in Nana Bellew's in Paughanstown.

My dad and uncles banished to a car, radio blaring, their running commentary giving Micheal O'Muircheartaigh a run for his money. 'C'mon Down','Up Down', 'C'mon Meath', 'C'mon the wee county !' 'Ah Ref ! Ref, where's your glasses ?'  The Bomber Liston, Nudie Hughes, Barney Rock - Giants of men,

Nana's raspberry jam filled rock buns, crunchy on the outside, coated with sugar crystals.  The allysum rockery.

Mam and the aunties roaring with laughter in the kitchen.  Talking over each other, one joke worse than the last.  'Cackling like hens', my Dad said.

Collecting fir cones, Iced Caramels, signing your name on Yucca leaves, nudie girls on the Sunday World, St Martin's magazine.

Darkie and Dino hiding under beds to stay out of children's paths, collecting blackcurrants and exchanging stamp collections, fresh floury curranty bread with butter.

Chubby fingers and skint knees, trees laden with cooking apples. Walking to Tenanty's shop. Wham bars crackling in your mouth

The Bellew boys playing music in the old house, rock stars to a 9 year old. When 'exotic' meant a visit from the Newry cousins.

Auntie Aine's red leather boxed record player. The good parlour.  Brass ornaments.  Souvenirs from Fr John. Telling tales

Blue eye shadow and cotton dresses.  Pat and Betty's magical garden.  Aine sunbathing with knickers on her head to protect her hair dye, slathered in sun tan lotion.

Politics, Fine Fail, Fine Gael, For Fucks Sake.

Crosswords, but no cross words.

Tea in china cups. Yellow roses and sucking bitter honey from fuschia by the gate. Willow pattern.

'Ah, Ref ! Ref !'
.................................
In memory of my uncle Pat and aunties Moira and Aine.

An Open Letter to my MS

An Open Letter to my MS. 

Dear 'my' MS.  Funny, that I call you mine. I'd prefer to disown you, or that we had never met. Most relationships come about by some sort of mutual consent.  But you.  You just landed in on me three years ago, without an invitation.  Despite the hostile reception you received at the time and since then, you couldn't take the hint and just go.  Although you are always there, I don't like you any more than the day that I first encountered you.  I'll never be comfortable in your company. 

But I've done my best. I've been more than generous to you. I've nurtured you with a diet of good food, exercise and clean living (most of the time).  I inject myself into my thigh for you once a week.  It bloody hurts and the flu like symptoms that follow the following day aren't much fun either.  All of this without gratitude or reward. 

The thing that I don't really don't like about you is that you are a spoil sport.  You hate seeing me having fun.  You really know how to pick your moments, don't you ? Over the last week, you have hung out of me and drained me, while so many lovely things have happened around me.  The children going back to school, visiting friends with a new baby, friends calling over to watch a match and have a few drinks. In the midst of all this loveliness, I've found it hard to just be in good form. To enjoy simple things. I'm going through the motions, but it feels like I'm not there.  I almost feel like I am having an out of body experience. I'm eating food, but not tasting it, hoping to eat my way through the nausea.  My senses are super sensitive, with noise driving me crazy.  In a house with two seven year old,  that's not easy.  I sound like a broken record asking the children to stay quiet because I can't bare their boisterousness.   

September is one of my busiest  times work wise.  But you know that, don't you ? You have been on my back all week, making it all more laborious.  Could you not just leave me alone, until after next week ?  Or maybe until I'm 75 ? Or at least until the children have left home ?  I resent what you have done to me.  I resent what you have done to my brother too.  You have one sick sense of humour.  I know that you treat others a lot worse than me, but today, I don't take any consolation in that.  You and me will never be friends. Hopefully tomorrow will be a brighter day and I'll bounce back and be philosophical about it all. 

But for now my MS, I just want to give you a two finger salute. 

Yours sincerely, Lucina

Cultural Baby Steps

One of my earliest 'cultural experiences' was attending some sort of Christmas variety show.  I'd say that I was about 9 years old.  I think that it took place somewhere around Cormeen, Co. Meath.  I remember being in a packed soulless hall, which seemed almost floodlit.  The only other memory I have of that night was that I won 200 cigarettes in the raffle.  It was the last prize of the evening.  Even at that age, I was disgusted at the injustice of it all, particularly as the previous winner walked away with a tin of sweets.  I gave the cigarettes to my father, thinking that they would last til the following Christmas.  Oh, the innocence !

Like many 70/80's babes, those variety shows were as close to culture as it got.  On one occasion, I even took to the stage, riding on the wave of my new found fame as an impressionist on a local radio programme.  Although there is no documentary evidence, I'm sure that I was terrible.  In case you are interested, my repertoire included Tommy Ball 'Rock On, Tommy', complete with braces and moustache, a version of Margaret Thatcher's 'Out, Out, Out' speech, an attempt at tenor singing 'Save Your Love', Renee and Renato's no1 hit.

Any impressionist worth their salt at time (me included) also had a go at Frank Spencer from 'Some Mothers Do 'Ave' Em.  'Oooooh Betty !'. Remember ?  Oh dear, I wish I could forget ...

Fast forward a few years, I attended a an amateur production of 'Philadelphia, Here I Come !', a Brian Friel play, as part of our Inter Cert English studies.  A I recall, the play was somewhere in Rathcairn, Co Meath, also in a soulless sort of a hall, although probably better lit.  I don't know if the performance was particularly good, but the lonely portrayal of the emotional dysfunctional Gar has stayed with me.

Fast forward again to present day.  My social life in the last few years has mostly revolved around my children.  Birthday parties are a great way of getting to know other parents, especially in the early school years and gladly accept invitations.  But if the invitation says 'party in XYZ play centre', I
instantly feel a tightness in my chest.  Little people love those places, which gives them the opportunity to, literally bounce off walls for two hours with their friends in a safe, secure environment.  But the tinned music, cacophony of noise, unimaginative food, stale air, the over sugared children, the lack of natural light and that general feeling that you are on a conveyor belt when the untrained staff don't give a monkey's makes me want to run for the door (if I could find it). At least my children are older now, so I can push them in the door and zoom off at top speed, waving 'Later babes !'

Some children's film has a similar affect on me (SOME, I said, not all.  There is of course some fabulous stuff out there. I'm a big fan of The Incredibles).   But some films are just too frigging happy, too sticky sweet - I'm thinking of a particularly saccharine princess movie that I went to recently.  I guess 'princess' should have warned me off.  It was pure muck, the kids were bored, but at least I caught up on an hours sleep.

In the last 15 years or so, a cultural movement has been building in Ireland.  It's happening slowly and without much publicity.  Regional art centres and cultural festivals have popped up all across the country and with that, a range of top quality arts programmes.  Many people were, and perhaps still are, cynical about these developments.  I remember an early Tommy Tiernan sketch where he,
(perhaps reflected local thinking), describes his hometown, Navan, as a 'cultureless hole of a town', asking 'what would you want an arts festival for, haven't we got  shopping centre ?'.

There are some fantastic performances on offer for children touring Ireland at the moment and I'm not talking pantomime. I'm talking quality professional performances.  I feel that the word is still getting out there.  I think that it will take another ten years for the sector to really develop audiences.
I've been at magical performances, where I wanted to go out on the streets and drag parents in, saying 'your children must see this !'.   Attending plays with children is great fun.  I love seeing how they interact without the adult self consciousness.  I love their observations and how they interpret things.  Question and answer sessions after a Theatre Lovett performance are a howl, keeping the quick witted Louie Lovett on his toes.

Earlier today, I brought my children to see a fabulous children's play 'Cake' in Riverbank Arts Centre today. Performed by Paul Curley and designed by Ger Clancy, it was a thing of beauty.  A sensory feast.  I could have sat looking at the set all day.  It's clever use of white tubular piping to make a working kitchen reminded me of the construction of The Doozers on Fraggle Rock. (Dwindling budgets for touring theatre has really pushed designers to be clever about cost effective and easily transportable sets, while not compromising on the aesthetic and this seems to be the case here).

The crisp whiteness of the pipes contrasted with the brightly coloured 'cakes'.  The audience engagement allowed every audience member to participate if they wished, to build a series of cakes. It was lovely to see how quickly and confidently the children set about the task, using their building block skills.

 'Cake' was advertised for 4-6 year olds, but my two, are almost 7 thoroughly enjoyed it and I think that older children would too.  We talked about it afterwards.  They had a good grasp of the story and loved the audience participation. Leon said he liked 'everything' about it.  Mya said that she would give the play '10 out of 10', then changed her mind and said '100 out of 100'.  If I had one gripe, it would be that a cute 3 year old, and not me, was called on stage to answer the big white telephone with flashing white lights.

Children's theatre is for kids of all ages, especially grown up ones.  Give it a shot