An ostentatious show of faith

Ash Wednesday. A day that separates the hardcore practitioners from the casuals. And the casuals from the ones that desperately needed a school place. One has to admire the willingness of the faithful to conduct their day’s business as usual while exhibiting a blob in the shape of Kim Kardashian’s arse on their forehead. Have you ever encountered road rage from such an individual? Me neither, but I’ve a feeling it’d be funny. (“Oh God sorry, do you need an ambulance? How many fingers am I holding up?”). Or maybe not. I might wear my crucifixes lightly (job, location, immediate family, parenthood, cheese habit etc.) but can relate to the arched browed curiosity these parishioners are exposed to nonetheless.

Take that first morning of a new job when I had the uneasy feeling the twenty new pairs of eyes were looking slightly past mine. As if the first-day hyena laughter and the overbearing children’s TV presenter enthusiasm wasn’t wearing enough. Not wanting to interrupt my concentration while reading the riveting company policies, and continue with the show of conscientiousness due to expire the following day, I staved off the need to pee until my non-paid lunch break. A double-take in the mirror and a dreaded close-up revealed the remnants of the face cream I’d applied in the car hovering around the nostril area. Children’s TV presenter enthusiasm indeed.

Still, that was nothing compared to the après ronnie job. I’d been in denial for years. Then, one night, several pints in to a conversation on personal grooming with a mix of mates, I called the discusson to a halt and demanded those present to inspect the ronnie I feared I was carrying around. There was no avoiding The Truth. They all leaned in for a gawk. There followed a slow start to the sheepish yeahs before they were all nodding in unison like they’d been wondering how best to confront me on the matter for years. A resounding yes to getting the ronnie off then, and one for the road.

ronnie

Look carefully. Are you sure you don’t see something?

Heading into work the next morning with a rare five minutes to spare, I slid into the beauticians for a quick wax. Nobody told me my lip would be visible from space for the next hour. I landed into what was a pretty tense meeting with one of the aforementioned mates on the opposing side. I prefer to think I unwittingly disarmed her with my radioactive skin.

Don’t try this at work without getting permission from an adult.

A very short, bland, and cranky post

There’s a video doing the rounds at the minute of a two-year old having a tantrum. The responses range from the predictable viral game of pass-the-parcel in the name of bland entertainment, while the more self-regarding sites have ushered in a few revered talking heads to give some consideration to parental responses to toddler tantrums. Which is all very harmless and right-on and will appeal to the mass parenting reading market. But this curmudgeon is sitting tight with a face on her like a badger’s arse and a curled lip for someone to  “weigh in” on the issue of children’s privacy, specifically their right to privacy on the net, irrespective of their age. Especially because of their age.

As you were.

Both sides now

Rows of bowls of Angel Delight and ice-cream hassle free without care

and warm weather companions everywhere that kept the clouds away.

But now they only sunblock their sons, who reign, and grow on everyone.

So many other things they might’ve done but doubts got in their way.

I’ve looked at your life’s dreams from both sides now, from now and then,

and still somehow it’s life’s hard won victories  I recall.

But I really don’t know your life at all.

Moons and Junes and ferries overseas, the dizzy dancing way that you feel

as every football fairy tale trip comes real; I’ve looked at your passions that way.

But now it’s us putting on the show. You leave ’em laughing as you go

Because you care, you let them know, but never give yourself away.

I’ve looked at your love from both sides now, from give and take,

and still somehow it’s your love’s inclusion I recall.

I really think I know your love most of all.

Here, with fears, but feeling proud, to say “I love you” right out loud,

ice-cream and streamers from the party crowd, I’m looking at your life this way.

And now old friends aren’t making strange, you shake their hands,

they say you haven’t changed.

Some have been lost but some others gained from living life faraway.

I’ve looked at your life from both sides now,

from win and lose, and still somehow

it’s your life’s quiet revolutions I recall.

I’m really beginning to know your life after all. ernie

The morning after…

You will be Bogart and I will be Bacall

A few of my favourite pairings….

Sarah and Sean*. Sarah and I met over a string of work inspired expletives fired from our bellies landing headlong into a plan of action; which I think was dinner in theirs where we overtook all small-talk and parallel parked in to a stare into space over the unbearable likeliness of ending up in the Midlands forever. Munch screams all round. She was just shy of 25 but had already pounded a fair few streets of the globe with her spittle speckled angst before meeting Sean and trying to calm the fuck down. Sean is three-quarters at ease with himself, remembers how you take your coffee, greets you like an old friend, and shares his thoughts freely and humourously. On their wedding day, he stood up, this man of hers, and declared her his rock and best friend with a tear in his eye that threatened to put one in mine. But I pulled myself together for the sake of the children. We all derive a laugh from disclosures about our respective suspected mental health instabilities. You can’t ask for much more than that except another coffee.

Orla and Ben. More friends of a friend but we’ve hatched and grown and watered our own stalk down the years. Their fridge is purple. They had 56 children by their early 30s. They invite people over to help them decorate their Christmas tree in their little house where you leave your clouds at the door and raise a chipped cup to whatever chat is going on, if you don’t have to wash it first. She’s a regular Dub who teaches children how to paint glass and cackles from beneath a head of screaming red hair. He’s a rugby-mad toff who’d shame his double-barrel family with his profanity laden humour. They have their ups and downs but they’re solid, inclusive, and welcoming. Life and its shite is very matter of fact, and they bounce off each other in ways that measure up to double what I figured I’d like with someone given half the chance.

Siobhan and Mark. I had forgotten about them until now – an indication of the seismic shift in mate tectonics. Slipping away from great friends. It’s like the harsh lesson that heady romantic love is not enough, that compatibility depends on so much more. No-one tells you the dynamics between friends will shift or contort themselves in ways that shove a sand dune between you made from ground-down time and distance from the lives you’ve been chipping away at. I couldn’t have wished for a better person than him for her. He sang in a choir when they met and could turn his chat to anything. And I knew he was her one when she held court in the pub, weaving a 360 degree wide-eyed drunken slow motion turn to the Specials’ Ghost Town, while he quietly sipped her in, beaming at her every jerk. Because he gets her, and buzzes off her being herself. Now there are two to visit and another little two to tickle. Yay.

Paul and Brendan. Just when you thought I’d caved into mush and drowned in a silly sea of sentimentality, there’s always these two with a withering quip to knock it out of me. They’ve been together for 10 years. I’ve been friends with Paul for twice that. My fellow list-maker. He helps keep the music fanatic in me resuscitated and doesn’t realise I’m not the fully fledged one I was till a few years back. Everyone finds them difficult. Unconventional. Aloof. Socially awkward. Eccentric. Dry witted to the point of absorbing all the oxygen in the room. Precisely the very reasons I like them.

And finally, my Ma and Da. Not a template for the traditionally happy relationship, and a walking instruction leaflet in how to get a lot wrong; but of all the couples in all the books, in all the stories, in all the films, in all the gin joints, in all the daydreams…the rare tenderness exchanged between these two will kill me most every time.

bogart and bacall

“You won’t forget to put the bins out tonight, will you?”

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty 

Who are your favourite couples? Fictional, friends, or family – take it away there like good blogging brethren…

Party pieces

The fake beards just arrived. All thirty-six of them. It seemed like a good idea at the time; that and calling up a load of his mates behind his back to summon them to his ceremonial crossing into the fifth decade next Sunday afternoon.

beard

♫ “For he’s a jolly good fellow..” ♫ 

I say fifth decade, but he’s only forty (Christ. I’d hate to be that age… again). It’s a current favourite of mine to freak people with. Like they didn’t already suspect. I’m annoying like that. I’ve been using it since my mate delighted in reminding me I was technically in my fourth decade when the bells struck thirty. But I already had form when it came to age-related anxiety when I turned 25; specifically the relentless echo from Miss Carr’s maths class (pass, obviously), warning us to round that decimal number off to the next whole number from point five onward. Ah, thirty. I knew you too well.

I say afternoon so it won’t clash with Room to Improve or any other sadistic middle-aged viewing rituals that involve roaring obscenities at the TV like…”how in the name of good fuck did they get the money to do that?”, swiftly followed by “we should invite Dermot round for tea sometime”. Other fantasy guests include: Ross Noble, Will Hanafin, and David McSavage. Besides, it’s the only time people can’t make up shit about not being able to find a baby-sitter (the real reason for having children). And I find all parents’ ability to conduct a conversation slowly grinds to a halt by early evening, after which time I’ve heard enough about what Sophia did at creche, or in the frozen food aisle in Tesco,  or with Mummy and Daddy’s condom stash, or wherever. Fascinating. And it’s the slot he’ll least expect a party to be sprung on him. Insert dirty Muttley laugh here.

Trying to organise a wedding you never had vicariously through a surprise birthday party is at once immensely pleasurable and painful. Pleasurable for seeing him strain to conceal the sad dejected face he didn’t realise he had when he initially warned me (rather forthrightly, I feel) not to make a fuss. It took just one bluff suggestion of ‘early bird meal’ for the martyr mask to slip. “Oh, right”. Was there ever a more loaded expression? In another double-bluff victory for fake authenticity, I’m lining up a little weaner size of a cake from the bargain shelf of M&S for the fridge the previous evening *blows fingers, buffs lapels*. No, really *hand up* I love all my work even without your admiration.

I’ve also managed to share the pain from the process between us by doing that annoying thing of absentmindedly starting a sentence before dismissing it as quickly with a “oh, nothing”. Examples include..

1. “That…[blank]…oh nothing”

2. “Christ…[blank]..oh nothing”

3. “I wonder…[blank]..oh nothing”

4. “You should…[blank]..oh nothing”

Answers to these blanks at the bottom of this page.

Meanwhile, I’m going to have to resist all urges to break open the beards. At three in the morning the idea was hatched, it didn’t occur to me that I would have to provide a rationale to his Mother and others as to why they should wear them. And “Je suis *insert his name here*” doesn’t seem all that funny now.

But fuck it. It’ll be grand. Nothing can possibly go wrong.

Answers:

pǝɹǝpɹo ǝʌ,I ǝʞɐɔ ǝɥʇ ǝǝs ˙ㄣ
ʎɐpunS uo ɥɔǝǝds ɐ ǝʞɐɯ puɐ lɐuoᴉʇoɯǝ llɐ ʇǝƃ llᴉʍ pɐp ɹnoʎ ɟᴉ ˙Ɛ
¿ɥǝ ‘pɹᴉǝʍ ʇᴉq ɐ sᴉ sɹnoʎ ɟo puǝᴉɹɟ ssᴉʍS ʇɐɥʇ ˙ᄅ
ƃuᴉʞooq dnoɹƃ ɐ ɹoɟ lɐǝp ʇɐǝɹƃ ɐ sǝop ʇuɐɹnɐʇsǝɹ ˙Ɩ

The let down

Torch-bearers for breastfeeding are faced with the delicate act of balancing passion with purpose. Comparatively lower figures of breastfeeding in Ireland and the UK are frequently lamented and chin-stroked over. Likely reasons for these low rates are cited and fitted out with several column inches, more often than not by veterans of the game. And why not? No point drafting in a vegetarian to discuss the merits of a meat based diet.

Even so, I wonder about the quality of the debate on breastfeeding in this country in general. It is currently freighted with a lot of unequivocal assumptions that often transcend both purpose and passion. There is a tendency for the prevailing discussion to be fairly restrictive and pre-occupied with telling us what we already know, with the orthodoxy on the purported benefits going largely unchallenged.

The historical and cultural factors are probably a given at this stage, and we live in a world where women’s access to information (by choice or by thrust upon us) is unprecedented. Irish women aren’t beyond the reach of reason or reality of comparative scenarios elsewhere.

There is the over-arching assumption that if only women had more access to support, exposure to breastfeeding, and a better understanding of the “gift” of breast-milk, the current trends would be reversed. Mention is frequently made of the hangover of religious prudishness and so on. These are all valid concerns, and would undoubtedly lead to a more supportive environment, if eroded.

Few women, if anyone, would disagree with the underlying factors that contribute to historically low rates, but in making the case for the need for better support, and individual resilience, a more rounded and open discussion is required.

If the purpose of engaging in the debate is to facilitate the uptake of breastfeeding, then exposing the deficits in medical and community support, labour management, and calling out hostile societal attitudes is fair game. So too is speaking from an impassioned place of positive experience that too often competes with negativity on the airwaves of anecdotes.

However, openly making a judgement on the ability of women to currently withstand (or not) perceived pressures to give up is not. Nor is chalking low levels up exclusively to a culture of giving up. I’ve no doubt this is the case for some women, but not all, because I personally don’t identify with such a neat argument. Nor is over-stating the harm of formula and the far reaching benefits of breast-milk.

In walking this precarious trapeze, Zoe Williams of The Guardian comes closest to striking the balance for me.

“I could not have loved breastfeeding more if I’d been brainwashed; I experienced it as a kind of hallucinogenic experience. A bit like taking an E.

But I also had the strong suspicion that the claims made for its benefits – the higher IQ, the protection against obesity, the superior bonding, the warding off of disease both now and for ever, both for baby and for mother – were mostly bogus. A lot of the reasoning seemed syllogistic (babies born into low-income families end up fatter; low-income mothers breastfeed less than high-income mothers; therefore breastfeeding prevents obesity) or frankly lame. I knew a lot of mothers who formula fed; they didn’t seem to love their babies less. When I wrote a book about pregnancy, I included some of this lameness, while underlining the fact that, speaking for myself, I didn’t care whether or not the health benefits were real, I’d do it again even if it made the baby’s IQ go down.”

A year later, Williams attended a conference on infant feeding, which included a presentation from American academic, Joan B Wolf, who conducted a rigorous, close-range examination of the science behind pro-breastfeeding advice. She concluded the case for breast milk is hyperbolic. For more on this and other challenges of measuring benefits, and the questioning of current medical and scientific orthodoxy, see here.

We also live in a world where women are contending with busy lives and self-preservation comes in many guises. I know many women equipped with all the necessary knowledge who chose not to breastfeed, or gave up, for reasons concerned with vanity, convenience, mental health and so on. Each as legitimate as the other. We can assume that many women do not continue with breastfeeding due to frustration, lack of support etc., but I suspect that is not the full picture and until such time as the issue is unpicked more thoroughly, and credibly, the current cul-de-sac of chat will leave the majority (I jest) of us a little unsatisfied.

A rigorous discussion on attitudes and perceptions to breast-feeding in Ireland should address issues concerning entitlement, biases inherent within the health system and corresponding intimidation, the perception of breastfeeding as being a predominantly middle-class activity (having at one time in Ireland been associated with poverty), lack of support, affordability of resources, and the right to private choice versus the pressure from public health policy. Women need ownership of the discussion as much at the activity, but large swathes of them are missing. Advocates can’t presume to speak on their behalf, so an in-depth study in Ireland would be useful. And timely.

As Williams states: “In order for breastfeeding to have the no-alternative, liquid-gold status it enjoys in public health, its benefits would have to be so much more pronounced and demonstrable that you wouldn’t even need to demonstrate them. Furthermore, breastfeeding activists (or lactivists) shouldn’t have to borrow risk factors from the developing world to make mothers in Eastleigh feel breast milk is the only safe foodstuff for their children. …And maybe, for the public health effect the establishment is after, the inflexible approach is the right one, since it definitely keeps mothers plugging away.”

Meanwhile, all sorts of reasons will continue to be authoritatively cited including prudishness, vanity, and other cultural barriers. Non-breastfeeding women will continue to be excluded from the wider debate.

A few other unhelpful narratives not often highlighted: women giving expression to the awkwardness they feel about their bodies and its functions is just that, not a judgement of the successful and uninhibited breastfeeding habits of others. If there is a sincere desire to support women to overcome barriers to breastfeeding then ridiculing them with a basic biology lesson will probably only serve to undermine that objective. If they have an idea how they got pregnant, it’s likely they will have some understanding of the biological function of breasts. They’re not stupid. Support begins with hearing and understanding fears, not minimising them, or the challenges concerning the reconciliation of primal functions and sexuality, or modesty. Simplifying this with statements of the obvious has done little but patronise the very women requiring support.

Lastly, the desire to exercise modesty while breastfeeding is not always a response to societal pressure to do so, nor is it a reflection of less successful breastfeeding habits. In the context of breastfeeding, modesty should be exclusively in the eye of the breast-feeder. It is entirely up to individual breastfeeding women how they choose to define it, and it is their entitlement to apply it as they choose. It and breastfeeding are not mutually exclusive.

As someone who breastfed all my baby, I agree with the core principles of the pro-breastfeeding movement, and would share a lot of antipathy towards the wilful sexualisation of breastfeeding and hostility towards it. But it does the cause little good when diversity and the nuances of modesty, culture, and personal agency are totally abandoned and ridiculed and converted into receptacles for a certain form of righteousness.

Adding to the word count…

..on the Pope’s progressive approach to child discipline.

Under controlled circumstances, I imagine it’s entirely possible to raise a child without ever smacking. From what I can see, the majority of parents and guardians in my tribe and beyond are determined to pursue this way of family life. But I’m not sure everyone manages it as efficiently as they would claim. It’s a sound philosophy, if you can apply it. I would like to think we will achieve it.

The reactionary smack on the part of the frightened/exasperated parent is always wrong, but sometimes extremely difficult to control; so long as that reaction is not foul then it’s entirely forgivable. I would hope the Mexican wave of moral outrage won’t drown out these quandaries surrounding parental discipline. After all, the majority of parents currently enraged are in pursuit of support for their peers in their child-rearing role overall.

Closer to home, I would hate to think of my Mother feeling guilty for the odd slap that was more of a reflex action. She needn’t feel guilty about them; she probably saved me from more serious harm in those incidences. Sometimes they were unavoidable. That said, a child should always be apologised to regardless of the circumstances. It’s when that reactionary smack or aggressive reaction is violent, systematic, and a form of discipline, that it becomes obscene and grossly wrong; a critical issue about the parent’s lack of self-control.

We will have to learn to make judgements on when to apply the reasoned let’s-talk-it-out approach; when that is futile, and how to balance keeping the child safe from danger in an instant with managing the boundaries she’ll naturally attempt to push. The odd lapse in judgement seems inevitable somehow.

If nothing else, Mr Red Socks over in Rome has succeeded in raising discussions on child abuse, which is always a good thing. We have come a long way in advancing our understanding of child psychology and the cyclical nature of violence. It is the combined experience of the child, parent/guardian and guidelines that counts, and it is from these controversies that the sharing of common challenges that lie beneath the aspiration of a smack-free home should be possible. That said, there’s always a danger of this opportunity being eclipsed by the tip of the scales of anger. To obscure the difficulties of parental self-management and discipline would be a pity.

I’m often struck by the differentiation made between physical and verbal punishment. The differences are easily understood, but to a child, being roared at by an adult must be a terrifying experience; one in which their esteem and confidence takes an almighty bruising. For the older child, it becomes a subtle but insidious and crushing weapon of ridicule. I was smacked by one teacher in primary school, but like many of my peers, I met a number in both primary and secondary level who were a bunch of bad tempered, short-fused fuckers who should never have been allowed to work with young people. If I met one of them now, I’d probably be tempted to give them a serious mouthful. They taught me well. There are children and young people caught in verbal storms in homes and schools everywhere; yet a hand will never be raised to them.

Let’s wag the finger surely. Wag it all around.

So what do you think of the situation in Chechnya?

I couldn’t give a fuck, Jones.

Admit it, we all have occasions where we’re compelled to gag our inner Daniel Cleaver by mimicking the other person’s disgust and flexing our impressive empathy muscles. This is best achieved through a slo-mo head-nod and a momentary gaze into the middle distance to figure out how to change the subject without getting busted. A delicate manoeuvre that takes years of practice.

Some recent examples…

Friend: That Iona Institute crowd are just mental. Aren’t they?

Me: Absolutely. Bonkers. Madder than two mad things stuck together with Vatican-endorsed adhesive.

[I mean this sincerely, but am unable to sustain the outrage without getting hungry, or have conversations about them through outbursts of 140 characters or less from a person sitting right next to me; especially when 60 of those characters tend to be hogged by exclamation marks]

*momentary gaze*

Fancy sharing a slice of lemon meringue?

Friend: G’wan then

[So weak]

*************************************************************

Dad: I see Topaz has a sale on petrol. You’d be better getting it this side of the border. It’s far cheaper. How much is it in the North these days?

Me: Ermm

*momentary gaze*

[My Da is gearing up for a full-on rant on the price of fuel. These are occasionally subtitles for ‘I love you’ in Father-of-a-certain-generation Irish. So is ‘how’s the job going?’, and ‘how’s the car going?’. Chances are though, he will quickly veer off into the realm of the “scandalous” way the energy companies have been slow in reducing the cost of domestic oil. We’ve been here before. Speckles of red mist are already forming on the horizon. I do sympathise. But having been raised in a house where this obsessional interest in ‘the price of oil’ was considered a conversational piece and something reflected on during that five second window the priest gives mass-goers for their own special intentions, central heating was relegated to the basics in my hierarchy of needs early on. Consequently, I can’t get worked up about it to quite the same psychotic extent.]

Hmm. Not sure. My car is diesel and sure that’s always cheaper anyway.

Dad: I’m going for a walk.

[A cruel move of me, I know]

*******************************************************

Colleague: You…like…you’ve never ever even tasted tea? Like, ever?

Me: Never

*momentary gaze*

[For some inexplicable reason, there is a cohort of Irish people who deem this an unpatriotic act and recoil in horror at the casual way I cause the architects of the Easter Rising to twirl in their graves. Was this what they fought for? Our freedom to show outrageous indifference to the national tipple? That’s me in the dodgy photo-fit flashed on the screen on Crime Call last night by the ever radiant Gráinne. I am the one. Kill me.]

I have tickled a pig under my arm though, and had a wank with a shillelagh.

Colleague: Seriously?

*******************************************************

Friend: You’re from an Irish-speaking county, do you not think it’s absolutely ridiculous how few gael scoil places there are?

Me: Absolutely!

*momentary gaze*

[No offence, Peig, but I couldn’t give a shite. But this is not the time to challenge the middle-class aspirations of my nearest and dearest. I’d probably risk leaving myself open to charges of hypocrisy down the line when I start protesting about Electric Picnic taking place before the new school year starts. Sigh. Besides, I got hit by shrapnel from a stray ‘absolutely’ at an open evening at a pre-school the other week. Nasty.]

Have you watched Catastrophe yet? Hilarious

********************************************************

Mum: Would you look at that amadan *points to Enda Kenny* He’s a liar…

Me: *momentary gaze*

[Uh oh.]

*leaves room*

Mum: …would you look at the state of him. Like someone who wandered out of the ploughing championships…

Me: *gets into car*

Mum:…and they give out about Fianna Fail, but sure they’re just as bad…

Me: *drives away*

Mum:..I can’t STAND him….

Me: *arrives home*

Mum:..sitting there in the Dail for the last umpteen years and what did he ever do?…

Me: *turns off bed-side light*

Mum:..keeping the farmers sweet and nevermind the rest of us…

outrage

Sheryl was outraged to discover she had only 3 characters left

Personal specification

I’m gearing up to recycle my own bullshit for the umpteenth time. What’s new, says you, the occasional reader of my posts that come in various shades of the same old shite. With two months in my current job remaining, I am back revising the CV and hovering over the two-hangered section of my wardrobe that is supposed to radiate confidence. Diligence. Conscientiousness. Success. All I’m getting is desperation, and someone dangerously close to one pair of trousers away from a M&S twin-set and a life-time allergy to heels.

That’s the problem with the bogus feeling of immortality in your twenties. Freedom is just another word for not conforming, until not conforming becomes an inescapable by-phrase for harbouring an overdraft, a love/hate relationship with your potential, and a willingness to at least Google ‘pension plans’. Usually from around the age of 36 onward. In my field anyway.

The nature of my work puts a stranglehold on any notions of security and direction. So, with any luck, I’ll be back before a panel of managerial all-sorts soon working that enthusiasm. Working it good. Working it so good that sometimes I don’t notice I’ve brought the wrong USB key and the panel is looking on non-plussed at my family photos as I gabble on at the speed of bluffing it (“We regret to inform you..). Or I go completely blank and just walk out (“Please accept this cheque as a token of thanks for attending and a contribution towards your travel expenses”). Or I turn up two hours late apologising profusely after the plane was unable to land due to fog and go off on one like Spud from Trainspotting (“We are pleased to inform you you have been successful”). One just never knows what will wing it.

spud

“Well, I can parallel park and lip sync to ‘So Lonely’ by The Police with perfect precision”

The stakes are higher; the pool of potential competition wider; and my ability to suffer fools who claim not to suffer fools is waning rapidly.

The definition of defeat: When the idea of becoming a civil servant/teacher/nun doesn’t seem that bad an idea after all.

Of course I’m only half-joking.

In which I attempt a linky of sorts

Except I don’t know how to do a linky proper. This is sure to fall to an arse before it takes off but I’ll give it a bash anyway.

All credit to my favourite feathered friend, Wee Blue Birdie at Little Steps to Somewhere for inspiring this risky move by nominating me to answer ten questions of her own, which were…

1. What kind of bird would you be, and why?

I’d be …’like a bird on the wire. Like a drunk in the midnight choir. I have tried in my way to be free’.

I guess we’re all birds of some sort already *sticks two fingers in mouth*

2. Which period of history had the best clothing?

I fancy I would’ve been more sophisticated in a flapper dress brandishing a 9 inch cigarillo holder than a Johnny Blue, but alas, being middle-aged, I can see I would have needed a jumper to keep warm. Not a good look. Poverty shawl chic in colonial Ireland was alright. But joking about the famine is not permitted. Unfortunately, it’s not covered under our progressive blasphemy law.

3. In which film do you wish you had played the lead? What would you have brought to the role?

Rob in High Fidelity – the record shop, the record collection; the encyclopedic knowledge of music; the one-on-one time with philosopher Bruce in the proverbial confession box of life; the dedicated commitment to top fives; and getting the girl in the end.

I’d have brought an authentic neurosis to the agonising compiling of top fives, and a reminder that music is a passion for women also, not just an occasional spectator sport.

4. What was your favourite toy when you were a child?

A furry Bert from Sesame Street. He was going through a hard time after splitting from Ernie. Life with my family was becoming increasingly intolerable. We were both in the wrong place at the right time, so we formed our own exclusive support group down the back of my folks’ garden. We, like, really talked, y’know?

Our girl’s favourite toy these days is Ernie. He appears to be in a perpetual state of grinning. I reckon he’s on something.

5. If you could be in the Olympics, what would your sport be?

Schadenfreude , sleeping in, and film marathons. A triathlon, in short.

6. If you could cure one human illness or disease, what would it be and why?

Incurable greed.

7. What is your favourite urban myth, and why do you want it to be true?

That Bono is in pursuit of justice for the developing world. Because it would save me a lot of energy hectoring folk about how his approach is part of the problem, and balancing a few incontrovertible facts with my occasional appreciation of the early music of the Onob Quartet.

8. What is your favourite unusual word?

Oblong

9. How would you like your writing to influence the world, or affect those who read it?

I suspect I’m the one who reads it most. I reckon it has already prevented me from going postal, or – God forbid – finding God. Or worse still – running. Good for personal positive mental health, and for the world at large by curbing the body count.

Oh, and I’m not sure if this blog will continue to bob about in the ether long enough for our daughter to access it, but I would hope she would derive something positive from reading it. If only a satisfying eye-roll.

10. What is the best thing about being you?

Not being a conjoined twin. Time alone with my wonderful array of friends would be awkward. I’d have to compromise greatly when considering how to fuck up the many wonderful second chances I’ve been given in life.

Deciding who to pass the parcel on to with ten fresh questions is an impossible task, so in the interests of curiosity and a chance to broaden the potential pool of responses, I’m throwing it out to everyone I follow and who might be looking in. The brotherhood and sisterhood of blog alike. (That includes you, birdie. Maybe only you. Probably hehe)

Ten questions for your dismissal/consideration..

  1. What single question asked of a person can tell you a lot about that person?
  2. What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?
  3. If you had to place a personal advert on a dating site using not more than 150 words from lyrics of a song or poem, what would they be?
  4. Tell us a joke
  5. What were you like at school? Are you much different now?
  6. If you had to re-name your blog, what would you call it and why?
  7. What five guests, living or dead, would you invite to your fantasy dinner party and why?
  8. Do you have a favourite sexual fantasy? What sorts of things would you like to do in life if you were as outgoing and uninhibited as you wish?
  9. What does someone ‘having character’ mean to you?
  10. Name your top five favourite sit-coms

PLEASE PLEASE PARTICIPATE  No pressure but feel free to join in. Cut ‘n’ paste or respond with haste (sorry).