Holding Hands in the Countryside: Our First Tiff

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Myself and Mr Private had our first tiff, although it was far from a door-slamming/raised voices/finger pointing affair.

I, and eleven others were invited to speak at 'Strictly Speaking', a fund-raising event by Athy Toastmasters, where we were each given two random topics to speak about for 2-3 minutes.  The contestants were to be scored in 'Strictly Come Dancing' style, by a panel of four judges.  As the event got closer, I got more and more nervous.  I really wanted a bit of support, especially after one of the event organisers, Maggie, sends an email encouraging us to bring friends and family.  None of my family live locally and most of my friends in Athy have young children, with all of the logistics of childcare, so I didn't ask any of them to come along. Of course, I would know lots of people there, but it's not the same as having someone special, clapping that bit louder for you.

I thought that Mr Private was elsewhere that weekend, but when I found out that he would be 'around' after all, I sent him a text message the night before and asked him to come along.  He sent back a vague text not committing to anything.

The following morning, the 'Day Of', I text him again.  His reply was a firm 'no', with an excuse, equivalent to 'I'm washing my hair'.  My text in return said 'fine', but of course I wasn't fine.  If I was standing in front of him, he would have gathered that I was raging and disappointed, in equal measures.  Maybe if I had put a string of emojis with angry and sad faces in the message, he would have better understood. That's the thing about text messages though, it can be difficult to read 'tone'.

I recalled how out of place I felt at Mr Private's family wedding a few weeks previously, hoping my flowery dress would camouflage me into the background. 'You fecker', I thought to myself, 'I did that for you'.  Aside from that, I thought that he would been curious to see a whole other side of me, the Public Lucina.  I was out of sorts all afternoon, upset, with the nerves building in my belly, but busying myself with children and Saturday chores.

Mr Private sent me another message, asking how I was.  I text back saying that I was still 'fine', but that 'I am tired of going to events on my own'.  He asked me to call him, but I said I was busy, and I was. Truth is, though, there would have been tears, and I felt a bit silly about that.

In the meantime, a fellow contestant in the Strictly Speaking, the lovely Trish, called me to see if I wanted a lift to the event, she being as nervous as I, bless her wee socks.

As I got ready for the evening, I called Mr Private.  He told me that he was just out of the shower, getting ready to come with me.  Words tumbled out of his mouth, saying how sorry he was, that he didn't realise that the night was such a big deal to me.  I explained that I was now going with someone and I didn't want to let her down.  Mr Private stayed home and watched rubbish TV. The nerves eased after I did my first speech and we had a great night.  Throughout the night, Mr Private sent me lovely messages encouraging me along.

The following week, we meet for lunch and Mr Private listens to what I have to say, I mean, actually listens. He gets it.  I like him all the more now.   We are officially doing 'fine'.

Holding Hands in the Countryside : A Wisteria Wedding

It may seen a little 'soon', but Mr Private likes me enough to invite me to a family wedding, an important one that requires him to be on duty all day and sit at the top table, while I'll arrive, mid proceedings and wing it amid a sea of guests who already know each other. I haven't met any of his family yet, but sure, there's nothing like getting stuck in, right?

It seems like a great idea a week ago, but as the day drew close, a sick feeling that started in my belly has crept up my throat, the fear of being exposed, a la, The Emperor's New Clothes.

I'm on my way there now, via a complicated train route, that involves no less than 3 changeovers. That in inself is enough to stress me out.

Then there was the matter of the guna. As is typical of other shopping expeditions for clothes, I gave myself an hour to find something, in my old reliable, Buy Design ,still a relatively hidden gem in Crookstown, Co Kildare. Almost everything I admired on the hangers, I didn't like on myself. As Larry Gogan might say on the 2FM Just A Minute Quiz, 'they didn't suit ya'.

Then I broke the rules for the gal who 'doesn't do floral' and tried on a dress weighed down with a wisteria pattern. I smiled. 'Wisteria Drive' was the address for the "Desperate House wives' TV show. Scientific evidence that this was the frock for me.

I brought my mother shopping yesterday and made the fatal error of looking in the wedding worthy ensemble rails. The floral option seemed less and less of a good idea. But given that all of the acqutraments were already in place, I thought best to stick with Plan A.

I'm hoping that the hotel is one of those decorated with layers if textured pattern, so my guna will camouflage me into the background. Right now, 'wallflower' is sounding like an attractive option, provided at Mr Private can find me.

Wish me luck peeps

MineVention

Being a bigger child than my children, I couldn’t wait to tell them that I had tickets for MineVention in the RDS last weekend. Although they didn’t really know what they were going to, there was salty tears of joys, especially when they found out that they would also get to hang out with their niece Sienna.

According to their Facebook page, the event was 'An afternoon of Minecrafters and Gaming Fans to come together and show off their game skills while meeting and greeting their favourite Youtubers.'
A disclaimer stated that 'This is not an official Minecraft Event and is not approved or associated with Mojang.' Neither myself nor my children cared about its’ lack of official ness. This was where it was at.

To explain to you non-gaming people out there, at this event, you get the opportunity to meet people who are well-known (not sure I would go as far as say that they are actually famous) for making videos of themselves playing games online. I know, it sounds as bizarre as a Fine Gael WhatsApp group.

Thanks to lovely step-daughter, Zara Kelly who more festival-fit when it comes to events like this than I, we had VIP tickets. This allowed us an earlier entry time, before The Great Unwashed arrived. The children boasted to themselves about being VIP's although they had no clue what this meant. In adult terms, the golden ticket provided that glorious ideal of 'less queueing'.

The thing-to-do at these events is to meet the Youtubers, who sign their names beside their avatar photos, mounted on a canvas we purchased and to get photos taken. In reality, my children didn't know who all of the Youtubers were, but they were star struck anyway. It was lovely to watch these usually shy little people walk up to strangers and ask for autographs and to receive such a warm reception.

It was one of those coming-of-age days when I had a pain in my heart watching them, getting braver as the day went on. They collected 17 signatures in the end, including some from 'FutureTubers', up and coming whipper snappers. I resisted making a total show of my children and being a total-auld-wan by asking the Youtubers 'do you make any money out of this'. I'm just so fascinated by this other world and by people who get off their bums (or in this case, sit on their bums) and make something out of nothing. Fair bloody play to them.

I brought my boy to the toilets, where it seemed that he needed to spill more than he needed to take a leak. In fact, he had himself in a heap. ‘Mam, how come I have only 8 subscribers on Youtube when Solly the Kid has LOADS? He’s sooo young (said the child who was born in 2007).

I had watched Solly on stage earlier that day - he is a beautiful kid, around 8 years old, who MC'd a stage and totally rocked the mic. 'A future in TV', I thought.

It was then, in the cubicle, that myself and my boy had a moment – I confided in him that I knew how he felt. I told him how I thought my blog would never reach the lovely rounded figure of 20,000 views. I lamented to the 9 year old that I can't capture statistics from Facebook to capture my readership. My boy, who can often be hard on me, looked into my eyes, with, what I can only describe as empathy.

Later that night I showed him the stats of my readership in Google Analytics. 'That many people in Russia read your blog Mam?' 'Yes', I said, and didn't bother to mention that they may be clicking onto my page by accident.

Online gaming will never be my thing, but the MineVention event was a total eyeopener for me. I noticed that a lot of children there were those that might be described elsewhere as geeks or nerds. There were a large proportion of young ones with sensory issues and disabilities. They all fitted in here, all connected.

I can see that I have passed on the I Just Want People To Like Me Gene to my son. It's a burden that he will carry throughout his life. If you would like to boost both my ever diminishing street cred and a little boy's ego, you can check out and subscribe to Leon's YouTube channel (and all 3 videos- get the finger out there son) 

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=acgH7wGdQMI

Thanks a thousand

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Valentine's Day

All these years later, I still have, in almost perfect condition, my first Valentine's Day card, received it in my first year in secondary school at the ripe old age of twelve, from First Kiss. I met him the previous summer on the 'swimming bus'.  There was a teenaged middle-man involved - my neighbour and First Kiss's cousin, dodging between the rows of seats, excitedly passing on information like a spy.

'He likes ya. Do you like him?'

There I am, slightly stunned and feeling totally out of my depth, but also very giddy with excitement, that a boy, any boy, this boy, would look at me that way.  I was speechless and responded with a series of shy nods of scarlet cheeks.

The middle-man negotiated that I sat beside First Kiss.  At some stage, he earned his pseudonym and kissed me. It was as harmless as a peck that you might administer on a newborn baby cousin, but it was electric all the same.

Meanwhile, one of the chaperones on the bus complained about the song wafting out of the bus radio, 'You're My Favourite Waste of Time', by mullet haired Owen Paul. He wore tight jeans, boot runners and a white off cut t-shirt.  I thought he was 100% gorgeous.  The chaperone ranted and raved about what she would do if her husband called her a 'waste of time', an angle I hadn't considered til then.  Maybe you'd call it my first introduction to feminism.

The promising start with First Kiss didn't go very far.  He lived two towns away from me and attended boarding school. It was 'in the olden days', pre mobile phone.  His out-of-the-blue Valentine's Day card months later made my cheeks burned when my mother handed it to me.  It was lovely, after all these years, that First Kiss sent me a birthday wishes this year. He seems to have made a full recovery from our short lived encounter.  It's probably fair to say that verrucas from the swimming pool would have lasted longer than our romance.

Until fairly recently, I wasn't holding out much hope of a Valentine's Day card this year.  I was preparing to mothball my Love Boots when Mr Private came along.  Given the chaotic time that I have had of late, there is a certain irony in the fact that I am seeing a therapist - I kid you not.  I tell him that I'll looking for a companion, not a counsellor.  He smiles at me and reassures me in his gentle lilting tones that I couldn't afford him anyway.  

There's the delicate matter of Valentine's Day.  It's all VERY SOON for laying all our aspirational cards on the table, with the actual cards that we chose. Mindful of my lectures from friends telling me to slow down and not wanting to sound too keen/desperate, I opt for humour, a card with a photograph of a husband and wife taken in 1930's Ireland, looking less than happy, entitled 'Happy Couple'.  Having embraced feminism (while to this day defending Owen Paul's 1986 tune), I also present him with a bunch of flowers.

There is no such faffing around with Mr Private's card to me though.  It declares, in red glitter, 'For my girlfriend'.  All that's missing is sound effects.

'Is that what I am then', I ask, 'your GIRLFRIEND ?'.  

He's saying nothing, but he's smiling again.  I think he wants to keep me.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGDuOw64R9M

Man of the Year 2016

It seems like it’s a bit late in the day/New Year to make an announcement about 2016.  Please forgive me dear reader.  I have had the plague and therefore, have been incapable of most important things in life, including writing.  However, my confinement did give me time to reflect, and in turn, to produce a robust shortlist and declare an overall winner of my Man of the Year 2016. 

My Dad

It’s 15 months now since you left us suddenly Da.  It was a great relief to get over that first horrible year of ‘firsts’ and the second Christmas without you was easier.  I even managed to extract Mam from the family farm in Meath for Christmas for the first time in over 40 years and come to Kildare.  What do you think of that? 

You will probably think it’s a pile of shite, but the reason for the nomination, is for the inner strength that I have developed this year and I’m 100% convinced that you sent it to me, regardless of what you say.  There have been strange happenings and lovely things that are beyond explanation that I can only attribute to you.  So suck it up Da and accept it. 

My Son

Darling Boy, I’m sorry.  Separation isn’t easy on children of any age and within that, some children hurt more deeply.  I wish I could take back every tear that you have shed – I’d take them in lashes if I could.  For every time you rested your head on my chest, the hugs and kind words.  For taking my hand (even in public).  Thank you for coming back to me.

The Date

For restoring my faith.   Sorry about the broken leg, not that I am taking responsibility for that.  Between the two of us, a lot of healing took place.  And fun.  Lots of fun. Just bad timing babe. 

Feckin’ Fecker

There are many that will raise an eyebrow about you making the MOTY16 list, because let’s face it, Feckin’ Fecker, you weren’t that nice to me.  But I have taken on board everything that you said to me, about me.  You had me pretty well sussed, which I didn’t give you credit for at the time.  Still, a Christmas or New Year text message wouldn’t have killed you, would it?  

Man in Uniform

For the pep talk.  For encouraging me to stand up for myself, when the words wouldn’t come.  For the reassuring nod when words weren’t an option.  For giving me my life back.

The Foot Soldiers

Too many soldiers to refer to individually.  For all of the random acts of kindness.  The friendships. You know who you are.

Ernest Shackleton

Ernest, you were sort of foisted on me within my work portfolio about 18 months ago and from the start, you were trouble.   Every element of the sculpture commission– the eTenders procurement process, the opposition to the sculpture from a small, but vocal group (they called you a British mountaineer, amongst other things, you know), the tight time frame, the location for the sculpture - was tedious and stressful.   You brought tears and sleepless nights and nightmares.  Had it not been for the good humour and amazing skill of sculptor Mark Richards, I may have gone insane in the run up to the installation.  To keep an element of surprise for the formal unveiling, I was hoping that you would be, quite literally, under wraps, during installation.  That wasn't to be.  En route to oversee the installation, my phone beeped with photos and videos of the sculpture arriving in Emily Square in Athy.  The reaction was an overall ‘wow’.  When your granddaughter was given a preview of the sculpture, she walked away.  I panicked that she didn’t like the representation, when in fact, she was overcome with emotion.  Your official unveiling on 30^th August last, received worldwide media attention worldwide.  I often visit you at weekends and without declaring my association, I enjoy the reaction to you from visitors.   You really are a fine fella.  

Your unveiling, in the presence of the Irish Naval Service was not only one of last year’s highlights, but also of my modest career.   Like your Antarctic expeditions, to me, it was 'epic'.  So for that Ernest, congratulations, you are my Man of the Year 2016.

Holding Hands in the Countryside Part IV : Jesus Loves Me

With all my talk about dating, you'd think that I would have been inundated with Christmas presents from admirers, wouldn't you?  Well, dear reader, I regret to advise that I didn't get as much as a battered Christmas card, cheap perfume from LidlDaLDI, or even a bloody Toblerone.

But I don't want you to feel sorry for me.  I'm in great form, it's Christmas and good stuff is going down.  In the week when Bob Geldof 'liked' a blog post I wrote (sorry, I just had to throw that in there), an email alert from a dating website tells me that I am Jesus's 'favourite'.  Given that it is his birthday week, I wouldn't have thought he'd have time for a web trawl and to find me, a non-believer, among his many, many admirers.  I click on the link.  As expected, Jesus is a fine looking lad, but just, different than what I expected - paler, more clean shaven, a sharper dresser.  He's got a look about him that says 'eternal youth'.  But Jesus lives a continent away and I don't expect him to part seas, or to walk on water to see me.  So sorry Jesus, you may be loved by millions, but I ain't the gal for you.

I collect a parcel from a distribution centre.  Logistics Guy recognises my address and describes where I live with Sat-Nav precision and also, describes who lives in my house, or rather once live'd' in my house. Without really meaning to, I blurt out the current make up of my household and quick as a flash, he offers to take me out on a date.  Just like that.  My package contains a blood-red lipstick, a gift sent from a friend.  I wonder if Logistics Guy has scanned the package, seen the contents and summed me as a femme fatale.  Or perhaps, there's an offer on packages, a buy-one, get-a-date-free type scenario.  Either way, I decline his offer and leg it with my lippy.

By chance, I see Feckin' Fecker parked in the car park of a filling station and my heart skips a beat.  I don't know if he has seen me as I walk out of the shop.  I'm suddenly self conscious about how I look and what I'm wearing.  I hesitate as I leave.  I sit into my car, hoping that he will knock on the window of my car, just to say hello.  But there's no knock and I drive off, feeling slightly bruised. There's no Christmas text message either.  For closure, it would have been nice to get a 'Happy Christmas', but I think I know him well enough to know that he hasn't contacted me because he doesn't want to get my hopes up of us ever being an item. But FF, I get it, swear.

Although we speak regularly, I have no idea what Vital Statistics thinks of me.  He has the loveliest of smiles. I like the way he runs his hands through his hair when he is animated, although I'd much prefer him to run them through mine.  I demonstrate great restraint and do not share this sentiment (and you won't tell him, will you?).  Vital Statistics is an expert on risk assessment and seems to have applied the same methodology to himself and myself.  He can't predict our long term forecast due to the unknown outcome of predicted life happenings for him.  I understand his hesitancy, but reassure him that although I MAY be high maintenance, that I am low risk and being financially independent, a low cost option. 

I wonder if he's too polite to say that he's not that interested in me, so I ask him out straight.  He is puzzled by the question.  He replies, 'sure I'm here', which is true, he is indeed, here, sitting right across from me and there isn't a gun to his head.  But still I want more.  I consider presenting him with a questionnaire that produces facts and figures that could prompt him.   

For example, 
(A) 
On a scale of 1-10, where 1=Total Minger and 10= Hot Momma, how would you rate the woman sitting across the table?  

(B) 
Please create a pie-chart indicting percentages of how you consider your date, using the headings below
1. Bessie Mate
2. Would like to bring her breakfast in bed
3. Want to grow old with her
4. Thinking of blocking her number on my phone
5. Undecided

I think it's best that I embrace the advice of my two older male friends, who recently insisted on giving stone-cold-sober me a drunken pep talk on my loveless life and 'slow the fuck down'.  So I won't ask Vital Statistics any more probing questions.  I'll just remind him now and then that I'm a woman in demand, I mean, how many girls can say that Jesus winked at them?

Christmas Tunes and The Power of Love

 It’s 1984 and the Christmas no. 1 song is Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’, the song written by Bob Geldof and Midge Ure to raise awareness and funding for the people living, or dying, in the Ethiopian famine.  The great and the good in the British and Irish music scene belt out the tune and white Europeans slap themselves on the back for making a difference.

It’s years later, St Stephen’s Night and I’m in a night club, known locally as 'The Shed', one of 7,000 people.  It’s near the end of the night and the place is full of sweaty men.  Everyone seems pissed.  Arm in arm, they sway, roaring ‘Feed The Woooooo –R-R-L-DDD .....’ and it’s a world away from the starving black children with bloated bellies, vacant eyes, with flies on their beautiful faces that stared out from the TV.  The sweaty men buy chips on the way home and puke them up on the bus, the tune long forgotten. 

It’s 1984 again, New Year’s Day.  I’m in my second cousin Ailbhe’s house, the house where I first experienced a birthday cake made out of raspberry ripple ice-cream blocks, decorated with Smartie’s.  I’m there to play with Ailbhe, accompanying my Granny Russell, invited, in acknowledgment of our strong family ties.  There are other guests there too, in the other room.  I think they are all at least 100 years old.  Ailbhe’s older brothers discuss Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s song ‘The Power of Love’, when the video comes on TV.  I’m pretty sure that it’s MTUSA.  The brothers speak with confidence and enthusiasm about this song that isn’t really a Christmas song, but yet it is.  They are unaware that I am listening.  I don’t understand what they are saying, but it awakens a new curiosity in me.  I examine the singer Holly Johnson later, in the same way that I have already considered Boy George.

I’m driving and East 17's ‘Stay Now’ comes on the radio.  I’m transported back to Christmas Eve 1994 where i am standing in the clothes shop in Kingscourt where I have worked at weekends and holidays throughout college.  Now on my twelfth pairs of trousers to be altered that day, men come into the shop on their way to the pub, on their way home from the pub, or on their way to midnight mass, requesting bespoke alterations.  None of them seeing the lateness of the day, and the day that it was, as a reason why their trousers shouldn’t be stitched, while other customers needed serving.  As we sew, myself and the owner chat.  She tells me about her niece in England who is dating one of the guys from East 17.  I’ve seen them on TV, London hipsters.  Street.  Wide-boys from Lun-Dan, real life East Enders.  Parka jackets and baseball caps.  Oozing confidence.  Dressed in white. So frigging cool. I’ve seen photos of my bosses niece.  She looks so beautiful and sophisticated, not much older that me.  I can see why yer man fancies her.  I feel every inch of the chubby country girl that I am.  In hindsight now, I surprise myself that even after two years in art college, how my self-esteem then was so low.  I’m a dab hand at the hem-stitch all the same, I’ll give myself that.

The Cheesy-Song-Christmas-Amnesty allows me to hum along to the likes of Cliff Richard’s ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ and Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, while ‘A Space Man Came Travelling’ allows me to admit that Chris De Burgh isn’t all bad.

David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s version of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ was recorded in 1977, when I was 3 years old.  I’m not sure when this song first comes to my attention, but it must be years later.  I do not know who either of these men is as I have never once heard their names mentioned at home or seen their faces.  It is the song that catches my attention first - one of my favourites at school- but it is the Bowie/Crosbie duet that has me captivated and I decide that they must be famous.  Last night, my children hear this rendition on TV, and turn to watch the tune so familiar to them. They too recognise the other worldliness of this and we share a moment.

The pair ‘shush’ me when Picture This’s new tune ‘This Christmas’ comes on the radio now.  They are the band’s no 1&2 fans since I brought them to a free concert by the band in their home town of Athy the summer just gone.  It is their first proper outdoor gig.  In time, I hope they will look back and remember the fear in their throats and the exhilaration in their bellies from that day and all the stuff that music has the power to unleash.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyoTvgPn0rU