CAR CRASH! At least no-one died (well actually, someone did...)

What the F*** were you thinking?” a man shouted at me last weekend, his face red with fury.

The traffic was at a virtual standstill and I had just realised that a funeral procession was taking place. “Who died?” is what I was thinking as I bumped into his car. I wanted to slide from my seat and curl up in a ball under the driver’s seat like a cat.

Instead, knowing that I had brought rush hour traffic to a complete full stop and was being watched by over twenty drivers, I held my head in my hands with the shame.

The windows were shut but I could hear him through them. “What the F*** were you THINKING?” he shouted again, pacing up and down.

I was thinking that the new family car might need a service. It sounds like a tractor and when you least expect it, does little bunny jumps. The bunny jumps are not good.

Registering that I had lost the power of speech temporarily, the man crouched down and began stroking his car’s bumper.

He came up to my window. I fumbled to find the newfangled button to make the window go down. Panicking and sensing his anger, I hit a button, any button. The rear window went down.

I hit another. This time the passenger seat window went down. Third time lucky, my own window finally lowered.

“Ok. I can’t see any damage” he said. I sighed with relief. I would not face the humiliation of having to fill out an insurance claim form.

The last time I had to sketch a lamppost with the rear of my car smashed into it.

“I’ll take your number, just in case I find any damage when i get home”.

With forty cars beeping their horns around me, the pressure was on. Try as I might, the numbers would not come into my head.

I fumbled around in my bag for my phone. I was like jelly, a nervous wreck. I needed to put this into perspective. Nobody had died. Well, actually somebody had died and was being buried. But I had not run anyone over in my newish bunny hopping car.

All I had to do now was remember my phone number, he would go away and we could all go home, have a cup of tea and watch Homes Under The Hammer.

But this was the ultimate memory game and like a contestant on The Cube, the tension was killing me.

“08…. 08, 08 something. Maybe 6?”

Where was Philip Schofield when I needed him? Instead half of Newbridge waited angrily in a mile long tailback behind me. I had attempted the Phone Number Recall Challenge and lost.

I needed to find my phone. Rummaging about in my bag, the darnn thing had vanished. I looked up at the driver. I think that his face was showing pity.

“Have you a pen?” he asked, softer now and less angry. I dipped into the handbag once more and pulled out a lipstick.

Then an eyeliner that I had last seen three years ago, then a questionnaire from a physiotherapist about exercise in young children, next a Samaritans information sheet and a handful of receipts from the petrol station, and finally a Lego Darth Vadar.

I opened the glove compartment. The obvious place for a pen.

I have a friend who runs her car like an office. She has make-up and hair accessories in one compartment and note pad, pens, tissues in another.

She always has a tasteful air freshener hanging from the mirror and there is not a scrap of dust to be seen anywhere in her car. She can pressed a button and magically talk to anyone through a special machine she has plugged into the dashboard.

She even has a designer perfume beside the handbrake that she uses as additional air freshener.

I have never looked beyond the front seat but I bet if I poked around in the back, I’d find fluffy slippers and a luxury towelling bathrobe.

To sit in her car is like spending time in a luxury hotel. You want to touch everything and take something home.

It’s not that I am jealous of her, but if she ever found herself in the same situation as me last week, she’d probably have pressed a button on her steering wheel and her insurance details, phone number and fingerprints would print out from a hidden gadget in the sun visor.

I opened my glove compartment, praying to the God of Pens.

Inside, an empty packet of Rhubarb and Custard hard boiled sweets, a melted bar of chocolate and a map of Snowdonia.

I was still unable to speak. the man leaned in.

“Just try and remember your phone number,” he said gently now.

This man would have made a great Samaritan. I should have given him the information sheet.

I pressed the palms of my hands either side of my head and focused on the Lego Darth Vader on my lap.

“086, 225?” I was almost there. I closed my eyes and used visualising techniques. I visualised that I was back on The Cube with my whole family sitting in a row cheering me on, clapping and whistling. I was almost there.

I may have had fifty cars beeping their horns, drivers shouting and waving their arms at me but with the good Samaritan beside me, I remembered the rest.

It was a small but important victory.

Despite what my overall general appearance may indicate, I still have it.

When push comes to shove, I still retain a few cells that work in my cranium, there really is sign of brain activity and there is hope for the future.

So what if I struggle with facial recognition, the time of day, what I went into a shop for, school meetings, the names of other people’s children, the names of my own children and birthdays.

I can still remember my mobile phone number. Just.

Give Us A Clue Slavomir!

“I know a good painter.” My ears pricked up. The once crisp white walls were looking more like fifty shades of grey. I needed a painter urgently.

“Pawel brings his own flask of tea and insists on hoovering up when he has finished". As if that wasn’t enough of a recommendation Imelda added, “and he looks like David Beckham.” I phoned Pawel immediately. 

The next day he arrived. He really was Poland’s answer to Vikki B's husband. His white painter’s overalls were spotless and looked ironed. His teeth were as white as snow, he was spray tanned and he wore ‘Aviator’ sunglasses despite the fact that it was raining and no-one in Kildare has seen the sun for six months. 

Pawel was the coolest painter in Ireland. He went around the house, studying the walls and striking the occasional pose. “This job will take a week.” He would be in the house for a whole week? I could handle that even if it was a bit weird that he didn't once remove his sunglasses. The job was booked.

Pawel phoned the day before he was due to arrive; he was sick. “I am sending my father to you instead. He is a good painter also. He does not speak English. But it’s OK, I have explained the job.”

Twenty-four hours later, I watched as Slavomir arrived in a beaten up, red 1990 Volvo estate. Out stepped a strapping seven foot tall bearded pensioner. He waved. I waved back and launched into my welcome. “Hello Slavomir! Isn’t it cold. Is Pawel feeling better?” sometimes I can be too chatty. 

A smiling Slavomir looked mildly confused, shrugged his shoulders and said “Tak, tak”. He walked into the house holding his flask in one hand and a ladder in the other.

My week with Slavomir began well. Being so tall meant that he didn’t need an extension pole on his roller. His arms were incredibly long.

He had great patience. He needed it thanks to my own terrible lack of attention to detail when it comes to housework.

The ceilings were cluttered with cobwebs that I had been there for at least ten years. He came into the kitchen when he discovered the first one, muttering “Yes, yes” to himself.

As I stood ironing, he composed himself briefly stretching one arm into the air and with a sweeping gesture, performed a short mime. Silently, he proceeded to stand on tip toes and wave his arms about theatrically, reaching into imaginary corners until I shouted out, “A duster?”

“Ah tak, tak, D-U-S-T-E-R!” he clapped his hands when I waved the feather pink duster around in the air. He grabbed it from me, said “Tak, tak “ and headed back into the bedroom.

After another hour or so of painting, Slavomir came back into the kitchen. This time he looked troubled. Taking a deep breath, he slowly let put just one word that I had never heard before: ‘functionality’.

It was my turn to look mildly confused and smile. “F-U-N-C-T-I-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y” he said again, slowly. Then came the second mime of the day. He fell to the floor and banged at a bit of skirting board.

Then he stood up and opened and closed an imaginary door. This required much more of my attention than the feather duster did. I put the iron down. “Door?” “Yes, yes!” Did he want to go out? Did he need the toilet? Had he locked himself out of his car? I was clutching at straws. It was never this hard on Give Us A Clue.

He took my hand and led me into the bedroom. Kneeling down, he showed me the problem, repeatedly opening and closing the real door and pointing to where it banged against the skirting board.

He wanted me to get a doorstop or something like it that would make the whole door situation better.

I thanked him and wrote ‘BUNG’ on my shopping list.

‘Functionality’ covered all manner of problems in the house. Using nothing but mime, Slavomir was able to act out to me five minor ‘functionailty’ issues in the house. 

Slavomir discovered a broken window handle, a missing hinge, a broken wall bracket, several holes that needed filler and a chipped tile in the bathroom. But on day three came a different problem altogether.

He came into the kitchen once again and said another new word, very slowly.

“C-O-C”. “COC?” I said back to him. Something was seriously lost in translation.

"C-O-C” he nodded at me this time with a mime. He stretched his hand out in front of him and like he was holding a gun, slowly moved it left and right.

“Coke?” he shook his head at me. “C-O-C” he continued. Was he asking for Gok Wan? Why did he suddenly need style advice?  

He shook his head. “C-O-C” he tried once more. He took my hand again and led me out to his car where in the back, he showed me an empty cylinder of something called ‘Builders Caulk’.

“You want me to get some of this?” he nodded “Yes, Yes. COC.” I wrote ‘Caulk’ on my shopping list and nipped into the DIY shop for Slavomir.

That afternoon, oven on and time for a spot of baking. Jeremy Vine on the radio, a phone in about animal cruelty and all was fine until Slavomir came back into the kitchen.

“C-O-C” he said, slowly. We had been here before. I had been to the DIY store. Surely he hadn't run out again. “CAULK?” he shook his head. “C-O-C” he went on. “You want a COKE?” he shook his head again. “C-O-C” I was really struggling. "COC?" It was never this hard fro Lionel Blair. Slavomir felt deep into his pocket and grabbed about deep inside for a few moments until he pulled out his phone. He scrolled through some photos. “C-O-C!” he showed me the screen and a picture of a gateau.

“CAKE?” “Yes, YES! C-A-K-E”. He pointed at a cake on the screen. “I, CAKE.” “You would like some CAKE?” I asked. “Yes, yes. Slavomir CAKE.” At that moment, the bleeper went on the oven and I pulled out a cinnamon and vanilla sponge. He ate three slices very quickly.

Thanks to Slavomir the walls look as white as Pawel’s teeth. I shall try and learn some basic Polish because It’s me who should be saying “Serdecznie dziekuje”.

BREAKING NEWS: I bought last pack of Ikea Meatballs in Ireland.

Fifteen minutes spent digging around in the freezer with a head torch and pick axe paid off this week when I found what I had been looking for. With a celebratory "EUREKA!" I held aloft a packet of Ikea meatballs. There was no need to go shopping, I'd have dinner for six on the table in half an hour thanks to these tasty Swedish meatballs, something I purchase for emergency situations like today. "YUK. They are not meatballs. They are horse balls." Objection number one came from the teenager. "Maybe they are but you have been eating them for five years and never complained". "Well I never knew they were made of horse. I'm not eating them". She tapped away at her phone furiously. Last week, unbeknown to me, she secretly videoed me singing Minnie Ripperton's "Loving You" and uploaded it onto Facebook without telling me. It's like living with a Sky News film crew and I am the main story.  For all I know, she could have filmed me in the freezer chipping away at the ice with a pick axe five minutes ago. At this moment I could well have a million hits and have 'gone viral'. But with three of the four children owning small electronic devices that record, the only sensible thing left to do is to get them to sign a confidentiality agreement before they come down to breakfast. But back to meatballs. 

 "HORSE?" Objection number two came from the other teenager in the house. "I'm not eating them either". Great. Teenage revolt at tea time. Just what I needed. "What's the difference between a cow and a horse?" "Is this a joke?" "NO. They are both animals. They eat horses in France, shark in Australia and our Chihuahua would probably be skewered and served with chilli dipping sauce in Korea". They rolled their eyes. I rolled my eyes. They rolled their eyes again. I rolled my eyes again until one of them screamed "STOP THAT! YOU ARE SO ANNOYING". So I did stop but not before pointing out that I was copying them. "He'll eat them," the eldest pointed at her eight year old brother as he came into the kitchen. "Eat what?" he asked innocently,  "You'll eat horse balls." He looked confused, "Horse BALLS?" He was chewing on something and it wasn't meat.  I pulled a bit of Lego from his mouth. "Why are you eating Lego?" "I'm not eating it,  I'm chewing it". The dog was at his feet chewing furiously on something. She spat out a piece of Lego. This was getting ridiculous. 

"We are all eating these meatballs tonight and you will like them." I tried to take control of the situation in a no nonsense Dr Eva kind of way, arguing that this would be the last time we ate them because Ikea have stopped making them. The irony of it all is that when they do make them again using beef, they'll probably not taste as nice. "I AM NOT EATING HORSE". The teenage voices were getting louder, this could end in a riot and the one thing I knew that I didn't have in stock was tear gas and a plastic shield. I looked at the Easter cards on the window ledge with bright yellow chicks on the front. "What about these lovely fluffy little chicks?" The teens ignored me. Their fingers glued to the tiny keypads in their hands. "Those fluffy little chicks end up in the oven virtually every Sunday in this house. You eat chicken all the time. What about chickens eh?" Next, I held a card with the Easter Bunny on the front under their noses. "What about him eh? Rabbit is becoming VERY popular in kitchens right now". I had heard it on a morning chat show so it must be true. "What's the difference between a chicken and a horse?" They both rolled their eyes at me again, glued to their technology. I looked down at the dog who looked up at me with love and devotion, fast becoming the only one who does. 

Without looking up the eldest muttered something in the direction of the family pet, "She'll eat them all". I slammed a saucepan down on the counter, "FEED THEM TO THE DOG? Don't be so ridiculous". But there was little doubt that our tiny four legged furry angel was hungry. She stood, motionless, with those beady eyes darting between me and the fridge door. The humans in the house would have to wait. I took out the dinner that I had made earlier and heated it up. The dog stood at my feet salivating. She watched as I put a ladle full into a pan, slowly heated it up and then blew on it so that it wasn't too hot. "What is that?" the teenager asked, sniffing the air. As it happens, dinner for the dog that night was strips of beef, braised carrots and celery with homemade gravy. For that finishing touch, a handful of dog biscuits scattered on top like croutons. She ate the whole lot in under two minutes, licking the bowl for five minutes afterwards just to make sure that she hadn't missed a morsel. "Are you serious?" the eldest watched in disbelief. "Oh now I really have seen it all. So the dog gets home-made beef stew and we, your children, get Ikea horse balls?" I covered the dogs ears.  "Shhh, it said beef fillet on the label, but it might be horse".

Ikea have not only stopped selling the meatballs, they've recently taken their marzipan cakes from the shelves too. The cakes were found to contain coliform bacteria, something normally found in faeces. I'm totally confused and dreading my next weekly shop. How do I know what I am buying anymore. On top of it all I'm getting hot flushes. Is this the menopause? Will I need HRT? It turns out that half of that is made from horses urine. Still, Kildare is the Thoroughbred County. At least I'll get a good discount.

Alien Sex on 'This Morning'

Working from home has a few benefits. Today for example, as I was finishing off a piece for the local paper, I heard Phillip Schofield introduce this woman on ITV's 'This Morning'. Stephany claims to have sex with aliens. For those people who missed it I am posting it here. If you have experienced anything similar, please contact me. The Leinster Leader has been around since 1880 and I am certain that it has not covered this topic.....

RYANAIR!

Art smuggling wasn’t something that I had ever planned to do.....

It all came about quite by accident when last Sunday I found myself at Manchester Airport flying home from a weekend in the Lake District. I was travelling with friends Patsy and Lena.

These little trips away are what keep me sane. The venue and location really don’t matter, it’s that sense of escape, fun and getting away from everyday life that does. We spent three days laughing, drinking and eating far too much and we all agreed, in the words of Mrs Valentine, “It was great to have the old Shirley back”. The saga started because Lena purchased two beautiful, large paintings from a little shop in Windermere.

“They won’t fit in my suitcase” Lena groaned at as we went through security. The paintings were long and thin like two large planks of wood. We were travelling with Ryanair and the three of us knew that they would not show any pity if she tried to carry them on under her arms.

The rule is simple: one piece of hand luggage only. If Lena tried to carry them on she would be plucked from the crowd, the paintings would be taken from her and thrown in the hold with the pushchairs, oversize bags and ski equipment and they would charge her fifty Euro for the pleasure.

The thought of it all was giving Lena a panic attack until, “We could always smuggle them on to the plane up our jumpers!” Patsy piped up with a twinkle in her eye. I had read somewhere that people now wear special Ryanair coats with twenty deep pockets sewn into them and regretted not having bought one for myself earlier.

“I know a man who smuggled on a Paella pan last year,” Patsy went on, before going into a sneezing fit, “And a lampshade”. She was sniffing her way through a head cold and suffering torn ligaments in both ankles. She also has a very real fear of flying. We decided that a little Ryanair smuggling could be the perfect adventure to end our trip.

Waiting for out gate to open, we headed for the packed restaurant area. “I need a drink. My ankles hurt. What if the plane crashes?” Patsy quickly knocked back two glasses of wine. Lena wasn’t coping either and joined her. “What if we get caught? My husband will kill me.”

“CALM DOWN” I hissed to them both. My accomplices were getting loud and panicking just when we had to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. I looked around at the packed departure lounge like Michael Caine in The Italian Job.

The very worse thing that could happen was that the paintings would fall out from under out coats. There would be a smash of glass, possibly an injury or two and a few surprised passengers. My two companions finished the bottle of Chardonnay just as our flight was called and people began to board. “Ready girls? Here we go!”

Standing up, I discreetly took one of the paintings and put it behind me, tucking it up under my shirt. Next, taking the scarf from my neck, I tied it securely around the painting and my middle. Finally, I put on my padded hiking jacket and stood up. The painting was long and I am short. My jacket poked up behind my head, like I had a large and pointy hump.

My two partners in crime were in no fit state to help. They were face down on the table laughing hysterically and very soon had the whole restaurant looking my way. “SHHHHH!”. This unwanted attention would attract the Ryanair crew and we’d have to abort the mission. Pushing the painting down, I was now awkwardly bent over at forty-five degrees to stop it falling on the floor.

Lena stuffed her painting up her jumper, tied a scarf around her middle. Being tall she carried it off well, better than me. Like Quasimodo, I waddled over to the gate and calmly joined the queue trying my best not to look suspicious. “You look like you are wearing a back brace” Patsy whispered, boozy tears flowing from her eyes.

She and Lena were out of control and far too merry for the seriousness of the situation. They could barely focus. We reached the front of the queue. I handed over my ticket. The Ryanair attendant looked at me, my nose almost touching my knees, my stiff back, my odd shaped, pointy little hump and said nothing. What could she say? She was hardly going to accuse me of smuggling anything onto a plane when clearly I looked like I had just fallen from a horse.

Lena stood beside me, bolt upright, like an ironing board was taped to her back. The wine was helping her immensely. She didn’t speak, just grinned wildly, eyes bloodshot. Patsy stood behind us hiccuping and sneezing. Before we knew it, we had made it through the boarding gate. Climbing on to the plane bent double was not easy, it was blowing a gale and I could not look up.

Once inside, the cabin was packed but the back row empty. It was the most discreet place for us to sit. We carefully sat down and removed our coats, the scarves and finally the paintings. The flight attendants didn’t see a thing as we removed the art and hid it under our seat.

It was a hideous flight home, wet, windy and very bumpy but thankfully fearful Patsy didn’t notice. The adrenaline and wine flowed through her veins. She sang songs from ‘Les Miserables’ for the duration of the thirty-five minute journey back to Dublin. The whole plane had no choice but to listen as she belted out “A Little Fall of Rain” and “I Dreamed a Dream”, even making herself cry at one point. Just as she was about to give herself a standing ovation, we began our discent into Dublin. 

Next year’s trip is already booked. Forget Ryanair, we’re taking the ferry over. All things considered, it’s the sensible option.

Thinking of rescuing a dog?

If you are thinking of rescuing a dog, here's our story. We found our little pet back in October. Six months later and the love affair continues. We searched high and low to find the perfect dog and eventually found our chihuahua 'Penny' at an animal rescue centre in Wicklow. As the photo below shows, she was in a bad, bad way on the day that we met her. She had been found wandering the mountains, terrified and starving. She came to our home and changed our lives. 

As the weeks went by she became stronger and much happier. She has a great appetite, is full of love and fun and has never looked stronger or happier than she is today. Here's a video of her now, playing her best game of all. Jumping over the broom handle. 

If you live in Ireland and are considering animal adoption, I highly recommend that you look no further than Ash Animal Rescue in Wicklow. Good luck!

http://www.ashanimalrescue.com/ash/

IT WASN'T ME!

Saturday afternoon was a very windy day. I decided to nip into the local German supermarket with my daughter to buy ingredients for a big comforting pot of stew. I went at the busiest time which was a bit silly. It was three in the afternoon and, because of the crowds, it took much longer then normal to push the trolly through the aisles.

Shopping at German supermarkets suits me because, like Ryanair, they are basic with no frills. Being a simple kind of gal, I don't like fuss in any way, shape or form. I like the way that boxes of fruit are always stacked up high on 'Super Saturday'. People were buying lemons and grapefruit like there was going to be a world shortage, all because they were 39c for three, for one day only. The problem is that, even if you go into Aldi or Lidl for something simple like a bag of spuds, you end up being drawn to a central aisle selling foot spas, disco balls and laminated maps of the world. "Can I buy this?" my daughter asked, holding up a paper shredder. "No" I fired back, putting down the digital bathroom scales that I had mindlessly picked up in my shopping trance.

In half an hour the trolley was full and we went to our final destination, the tinned tomato and pasta section. A tall and healthy looking forty-something man with architect glasses and a hefty woollen raincoat was holding a can of pesto sauce very close to his face. He was reading the back of the jar intensely. Unfortunately for me, he was blocking the tinned tomatoes shelf. I waited patiently, hoping the power of positive thought would be enough to make him move. It didn't and my daughter and I stood watching him as he examined the pesto closely. I was about to ask him to move when suddenly and unexpectedly he let out the most enormous fart. Gas out, he didn't take his eyes off the jar in his hand or look around to see if anyone was close by. I quickly pushed my trolley around the corner; I had no choice because my daughter was laughing. "Mum! I can't believe you did that" "It was NOT me!" I was appalled. His fart was so loud, almost volcanic. Not something I, or anyone I know, would ever part with in a German supermarket on Super Saturday (of all days).

A few minutes later, I poked my head around the corner. The man had moved on from the aisle. I grabbed the tin of tomatoes that I had been looking for and our shopping was complete. We unloaded our trolley onto the conveyor belt as quickly as we could in preparation for loading our bags as fast as humanly possible. This race is another quirky German supermarket feature that I treat like an Olympic sport. I managed to unload a trolley onto the conveyor belt in under thirty seconds. Surely a record? As I wiped the sweat from my face, my daughter poked me "LOOK. It's HIM". I looked round and saw that Mr Farty had pulled up directly behind us with his trolley. "Don't stare!" I poked her back.

"Good afternoon" the cashier greeted me. That's another thing about the German supermarkets, all of the cashiers are trained to say hello and smile broadly when you buy your groceries. They will continue to smile and be polite unless you make the fatal mistake of packing your shopping straight into carrier bags. You are not allowed to do this and you will be told off. Being a natural born rule breaker I do it anyway and, whenever I am challenged, I argue that I can pack my groceries so quickly that it won't slow down the scanning process one bit. I rolled up my sleeves, ready to pack my bags in lightning speed. It was all going so well. That was until he did it again. My nemesis. Without a care in the world, Mr Farty, in his woollen coat and architect glasses, broke wind. This time, we were not alone. Everyone heard it. Even the cashier who raised an eyebrow at me as she scanned my lemons. My daughter got a fit of the giggles.

"Mum. That one really WAS you". "Shhh! No it wasn't!" I hissed, throwing tinned tomatoes, onions and grapefruits into my carrier bags. The cashier was frowning at me. She was about to tell me off when, right on cue, he did it again. Loudly. "That WAS you Mum!". "IT WAS NOT ME". By now we had an audience. This was becoming a bit of a scene. This was not the attention that I was looking for. I had only come in to get my stew ingredients. The man stood motionless staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He was an expert. He probably does this all the time. I was angry. Angry at this man who was happily farting the time away without a hint of remorse and letting me take the blame. To make it worse, now the cashier and everyone standing in the packed till queues was listening to my daughter and smiling politely.

"That really stinks!" My daughter was hysterical now, wafting the air in front of her with one hand and dramatically holding her nose with the other. Around me, it smelt of blocked drains. This was all turning into a nightmare situation and all the while, Mr Farty remained stony faced, not an ounce of guilt showing on his face. I was now faced with the prospect of publicly taking the blame and apologising for something I did not do, or pointing at the real culprit and shaming him publicly. It was a lose/lose situation. Either way, I looked bad. I paid and ran out.

If you were there last week on Super Saturday, hand on heart, I promise that it wasn't me. It was him.