Sunday, 22 March 2015

Blue Suede Shoes in Dublin

This morning, the ten year old played Edelweiss on his out of tune violin for an hour, all the time wearing a gum shield. The eldest teenager lay vomiting in bed, whilst the other one banged her head against the fridge in protest at the lack of sandwich fillings. “Why can’t this fridge should look like the one in Subway?” she groaned. The only child not moaning, sick or playing somber music had burnt the toast.

This was half past eight in the morning and the first tea of the day had not even been made. I sat on a chair with a dog on each knee, my eyes closed and breathing deeply because sometimes when you feel that you are about to go into overload, that’s the best thing to do. I’ve seen the Buddhist monks do it and you never see a stressed Buddhist. The phone went.

“I need you to take me to hospital”. It was Phil in a panic. “Why?” “I’ve got to see an expert about something urgent, are you around?” I looked up at the chaos in the kitchen. I told Phil to be ready at 9.15 and promised to get him to the clinic by 10.30. I filled the kettle, hit the switch and got in the shower and out again in record speed with my own personal violinist accompanying me in the background. 

With no time to drink tea, I reached into the press for ‘the gift’. A concerned friend brought it back from the States. She worries because when I go out in the car I take a mug of tea with me. Just a normal everyday ceramic mug because I don’t like the plastic travel kind. She’s always telling me that it’s dangerous and I might burn myself. I respond by telling her that in twenty years I’ve never spilt a drop.

She came round last summer with what looked like a handle-less green plastic bucket with a white lid on it. “It’s an American travel cup!” she said with glee, showing me how to put in place and twist on and off the chunky lid. I held it in both hands because my hands are small and it was impossible to hold with one alone. I thanked her, secretly believing that never, in a million years, would I need to drink two litres of tea. I put it away thinking that one day it might make a nice plant pot.

Today, with a longish journey ahead of me, I reached in the press for ‘the gift’ it would be ideal. I read the label, KEEPS COFFEE HOT FOR FOUR HOURS. American’s don’t really ‘do’ tea but I do and filled it to the top with Barry’s Gold Blend. I’d have enough of the milky stuff for the journey there and back. I made a note to myself to genuinely thank my concerned friend, grateful that I’d been too disorganized to plant bulbs in it.

The kids got into the car. I followed slowly behind with my arms around the green American travel mug. The lid was twisted safely on. Still, that amount of hot liquid commanded respect. “Where are you going to put it?” asked the violinist. The problem with America is that everything is so BIG. Big bagels, big skyscrapers, big coffee travel mugs and big cars with big travel mug holders in them. It was almost as big as a wheel on my Citroen C4.

“I’ll hold it!” The violinist took it and cross-eyed, stared at it without blinking once all the way to school. Once they had all got out, I put the beast on the front seat and strapped it in with a seatbelt and headed to Phil’s house. “WHAT THE ****” is that?” Phil said as he opened the door. “Barry’s Gold”. “I don’t drink ******** tea”. “It’s not for you. It’s for me”. “What’s with the shoes?” I asked him looking down at his feet.

“New shoes. Penny’s in Newbridge, €8. Brought them for the appointment”. If I am going to see the gynecologist I’ll buy new knickers. Phil was going to see an eye specialist and bought blue suede shoes. He also wore blue socks and matching blue trousers. I unfastened the bucket, he got in and I balanced it between our seats and drove off up the N7.

“Your car is filthy.” Phil is always direct. I love him for that. “You should supply hand gel and one of those white zip through body suits for your passengers” he went on. “I’m going write to RTE and get a film crew to make a TV show about the state of it”.  We got to the Red Cow when it dawned on me that neither of us knew exactly where the specialist clinic was.

“Where now?” I asked, breathing deeply like the Buddhists but this time with eyes open. “I don’t know!” Phil replied, tapping at his phone furiously. “I thought you might have Sat Nav,” he snapped. “I do but I can’t find it”, “WELL IT’S A SURPRISE YOU CAN EVEN FIND THE ****** IGNITION WITH THE MESS IN THIS CAR”. He was now very agitated. This was a serious clinic appointment. I pulled over, putting my foot down and braking a little too heavily.

With a thud, the American travel cup dropped forward, the lid fell off and two litres of tea went over Phil’s blue suede shoes. Like sponges they soaked up most of the warm liquid. What they didn’t soak up, his socks did. If you had the window open this morning you might have heard his screams. He walked into the clinic, half an hour late leaving milky wet footprints behind him.

“I’m getting a ******* taxi next time” he told me when he got back in the passenger seat. “The hairs on your legs grow faster than you drive and I’ve probably picked up a disease from this car”. I’ve just washed out the American travel mug. The hyacinths will looks gorgeous in it next month.

Monday, 23 February 2015

50 Shades of Grey Movie Review

The latest Facebook craze is to tell the world seven random things about yourself. Mine include the fact that I can juggle; that I dislike being called ‘Babe’ and how I may be the only woman with a pulse who has not read 50 Shades of Grey. So when I got a ticket for the first night in Newbridge, I couldn’t wait to go and see what the fuss was all about.

I was given the book as a gift but never got past the first couple of chapters, unlike the rest of the county. For months the car park at school was a silent place as the mums squeezed in a few chapters before the end of school. Car windows were literally steamed up.

Superstore B&Q sent out a letter to all stores last week preparing their staff for the rush in demand for certain DIY essentials that they anticipate the movie will make popular. I asked Moore’s Builders Providers in Newbridge if their management had done they same. “No” the guy behind the counter told me flatly.  But he added that you can buy a masking tape, cable ties and rope trio for less than €15.

EL James wrote the book on a mobile device as she commuted to work. The book, which was universally disliked by reviewers, went on to sell over 100 million copies worldwide. Many women hold 50 Shades Of Grey responsible for putting the sexy back into their relationships. “I’m on FIRE” one friend told me after she’d finished it.

I headed along to the Odeon with Lorna. She read all three books and was madly excited about the whole thing. So was half of Newbridge. It was Valentine’s Day and while my romance was at home, his head over a bowl of hot water treating man flu, I found myself sitting next to a man in his sixties man who was eating popcorn with his left hand and clinging onto his wife’s hand for dear life with the right. He was in the minority; the audience was predominantly female.

The film opens with a wardrobe. Inside, row upon row of clean white shirts, perfectly ironed and beside them, a line of bespoke suits. That automatically sent Lorna’s pulse racing. She is OCD about laundry. Next a shot of a man getting dressed doing up the buttons on the beautifully ironed shirt. This was Christian Grey, a fine looking twenty seven year old billionaire with a helicopter and a thing for grey ties. Jamie Dornan plays him with a lazy eye and slightly odd voice.

Next we meet Anastasia Steele, the young artistic graduate, who is mad about literature. She is so cool that she hangs her bike on the wall of her flat and drives a VW Beetle. They meet when she interviews him for the student newspaper, so far so good. Actress Dakota Johnson, is one brave woman to take on the role.

Twenty minutes in and the tittering started around me. “Is it meant to be a comedy?” I innocently whispered to Lorna. Everyone but me knew what was coming up. Christian arrives in Clayton’s hardware shop, where Anastasia works. He requests masking tape. “Are you redecorating?” she asks. The audience burst into fits of laughter, they knew the story. He flirts, she flirts back and so it begins.

He sends her antique books in the post and she falls for the handsome, mysterious businessman. Fast forward and she arrives in his swanky apartment where Christian leads her to his “playroom”. In his controlling manner, he tells her to “Try and keep an open mind”. With a turn of the handle, his secret is revealed, a dungeon like room with red walls. Hanging from metal rails we see whips, ropes, wrist cuffs and gags. It wasn’t shocking, far from it. It was all very familiar.

There is not a tack room in the county that doesn’t look a little bit like it. Obviously there was no hay, horses or sweeping brushes lying around, and red is not the colour most horsey people go for in their stables but most of Grey’s S&M paraphernalia can be bought locally with ease. Sadistic Grey would love Kildare. He’d spend a fortune in TRI.

Next, without her knowledge, Christian sells Anastasia’s battered VW Beetle. He takes her in his helicopter, in his glider, then for a ride in several of his fast cars. There’s plenty of shots of the sky and the two of them doing loop the loops. Back on terra firma, he buys her a shiny red car of her own and then asks if she will sign a contract.

If she agrees to sign, she will act as submissive to the smartly dressed dominant Christian Grey. The catch is that she will have to willingly take the role of his submissive and agree to be flogged, humiliated and be physically restrained by bondage. For doing so, she gets her own bedroom in his apartment with glitzy wallpaper and a plush headboard. Does she sign and become his slave or leave? I won’t spoil it for the other three people in the county who have not read the book.

Is there much sex in it? Loads. In two hours they had done it over a piano, on a chair, in the bath, tied up hanging from the ceiling, on a bed AND on a bench. That’s not to mention all the slapping, spanking, feathers and ice cubes. This is not a film for the romantic. “There’s much more sex in the book,” Lorna said, sounding a little disappointed half way through. “MORE SEX?” I replied with disbelief. Had she been asleep?

Two hours flew by and by the end of the film I discovered that Christian Grey and I have a few things in common. We’re not very good at romance, we both like flying in gliders and have the very same taste in light fittings. We also have a well-equipped playroom. The difference is that mine is filled with kids kid’s toys – for the time being.

Thursday, 12 February 2015

Three woman, two pigs and one big lie

Tuesday morning, 8.15 and I found myself in a pigpen. Three of us were attempting to get two female piglets into the back of van. It should have been so easy but the piglets at the KWWSPCA animal shelter in Athgarvan were not playing ball and Richie the manager wasn’t helping matters.

“They might bite you,” he warned as I ran after the fattest of them, arms wide open. “They might eat you too,” he added. Susan, the other volunteer, joined in. “I watch Mafia movies. They always throw bodies to the pigs don’t they?” I didn’t go into this expecting to be eaten alive so I ran round in circles faster than Usain Bolt calling “Here piggy piggy”. All seven ignored me, and the ramp leading to the back of the van.

“We need to go to school,” my daughter shouted from the car. Forty-five minutes spent running around after the pigs and still not one caught. I was supposed to be driving them to their new home in Thurles and time was marching on. I dropped the kids off at school with a note for teacher explaining that we were late because I was chasing piglets.

I arrived back at the animal shelter to find horsey friend Fiona in her Puffa and wellies beside the pigpen. She had offered to come with me on the road-trip and deliver the piglets to their new home in Tipperary. Thankfully the team had managed to get two piglets, ‘Pinky’ and ‘Perky’ into the back but there was a problem. Lucy in Thurles had requested two females. Perky was a male and Perky would need castrating.

Lucy has just opened a shop in the middle of Thurles called The Green Sheep. She bakes cakes, bread and cookies to sell at her and husband Patrick’s artisan food store. It’s a dream come true but what she had always secretly desired is to keep a pet pig – or two.  She was happy to rehome two piglets from the KWWSPCA, just as long as they were girls.

Half way down to Tipp and our passengers were squealing. My heart was pounding and the inside of the van was beginning to stink to high heaven. At the wheel my palms were sweating. I’ve known Lucy all my life. She has a temper. There was every chance that my old school pal might throw a loaf at me when she discovered the mess I’ve made of her pig adoption. “Look”, said Fiona. “Let’s be honest and tell her the truth”.

“Let’s lie,” I begged, “Let’s just pretend that we didn’t notice SHE is a HE”. Fiona calmed me down with a reassuring  “Leave it to me”. Almost at our destination and an excited Lucy phoned. “How far away are you?” “Ten minutes”. Then, “Are my girls behaving in the back?” “Yes” said Fiona calmly, deciding it was best to break the news in person. She put the phone down and turned to me. “It’ll be fine”.  Perky squealed from the back. He knew we were talking about him.

Lucy met us in Thurles, got into the front of the van and sat on Fiona’s knee. I pulled my winter scarf over my face as Fiona broke the news. “Look. Perky is a male but with a lovely, lovely nature,” I was impressed at the way she softened the blow. Then, “He has the best colouring of all of six,” she continued.  Lucy looked over her shoulder at the two in the back. “He is gorgeous,” she agreed. How could she refuse Perky? He was very cute and with Pinky, they made a lovely couple.

We arrived at her small holding and lifted the piglets out, ushering them into their new home. “Back to the Green Sheep for a quick coffee?” Lucy offered. We squashed into the front seat and headed back towards Thurles and her husband, who was in charge whilst she was out. “Just one thing before we go in ladies” she turned to us and said gravely, “Whatever you do, don’t mention the pigs to Patrick”.

“What do we say when he asks what we are doing here?” “Tell him that you’ve come to look at…a horse”. I sighed. I know nothing about horses and Patrick knows that. This was Lucy all over. Tell a small lie and avoid confrontation rather than deal with the pig poo when it hits the fan. A bit like myself. It’s why we are friends.

The Green Sheep smelt beautiful as we opened the door. Freshly baked scones and hot coffee aromas filled the airy shop. But it didn’t last. Fiona and I looked first at one another, then down at our mucky boots. We both stank of the pigpen. “Hey!” Patrick called over to us from the shiny coffee machine. “What brings you here?” he asked, looking me straight in the eye. I wanted to say “PIGLETS” but kept quiet and looked panicky instead. He started sniffing. “What’s that smell?”

“You are here to see a HORSE aren’t you?” Lucy prompted me with a sharp poke from behind. I nodded and covered my face with the woolly scarf for the second time that day. “You’ve come to see a HORSE Annie?” Patrick knew I was lying. I nodded then squealed like a pig when I felt Lucy poke me again. Fiona came to the rescue by distracting him with twenty questions about The Green Sheep’s pesto sauce. I drank coffee in the corner, remaining silent knowing that if I opened my mouth, I might squeal again.

Some women buy shoes and hide them from their partners in the wardrobe. Others, like Lucy, adopt animals and hide them in a pen at the end of the garden. She plans to tell Patrick when the time is right and he will grow to love them as much as she does. There’s just the question of Perky’s castration. I think she should ask Fiona to break that news to him.

Thursday, 22 January 2015

The Secret...

Strange things are happening. It started a while back when a Robin flew into the house. It came and sat on the kitchen table. I’d never seen a Robin in the garden before, let alone in my kitchen. Next thing, the phone went. It was Auntie Jean, telling me that Uncle Pete had just died. The Robin flew out again. “That little bird? It’s him. It’s a message from Uncle Pete,” his grieving widow said.

Auntie Jean is a great believer in angels. Dreams too. She says that she’s psychic. She told me that Uncle Pete is pulling strings from above and when my nephew got a job in Malta recently, it was all thanks to him.  But Pete was a poker player and so am I. If Pete really did happen to be pulling the strings, I’d be World Series Poker Champion by now.  These days I can’t even get a pair.

Then there’s my old friend Patsy. She believes in ‘The Secret’ or the law of attraction. Think positive and good things will happen. She is always putting requests out there, into ‘the universe’. She asked ‘the universe’ for a new job, she got a new job. She asked ‘the universe’ to get her husband a new job, he got a new job. So when she invited me to a Newbridge Musical Society pub quiz a year or two ago, being the cynic that I am, I decided to test it out.

At half time, the raffle tickets came out. I bought five strips and lay them on the table in front of me. So did the eighty or so other people there on the night. To liven up the draw, I told my friends that I would predict the next winning ticket using nothing but the power of my mind. With that I looked down at the table and theatrically held up a strip just before the man at the microphone called out a number. The ticket in my hand had won.

Fast forward to another quiz a few months ago. At a table with the girls at Castle Durrow I recounted that story. “Of course, the real miracle would be do it twice” one of them suggested. She was right. For the craic, just as before, I bought five raffle tickets and lay them in front of me. So did the hundred or so other guests. Just as the draw was about to begin, I held aloft a blue ticket. “This ticket will win,” I said dramatically. The host pulled a ticket from a bucket and held it up. It was mine. 

The ‘do’ in Castle Durrow was a quiet one to raise funds for Rape Crisis in Dublin. When the ten of us started screaming heads turned. “It’s a miracle,” said the woman to my left. “You could make a career with a gift like that!” The woman to my right added “Now do me a favour and give me the winning lottery tickets for Saturday”.

Later that evening I was in shock. So far I’d won a bottle of wine and a shampoo hamper. If this was a new psychic ‘gift’, think about the consequences. I could win millions, put an end to the national debt and fund a cure for Ebola. Had I really developed supernatural powers in my mid forties? What next, a psychic tour of regional theatres and a slot on Most Haunted?

Feeling wobbly about it, I went to see Patsy. She was cleaning the oven and greeted me in pink rubber gloves. “It doesn’t make sense”. “Yes it does,” she said, head in oven. “It’s the universe at play. I’ve believed in it for years. Don’t try and explain it. Accept it”. I was going to a KWWSPCA table quiz the following evening and told her that if I won the raffle again, I’d throw up.  “Well throw up, then give me the prize,” she added.

The next night at the pub quiz I sat down with three strangers. The raffle tickets came round and I bought five and lay them out on the table. I decided that rather than tell my team what I was about to do, running the risk of being labeled the crazy lady in the pub, I’d sit quietly, say nothing and discreetly put my finger on my chosen numbers instead.

“The first prize goes to…” It was blue, 150 – 155, my ticket. Again. About to vomit, I ran outside without claiming my prize, which was a hamper, made up of pasta sauces. I rang Patsy, totally and utterly freaked out. “See? I told you. It’s the universe”.  It was all too creepy. I went back into the quiz to hear the announcer call out second prize. I’d won again.

A week later, at an ICA gathering, I told friend about my ridiculous luck. “Which of my tickets will win then?” asked Sharon, “I never win anything in a raffle”. I touched one of her three tickets. It won. Then her other two tickets won as well drawing sighs of disbelief from the crowd.  My rational brain makes no sense of it. Just think about the odds, it must be a million to one.

Last night I had a dream so vivid and real that I woke up at 5am in a muck sweat. In it, pregnant friend Tamara was calling my name. She was asking for me for help. Her husband was in Oman and she had just given birth. She was crying for me, “Help me Annie!” I’ve never had an experience like it. Was I now getting telepathic dreams, just like Auntie Jean? I waited for sunrise and phoned Tamara. “This is weird, but….” I launched straight into it. Was her husband in Oman? He wasn’t. Had she given birth? She hadn’t. Was she calling for me at 5am? She wasn’t. Oh dear.  It was all bit embarrassing.

The spell has been broken, supernatural powers gone so don’t bother contacting me for the lottery numbers. Me a psychic? Not even Mystic Meg would have predicted that.