If criticism of Bono’s involvement in international and domestic affairs is buoyed up on old-fashioned Irish begrudgery, as so many commentators seem to think, why is similar criticism coming from activists and NGOs outside Ireland?
I’ve spent the last few days leafing and listening through the commentary on Gerry Adams’s arrest this week. As so frequently happens when it comes to capturing the nuances of life in Ulcer, it took an English broadsheet, not an Irish broadsheet, nor the National Broadcaster, to give voice to a Northern Ireland-born writer to nail the many hearts of the matter.
A considered piece of writing; shame about the accompanying image.
On my 21st birthday, my best mate presented me with a bulky card containing an obvious little something. Since it was so long ago *pipe lip-smacks*, I don’t recall my exact response but no doubt I mentally punched the air at the prospect of being able to get my round in down the pub. This was the early Nineties remember, so German beer and disposable income had yet to make an appearance. “Open it later”, she muttered, or something to that effect.
I still have the two hand-written pages that slid out that evening. ’21 Good Things About You’ is a credit to the list-making community everywhere (you know who we are) with its respectable double-spaced bullet-pointed lay-out, the different coloured pens indicating due care and consideration for the task underpinned by the occasional moment of inspiration when any pen had to do. The free-hand drawn border frames the mirror up to myself. Naturally, I lingered over the ones that sounded most complimentary (“You know a lot about one-hit wonders”) and curled my lip at a few I feel might’ve been used better. For instance, the one about my friends could’ve been dropped in favour of a nod to my parallel parking. I guess with the best parallel park-ups, no-one is ever there to witness them when you pull them off, so I’ll let that one go.
One of those original eye-rollers has grown on me over the years. “You come from a long line of Donegal people”. Original response: Glad we cleared that up. Later response: Yeah? And what did they do when they ran into a spot of bother? Legged it as far as they could. Current response: That, I do.
According to the latest Census figures, Donegal has more sheep than people. You probably already suspected this if you ever watched RTÉ’s result analysis on election night. In 2010, it had 618,447 of them. The photo at the top of this page shows a few of us back in the 70s. That’s me there in front as a nipper beside my Ma plotting my escape route. I managed to run away some months later but they caught me in the newsagents at the bottom of our street before I could make a proper getaway. That’s my Dad behind her. Behind every Donegal mother is a Donegal father relentlessly on the hunt for a cuppa tea, most likely with one already in paw. There’s my Mother’s two sisters further behind her on the right. They’re both dead now. Every old woman I see wearing white cotton socks with high heels reminds me of one; Marks and Spencer’s biscuit collections reminds me of the other. These women had their standards. Behind them again is an array of uncles. All silent men who worked with their hands and shared a passion for car engines and Elvis.
If you squint, you’ll see my aforementioned mate at the very back with her folks. They moved in next door when she was three so I suppose you could say she’s one of my clan, too. All individuals with their own unique stamp, but part of the flock. From a long line of Donegal flocks.
P.S. I have no idea who that guy on the left is.
Friendly enquiries from vaguely recognisable school friends down at my old coming-of-age pub; the kind woman at the check-out at Sainsburys; curious new colleagues over coffee. It doesn’t matter the time or place, I’ll be right in there first with a pre-emptive joke about getting my last orders baby in. Maniacal laugh optional, from them or me. Sometimes that’s enough to foil the social touretted query about having another, sometimes it’s not. I’ve a few stock responses for the latter, just in case. Being on that Halle Berry diet is currently doing the rounds. Another round of laughter. Mine from marvelling at my own ability to bluff it as an adult long enough for someone to hitch their grown up wagon to mine to have ‘just the one’.
We won’t be having another baby. Sometimes I think that’s a bit shit, but we’re coming to terms with it in our own way. We know our good fortune. I no longer hatch the fantasy of telling our daughter the good news that she can ditch her imaginary friends (James and Molly) when a new baby comes. Other people’s pregnancies don’t seem to go on forever anymore. I’ve started to share the names I had shored up, and don’t roll my eyes with the same speed at the openly stated fears from others at the (un)likelihood of their child being an only one. ‘Any of my pregnancy’ is my new phrase replacing “all of my pregnancies”, which I still hear in a slightly whiny voice bordering on pride, depending on the person uttering it. Sort of like a 30-something Ann Widdecombe crossed with a young Joan Burton.
On the day of her birth, I kept closing my eyes trying to remember what she looked like if I had to pick her out in a line-up (you never know). For the first month of her life, I swore blind we would shelter her from the downpour of life, a promise I set about proving by singing Stars Above by Maria Doyle Kennedy on loop in the half-light until the words were indistinguishable from tears. For the first two years of her life, we wanted to give her another little one. She would’ve made a great sister, as evidenced by her care and attention to detail when nursing her furry friends to sleep, the inclusion of James and Molly in most activities, and her rip roaring laugh at herself when she messes up.
For the rest of my days, I’ll be poised and ready to break up any pity-parties held in her honour. Not for her any tilted heads of sadness, nor worry at not having anyone to fight over her parents’ meagre inheritance with, or slag them off. That’s our job, for which we’re beginning to forgive ourselves.
1. Because
2. I Hate This Town
3. An Argument With Myself
4. I’ve Never Been To Me
5. Humiliation
department of speculation 