In tomorrow’s Weekend Supplement

Parental Controls. Our experts take a look at other experts to expertly debunk their expert advice without any expertise.

Baked Aghasta! Our special 10 page pull-out section featuring recipes with approximately eight ingredients you don’t have, two you can’t pronounce, one you’ll try to convince yourself you can substitute with tomato puree, and half a Nevin Maguire from the waist up.

This! Thread! Yes!  We ask our writers if emojis are being displaced by the return of words. And when is a thread not a thread but a belligerent and tedious attack on a former novel?

Inferior interiors: Revamp all your en-suites with less than a tenth of the cheapest item we usually feature on this page.

Also, gardening tips and other stuff you ignore like our ocean of adverts for cruises that cost the equivalent of several internal organs on the black market, and reviews of mapped obscure walking routes for people you have every intention of avoiding and, with any luck, never becoming.

Plus our regular columnist Donald Larkin will be on the back page with at least one word you won’t admit to having to look up.

Don’t just open your mind, torment it.

table

Just a regular Saturday morning round our gaff

 

Thank you for not breathing

We’re under attack from an aggressive downpour of orders to be quiet from the folk behind. Precision missiles narrowly miss our ears before ricocheting off Natalie Portman’s breathy Jackie to land on their intended target. She’s not a day under 80, alone; with an accent so rooted in the Gaeltacht, I fear for the state of her Vs. Her hearing can’t be much younger since she retaliates with a decade of God Blesses before thanking the caller profusely. She hangs up just as Jackie knocks back another wodka, as she would probably say herself. There is no contest between Jackie’s manicured vowels and the life-soaked North Western afternoon chorus of God sanctioned greetings. But we only paid to hear one of them, which entitles the rest of us to an elevated sense of rage as we pneumatically chop down on our popcorn. Equal opportunity rage, mind. Right on, right on.

 

In response to intractable listlessness: A request for lists for the great list of lists

Dedicated to listophile and all round daycint spud, Tric over at My Thoughts On a Page 

So far I have..

Things I’d like to be able to do if ability was not a barrier

Things I’d like to able to do if suspension of disbelief was possible

Things I think I can do reasonably OK

People whose citizenship I’d revoke for being so annoying (in my town)

2017 transgressions I committed that increases my changes of going to hell

Ireland’s sacred cows part 33

Inanimate objects I am rather hostile towards

Things on which I experience only intense indifference about

Songs that scared the shite out of me as a nipper and still do

Words that make me wince

Desert Island swear words

All suggestions welcome. Nay, implored. No, actually, essential.

Thank you (and you also down the back). You’re both lovely.

Edge of Seventeen

Next year will be different.

Next year I will combat the creeping suspicion that integrated  education is merely a subtle form of middle-class Unionist assimilation. I will do this with steadfast determination to tether it to my own terms. I will sheepishly deliver our girl to class after the Remembrance Assembly but this time armed with an unapologetic reason why, if asked. I will swerve to avoid collisions with groups of more than one parent in the yard and forbid myself the possibility of a re-run of Facebook-Gate 2016. I will suppress the pleasure of taking the piss out of myself at all costs for fear I will re-awaken the sensitivities and antipathy of other parents. I will defiantly goose-step over landmines of emoticons, smiles, thumbs up, likes, and all manner of paraphernalia of the passive aggressive and paranoid. I will restore some of my credibility by refusing to wear clown-feet red boots when striving to be taken seriously.

redboots

Could you wear these and stroke your chin at the same time?

Next year will be different

Next year there will be more women than Lynn Ruane single-handedly serving as a vital visible counter-point to prevailing mainstream middle-class feminism. Traveller women, working class women, and women for whom English is not their first language but for whom Ireland is their first shot at stable family life, will not be confined to the following:

  • 10 minutes of air-time on open-air trucks at annual marches
  • 10 hours of patronising twitter admiration following the above
  • 51 weeks of obscurity till the next time

There will be plain English to rival the paradigms and intersectionality and tone-police-policing of the custodians of public discussion on equality.

Next year will be different

Next year there will be more films, less vengeful fantasies involving neighbours hatched in response to the casual erection of their corrugated monstrosity impeding my view of sun-set. There will be more maybes, less yeses, and more emphatic nos.

Next year will be different

Next year I will no longer labour under the notion of reconciliation. As the final tranche of European Peace monies pour into the coffers of local government, I will confidently, and correctly, predict the successful squandering of same. At a ratio of three managers to every one community worker. The most successful reconciliation will be Sinn Fein with their insatiable sense of entitlement. Where I live, anyway. Aided and abetted by deference of weak-willed management with imagination institutionalised out of them. There will be fewer fucks given. Just a steely resolve to rise above the bullshit through the ancient scientific application of rolled eyes and a reasonable day’s work for a shit day’s pay at the end of it.

Next year will be different

Next year will be lined with coastlines. And coast-hangers. And ward robes with mountains of closed bags filled with skirt-arounds never worn and ill-fitting dressing-downs and scuffed shoo-ins.

Next year will be different

Next year I will go wherever the keyboard takes me. The words will take the wheel while I continue to enjoy the scenery.

Happy New Year.

Busted

He’ll be home soon. Better get on with fixing dinner. Hang on, who the hell ‘fixes’ dinner apart from characters in American novels and her after he’s had a hearty go at preparing it. Best tidy up first, but not overdo it.

Terry says it’s OK not to dump her shit on him. She tried it already by text this morning. HI. CAN’T FACE WOR… Delete. HIYA. Delete. HEY GONNA GIVE WORK A… Delete. CAN’T FUC…. Delete. HAVE A DECENT DAY. SEE YOU LATER x.

Relax. She doesn’t really text in capital letters. She might be off her head but she’s not THAT deranged.

Christmas tree lights on. Off. On. Having no lights on is too much of a give away. Like the deserted breakfast bowls with rapidly encrusted cereal boasting the stubborn adhesiveness of a fossil. Radio on. Dishes in sink.

HIYA

[Door slams shut]

Hi. I’m in the kitchen.

Hiya

Hey

How’s it going? Busy day?

Aye. Usual. You?

Did you it make back from work OK?

Grand, yeah.

Really?

She suspects he suspects. Maybe it’s because she forgot to put her shoes on. She will maintain a breezy tone.

Why?

The road’s been closed since 10 this morning. Pipe-bomb.

Oh.

He offers to fix dinner.

Today will be different

Today will be different. Today I will not wait for a parking space as close as possible to the school to reduce the margin for interaction with parents while leaving me late. Today I will not wear black like I did yesterday, and the day before that. And the day before that. Today I will ignore the box of celebrations my fella thinks he has hidden behind the plastic bags in the bottom cupboard next to the washing machine. Today I will decant one of the many boxes stacked in the living room since our move three months ago. Today I will initiate conversation on home decor starting with curtains to replace the paper ones. With a tone bordering on enthusiasm. I won’t talk about how little the old house was sold for. Or how less than that it is actually worth. I will look towards the future without a backward glance to the past. I will not continue scrolling through pages online after my fella flicks off his bedside light. Or wonder when tone policing starts and irrational defensiveness ends. Or vice versa. Today will be different.

Inspired by Eleanor Flood

Possibilities

I prefer going to movies alone.

I prefer to star in life alongside other people.

I prefer a soaking along the Atlantic.

I prefer Keyes to Keynes.

I prefer myself liking myself

to myself disliking everyone else.

I prefer to keep a needle on the record, than just CDs in cases .

I prefer the colour clean.

I prefer not to make a mountain

out of every cliff.

I prefer inceptions.

I prefer to finish, nearly.

I prefer talking to police about something else.

I prefer coast-lined habitations.

I prefer the absurdity of writing to myself

to the absurdity of speaking this to others.

I prefer, where love’s concerned, specific anniversaries

that can be celebrated every year.

I prefer loyalists

who plámás me nothing.

I prefer being mindful to mindfulness.

I prefer the down-to-earth civilians.

I prefer listening to being listened to.

I prefer having some ultimatums.

I prefer the heaven of chaos to the hell of order.

I prefer the what’s not to the what’s hot

I prefer leaving with hugs to arriving to kisses.

I prefer unchopped tales to truncated tweets.

I prefer truthful eyes, since mine are no good at lying.

I prefer writing bureaus.

I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here

to many things I’ve also left unsaid.

I prefer heroes you’ve never heard of

to those most feted figures you have.

I prefer the Time of  Tom Waits to the Time of New York’s Square.

I prefer to not step on the cracks.

I prefer not to ask how and why.

I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility

that persistence has its own way of navigating.

By (mainly) Wislawa Szymborska

Children of the revolution

“Participants in last week’s pro-choice march hang signs around children’s necks proclaiming, “I was a chosen child.” The implications are chilling. “Chosen” has surface connotations of being special, but also the cold wind whispering in your ear: you could have just as easily not been chosen. Your siblings, your flesh and blood, may not have been chosen and therefore are absent forever from your life. Such a slogan screams that adults are all-powerful. They have the right to exclude others from even being defined as human.”

Breda O’Brien, Irish Times Sat 1/10/16

I wondered when the subject of children on protest marches would arise. More specifically, the subjective value-judgements commentators inevitably attach to it. Breda might’ve been left cold by the perceived connotations of the gesture, as is her wont; I just thought it was extraordinarily naff. But I’m sure she’d expect nothing less from an irresponsible pro-choicer like myself who brought her own daughter on the march last year.

She continues…

“Children cannot rationalise abortion in the way adults can. They cannot rationalise taking away a life as a solution.”

As statements of fact, the first will likely be met with broad agreement by anyone who has ever spent a few minutes of their lifetime dabbling in logic. The second will prompt many to ask for clarifications on the meaning of life, whether that includes the life of a sentient woman, the solution to what exactly, and other plentiful well-worn question marks frequently posed by my 4 year-old and her mates over play-doh.

Breda’s contention is not that children shouldn’t be brought on marches  – she brought her own on pro-life rallies – it’s that pro-choice marches are essentially an exercise in compromising the emotional security of those children attending. Where the use of such slogans as ‘chosen child’ is an unequivocal demonstration of how their mother’s love is conditional, and there but for the almighty power of her (presumably) blithe judgement, their own lives might very well have been taken away before they began.

Tell me about it, Breda. Sure our wee one has been milking that one for years, and will continue to do so until it dawns on her around 13 that she didn’t actually ask to be born.

“No parent loves perfectly, but babies bring out a fierce protectiveness in us. The urge to protect the weakest and most helpless is primal. Or at least it used to be.” 

Or at least it is for us pro-life parents, in short. As a pro-life protesting parent, Breda is satisfied with the phased exposure to the principles of the pro-life movement undertaken with her own children. Pro-life protestors, it would seem, have a monopoly on ensuring responsible engagement of children in forms of protest.

“I told them that abortion was a word that they had to trust me to worry about and not to explain until they were much older. “

I’m not sure I feel so confident. When it comes to protecting the innocence of my own girl, and balancing that with the cultivation of a sense of justice and an incremental introduction to the complexities and messiness of life, there is much I won’t be able to guard her from. But such is life.

In time, she will come to learn there are few areas in life that can be unequivocally defined by a single moral perspective. That those holding competing views will always be the last to see their own hypocrisy. And, just as Breda marches alongside children brandishing placards showing foetal remains; the rest of us take our place next to our own diversity of bedfellows and march onward in the hope of reaching a fair destination.

For now, I’m reasonably certain that instilling an awareness of the existence of public disgruntlement, unhappiness among women about the rules that govern them, and their corresponding entitlement to use the public highway to highlight that, will not compromise our girl’s sense of security. She’s been doing it effectively in the hallway since the time she could walk.

children-marching

What do we want?

Our mothers to be trusted

When do we want it?

Er can we have our crisps now?

My perfect colleague

Now I’ve got a colleague called Vincent
He’s sure to make it to management
Always faultless, green, and sweet
As useless you can get them
He’s got a plastic-lined cheap waste basket
My manager thinks he’s fantastic
She won’t even let me explain
That me and Vincent we’re just not the same

Oh my perfect colleague
What I like to do he doesn’t
He’s the organisation’s pride and joy
His line manager’s little golden boy

He’s gotta degree in shitty comics
Mass, gimmicks, and antibiotics!
He thinks that I’m a savage
’cause I hate butter in my sandwich
Even by the hour of ten
Annoying Vincent is so annoying by then
He always thinks he’s at a rodeo
‘Cause he’s tries to ride our director whenever he says hello

Oh my perfect colleague
What I like to do he doesn’t
He’s the organisation’s pride and joy
His line manager’s little golden boy

His manager made him a supervisor
Got Human Resources into advise her
Now he’s walking with lots of poise
Swaggering along like the MBA boys

Twirls try to attract his attention
But what a shame it’s in vain total rejection
He will never lift them off the shelf
’cause Vincent he’s more likely to eat himself

Oh my perfect colleague…

colleagues

Dorothy shares one of Vincent’s jokes with the office

Everything you never wanted to know about me but couldn’t be arsed asking

Welcome to my latest blog experiment in which  I attempt to balance my neurotic privacy with the perfectly formed indifference of the blog’s readers. All..erm.. dozen of them.

Got a question you’re not fussed about knowing the answer to? Throw it out there.

Thank you for not caring

'He's always been fascinated with disguises.'