Dear Readers

Only a week left in the year.

I started blogging at the very end of May. I don't know why I chose that particular time, but it could be something to do with the following.

A week after our lovely Dad died, I was to attend the last weekend workshop of a writing course I'd been doing in Maynooth NUI, on Creative Writing for Publication. That Saturday morning, I woke up and told His Nibs that I wasn't going. He agreed it might be a bit soon. I told him that there was no point, that I felt like I'd never write anything again.

He got all feisty and pushed me out of the bed and into my car and sent me to class, because he worried that if I started that nonsense of "I'll never write again" that I actually wouldn't.  And if nothing else, it keeps me quiet.

I hadn't done my homework, and we had to bring in a piece of work, so I randomly chose "The Ransom Note" from the Writing folder on my laptop and printed it off.

A few weeks later, it was the very first piece I blogged. I’d  got a great reaction to it in class, and couldn't believe it when people actually roared laughing at it.

I've written for years, and never sent anything out into the world before.

I decided that feck it, I'd start a blog. If it didn't work out, what harm? I could stop any time I wanted to.

Sometimes, when the days have been dark and the laughs few and far between, the blog saved me from falling apart completely.  Sometimes, of course, it didn't.

But every little event became an opportunity to vent, and to try to raise a laugh.
If you're going to write a blog, you have to keep going, I think, or everyone loses interest. It gave me the discipline to sit down and write something hopefully funny, a couple of times a week, and to draw me out of my misery.

And you, dear kind readers, were so receptive and supportive and positive about it all, that it made me want to keep going.

And so here is my wish for you this Christmas season

-           I hope you don't get a single talc and soap set on Tuesday morning.

-           I hope your turkey comes out of the oven the same shape as it went in, without collapsing, burning or still being pink in the middle.

-           I hope the toys are easily constructed and you don’t have to stay up until four in the morning putting things together in complete silence, lest you wake the kids.

-           I hope you have Quality Street or whatever your favourite Christmas chocolate is.

-           I hope you win all the Christmas games in your house and get to stick out your tongue at the bossy person who makes you all play them when you could be eating and watching television.  Unless of course that person is you (it's me in my house!) in which case well done on entertaining the family.

-           I hope some helpful guest or family member volunteers to do the washing up after the dinner – if they do, let them, for God’s sake.  There’s no glory in being a martyr about this.

-           I hope you get that great present you’ve been hinting at since August and not some off- the-wall mental thing that cost twice what you wanted but is only half as useful.

-           I hope your Christmas gúna, or jumper, is lovely on you, and remains so after you’ve had your dinner.  Mine tends to start stretching and sort of collapsing in a very alarming manner.

-           I hope the children suddenly turn into angels and eat their dinner, and don’t break any of their toys and then roar the house down on the day.

-           On a similar vein, I hope the spirit of goodwill to all overtakes your children and they don’t have a single fight.  Particularly one where one tries to brain the other with their new monster truck and you end up in Casualty.

-           I hope you get the perfect amount of sprouts.  As far as I know, the perfect amount is either none or about two pounds of them to yourself.

-           I hope, if you’re church going, that the priest doesn’t go on for too long while the children ask loudly if he’s ever going to stop so they can go home and play with their toys.

-           I hope that the family members that you love so dearly don’t make you want to tie them up with tinsel and feck them out into the garden for themselves.

-           I hope the weather stays nice and mild so you can drive to see whoever you want and have a great time, and don’t get stuck in your house with the Grinch – my own constant worry.

-           I hope you don’t get any unexpected presents, so you don’t have to give away your wine or chocolate in return for a box of handkerchiefs.

 

Most of all I hope that you all have a lovely time, and enjoy every minute of it all.

I also hope you’ll continue to read my blog next year and I really hope you enjoy reading it as  much as I enjoy writing it.

 
And I hope for great things for all of us and for a better year next year – even if this year has been brilliant for you.
 
Happy Christmas to you all – I’ll take a blogging holiday now, so you can have a rest from
my moaniness at this happy time.
 
Thanks a million for reading my stuff.

 Cathriona

 

Blind Date

I have a dear friend who is currently single, and dating.

She has decided to try internet dating, because she is sick, sore and sorry of meeting apparently nice men out and about, getting on fine with them, arranging a date with one, and then finding out that he's a complete gobshite as soon as she's stuck at a table with him, having just ordered three courses, with nothing to do but listen to him blather on about how difficult his job is, or how funny and wild he is.

Recently, she saw a nice man's profile on the net. He contacted her, she responded, all was well, very texty, for a while. He lived in the same town, seemed normal, was 32, two years older than her, and funny in his texts so she decided feck it, she'd meet him for a drink.

She's very attractive, this friend of mine. She's funny, intelligent, and has the sort of figure I personally would happily swap my house, my car, my two dogs and His Nibs for. What could go wrong?

He was late, the rude pig. On a blind date. What a git, leaving her sitting there like an eejit, in a well known hostelry, looking up every time the door opened. As any woman with an ounce of sense would, she phoned her sister.

"Ah sure, maybe he got stuck at work, give him a chance" she was advised.

"But he hasn't even texted to say where he is. That's not right, is it" my friend wondered.

"It probably just means he's almost there" her sister said.

She sat it out, warrior that she is.

  

As one man after the other arrived in and none approached her, she started to droop. Until the date arrived. She recognised him from his photograph, eventually.

At first she thought that maybe he'd been injured in some sort of accident, and had had the presence of mind to send his father to tell her.

As he stood there, obviously looking for her, she realised that this was a highly unlikely scenario. The dishonest fecker had used a photograph that was at least twenty years old.

She picked up her bag and left, as you do.

As she made her way down the street she phoned her housemate to tell her how she was getting on.

"Keep running" her friend told her. "You can't go out with a man who's too much of a liar to admit his age, or so stupid he thinks that you won't notice."

No sooner had she hung up on that call, than her sister rang up to see if the date had turned up yet.

Once again the sister, who I suspect might be in a very long relationship like myself, and a bit eager to be in the dating game, if only through someone else (again, like myself), told her to give the man a chance, and go back.

Believe it or not, my optimistic friend was persuaded to go back. 

But when she got into the pub, her fury at his dishonesty overtook her.

She marched straight up to him and asked him his name. Having confirmed that he was, indeed, her date, she asked him his age.

 "32". He answered brazenly.

"That's a big lie. Even if you've had more plastic surgery than Jordan, I don’t believe you’re  32."

She said all this at the top of her voice. Not only beautiful and intelligent, but feisty. A deadly combination.

"OK" he admitted "I'm 35".

"God" she told him "you must have had a rough life. If you've been moisturising all your life and never been out in the sun I'll accept that you're forty five. Show me your driving licence, or I'm leaving right now."

He was gone fifty.  She left. She was so offended that he thought she'd believe his nonsense that she wouldn't have had a drink with him for anything.

The following week, when she went back to the same pub to meet a friend, the barman told her that they’d been taking bets behind the bar. Giving him a slap had been even money, and it was ten to one that she’d end up snogging him in the pub.

I have another young friend, whose blind date ranted on so much about his stress and anxiety and temper and the awful day he'd had at work, that she asked him if he wanted to continue with the date at all.

"I’m fine, I took a load of my tablets" he informed her. "They always calm me down."

Definitely too much information on a first date. He put the heart across her. There was no second date.

Both of these ladies are thinking of giving up on the whole caper. They're coming to the conclusion that if they don't fall over their soulmates as they meander down the rocky path of life, sure what harm? Worse things happen.

I don't know though. It all sounds sort of exciting to me. But then I haven't been on a proper date for almost twenty years. If I ever found myself single again (and I might, if the fecking Christmas tree doesn't find its way out of the attic soon) I think I'm so nosy that I'd go on any date I got just to see what they were like.

And writing my profile for the website would be the best fun ever, I'd imagine. It's the only place I'd ever be able to lie so much I can refer to myself as athletic. Yes, I know "cuddly" is the accepted euphemism for fat, but if I'm going to lie I'm going to do it in style.

I suppose I'd get fed up of it though. Just having to put on makeup and wear heels all the time would probably render me so miserable I'd be banging down the door of the local convent in a week.

Come back Cilla Black. We need you.

 

Chris-stress

Another fascinating online story today.
Travelodge, the hotel chain, commissioned a study into Christmas, the run up to it, the stress it causes, etc. etc.

Fascinatingly enough, half of men think women exaggerate the stress of Christmas, while a third think they could do a  better job of organising the festivities than their lady friend.

I’d like to see His Nibs effort at doing a better job than me. He wanted us to get a Marks and Spencer "Dine in for Two for €12.50" this year. 
The time he was sent to town for the selection boxes he ate two bars out of one of them on the way home. 
And even though he has to come up with only two presents, he doesn’t actually buy either of them.  I buy one, and take him around the shops pointing at the things I want for my own gift.

Having said that, I’m not a woman who sits up in the middle of the night yelping because I’ve forgotten to order a turkey, or starts grating bread into crumbs for the freezer in November. Because I’ve only made Christmas dinner once in my entire life, and that was just for His Nibs and me and one easy going guest, so it made damn all difference whether it was a success or not.  I suppose it wasn’t.

The roast potatoes were lovely, the gravy was instant, the turkey inexplicably came out of the oven looking like a large pork chop, having collapsed in on itself, and the stuffing was lost in the debacle, having squirted out of the turkey and landed in the cooking fat.  But I didn’t get stressed.  It was a dinner, no big deal.  I thought I was a bit of a hero, actually, to have made the effort at all.

And to be honest, I consider any dinner with Brussels sprouts a roaring success.  I didn’t care if the turkey came out of the oven in flitters, as long as there were sprouts.

My mother, who has run Christmas in the Murphy homestead for forty five years, is actually reasonably easy going also.  Fair enough, nobody is allowed into the gift zone (the sitting room) until fully dressed and fit to meet the world.  Shiny hair and makeup are encouraged – at half eight in the morning, can you imagine me?

But the year I suggested that we break with a lifetime's tradition, and resist opening our presents until three in the afternoon, when my brother would return from the long journey that visiting his daughters on Christmas morning necessitates, she just kicked in and went along with it. 

And she never discourages us from having a drinky very early in the day.  Maybe it’s because she is a teetotaller, and doesn’t take the difference between a glass of wine at lunchtime and a large brandy at eleven in the morning seriously.

I’m not from a family that gets into a massive state about Christmas.  I don’t really understand people letting it take over their lives for three months.

Every year, like every woman, and some of the men I know (very much excluding His Nibs, obviously) I make a list at least a page long of people who I need presents for.  I quite like buying presents, once I know what I want to get people, and if only every shop wasn’t packed to the rafters with other shoppers, Christmas music of ever increasing volume, and diminishing stock supplies.

I try to finish the gift buying about a week before Christmas,  then I wrap them all in one sitting, cutting fiddly bits of ribbon and curling and twisting it and sticking it to the paper in a way nobody except me cares about.  That part is a bit tedious, but there’s a great sense of achievement when it’s all finished.

 

I don’t get into an anxiety attack over it.  It’ll be fine.  All the people I buy presents for are quite fond of me, I hope, and probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I didn’t do it.  There’s no need to go into a state of collapse.

The Travelodge study also revealed that the week before Christmas is the worst of the year for sleep.  Apparently lots of people lie awake worrying about the festivities to come.

Now, I am not a bit surprised that some people wake up during the night in a sweat of panic about whether or not there’ll be anything under the tree for the children on Christmas morning.

Imagine my surprise when I read on to discover that the concerns at the top of the lists of those in the study are;

Keeping guests entertained

Planning meals

Getting embarrassed by a partner or child.

There’s a few quick answers to this.

Feck the guests, they’re getting their dinner, it’s up to them to do the entertaining.  The least they can do is tell stories and bring games (I recommend Cluedo, nothing like a good murder mystery to get the seasonal goodwill going) and do their share of making the fun.  There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

What planning the meals?  We all know what we’re having.  Just get everyone in the family to be in charge of one thing each, if it’s causing you to lose sleep.  We already have our plan for this year.  I will be in charge of roast potatoes and brussel sprouts.  But that’s because I want to make sure I get the lion’s share of them.

Finally, I don’t have any kids to embarrass me.  But believe me when I tell you, I’m familiar with the pain of having a partner who embarrasses you.  All I can say is that although it’s unlikely that he or she will ever learn to behave at this stage, there’s only so many times they can embarrass you before you stop feeling it.  Don’t worry about it.  One man’s embarrassing partner is another’s life and soul of the party.

Just get over it.  As long as Santy brings what he’s asked for, the rest will sort itself out.  Go to sleep and don’t be panicking over little things. It’ll be grand.

Christmas - The Good News & The Bad News

I'm still struggling to decide whether I'm looking forward to Christmas or not.

So I've decided to do the traditional list of pros and cons to assist me.

So far, it runs as follows, but I'd love to hear any corrections or additions.

Good News
Selection Boxes.  The only time of the year it's okay to buy eight bars of chocolate at a time for a child, or indeed for yourself.

Bad News
Mince Pies.  I can't bear them.  They're made of fruit, and suet or vegetable fat.  Now in fairness, can you think of any other time of the year you'd sit down to a feed of pastry, fruit and fat?  Bleugh. Feel free to argue.

Good News
Quality Street.  Especially the orange and strawberry cremes.  My favourite Christmas chocolate of all.

Bad News
Roses.  I mean the Cadbury's ones, not the flowery ones, which I'm not fond of either.  But I hate unwrapping a box of sweets and discovering they're Roses, not Quality Street.  I think Roses have gone miles downhill since I was a child, when, unless I'm much mistaken, they were lovely.  Or maybe we were just more deprived then.

To be fair, I'm expecting some resistance on this.  Roses remain popular, I'm told.

Good News
Cosy pyjamas and open fires.  Special new, Christmas pyjamas.  Not of your satiny nonsense for me, I want flanelette at Christmas.  Especially if they've got Santy or Rudolph on.

Bad News
Onesies.  None for me thanks.  I've made my feelings clear on this in the past, if you're not aware of them and are remotely interested please see my blog on the right, under November, "Onesie for the Road".  I'll say no more for now.

Good News
Drinking early in the day. Or from anytime of the day, to be honest. In our house, Mum is a teetotaller, so we try to exercise some control, so that she doesn't end up surrounded by drunkards by lunchtime. Except for the year my sister opened the brandy at 11am. And didn't stop until she finished it, the bold yoke.

 

Bad News
Mulled wine.  I don't like it.  It's been interfered with too much.  I don't like my alcohol hot.  Just give me the bloody wine before you start faffing about with it.

Good News
Fairytale of New York, by the Pogues and Kirsty McColl.  I have to admit, I listen to this song all year round.

Bad News
Cliff Richards' bloody efforts at Yuletide charm.  How many Christmas songs has he made?  It feels like hundreds.  And every one of them is worse than the last.

Good News
Nice seasonal frost that looks nice from inside, but melts by  midday.

Bad News
Snow and ice and frozen pipes and impassable roads.

Good News
Lovely decorations and candles.

Bad News
The creepy fibre optic Santy at work.  It just stands there, multi coloured lights twinkling, and somehow managing to remind me of a serial killer.

Good News
Small children cheering every time they see even a picture of Santy, and muttering their wishes shyly at the great man when they go to visit his grotto.

Bad News
The fecking stalls on Henry Street that make the street almost impassable, and that all sell the same tat.

Good News
Cosy lunches in country pubs, catching up with lovely people home for the season, drinking, again, during the day, while the wind lashes against the windows.

Bad News
Being elbowed in the face by enthusiastic revellers on New Years Eve, who are a foot taller than me and twenty years younger.

Good News
Brussels Sprouts being compulsory.

Bad News
I suppose for most of the people in the country, brussels sprouts being compulsory.

Dear Christmas

I have resisted the urge, since last September, to start moaning about you.  The first Christmas department opened as soon as the Back to School stuff went off the shelves, and I had to grit my teeth every time I accidentally wandered in there, or even passed by. 

But now, I feel, it is no longer too early to moan about Christmas.  Because in fairness, if I don’t moan now, it might be too late, the whole thing will be over by the time I get going.

The first visible sign of Christmas, in most houses, is when the Christmas tree goes up.  I don’t know how people cope, having the tree up from the start of December, or even, in some houses, the last weekend in November.

If we put a tree up this year, and we mightn’t bother, seeing as we won’t be here on the big day itself, it’ll be the weekend before Christmas, in other words the 22^nd December.  I know that might seem a bit late and grinchy to most people, but my last working day is 21^st December, so Christmas only really starts then.

Also, even though our dogs are really well house trained, I’m afraid they’ll get confused when they see a tree in the house and think it’s like the forest His Nibs walks them in, and that they have to pee on it.  If that happens, the three legged one, Oscar, the most accident prone dog in Ireland, will surely pee directly onto a fairy light and give himself a willie burn that needs medical attention, which is both costly and inconvenient.

Also, I am terrified of heights.  And we, like most people, keep our Christmas decorations in the attic. Every year, I ask His Nibs to take down the decorations.  And every year he refuses, because he just can’t be bothered, and he doesn’t want to have his view of the television blocked by my walking around the tree for hours trying to get it to look festive without being tacky.

Every Christmas week I ask him to go up into the attic to root around in the cold and the dark and find the decorations.  And every time, he refuses.

“Love, will you go up to the attic and get the decorations?”

“No, I won’t”.

“But why?”

“Because I don’t want to, and it’s a load of old nonsense.  We won’t be here for Christmas, what’s the point?”

“But I don’t want to come back on St. Stephen’s Day to a house without even a tree in it.”

“But on St Stephens Day Christmas is over anyway.  No love, I’m not going to do it.”

“Don’t be such a pig.  You’re ruining Christmas.”

He won’t give in, of course, and I won’t give in and forget the Christmas tree plan.  I decide I'll just do it myself.  So I sigh and moan and make a drama, and shout at the dogs to stay in the living room (with maximum fuss) so that they won’t knock over the stepladder.

Eventually he comes to watch, and when he gets bored of me gripping onto the ladder, and the edges of the attic door and shaking so much that the whole ladder trembles, he gives in and runs up the ladder, sure footed as a mountain goat and gets the decorations down.

Getting the tree up seems to take forever, but to be honest, I do start feeling a bit more festive and Christmassy once it’s done.

Last year, I lost the head completely.  Some of His Nibs’ family were in Australia, so they weren’t getting together.  So I decided I’d cook dinner here, in our own kitchen.  Obviously a chicken would have done us, but I wanted to go the whole hog, so I bought a turkey and a fillet of ham, peeled four times too many vegetables, and got up early on Christmas morning to cook the stupid thing.

I thought it would be a good idea to put the fecker in a roasting bag – they’re meant to be brilliant, aren’t they? So I did.  And I will never understand this, but it imploded.  The turkey sort of collapsed, and was strangely flat when I took it out of the roasting bag.  The pressure, obviously, of the whole turkey breast dropping with force onto the bottom of it, caused all the stuffing to squirt out of the various orifices, so that the flat bird was now sort of floating on the soggy stuffing.  His Nibs, rather than being disappointed or comparing it to his mother’s cooking, became hysterical, which was somehow more offensive.

Strange to say, it was delicious.  Not in any way dry or tasteless, as turkey can be.  I missed the stuffing though.

Of course, before we even get to the turkey worry, there’s the entire present caper to deal with.  I love buying presents, especially when I’ve saved up the money to do with, and don’t have to choose between buying gifts for my loved ones and paying the mortgage.  Once I’ve figured out what to buy people, it’s a joy.  I even quite enjoy wrapping them, once I do it at the right moment, usually just after I’ve put up the tree and am feeling Christmassy.

What I resent is the people who suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, and often after years of normal friendship, start throwing presents at you, usually a couple of days before Christmas, and often in your own house, when you can’t even pretend you’ve left their gift at home.

Why would anyone do that?  If you’re going to buy me a present, please let me know by 5^th December at the latest.  That will save me from rooting around under the stairs looking for a long forgotten bottle of wine to hand back.

This year I’ve had the presence of mind to buy a lovely scented candle, and wrap it up.  My theory is that if a woman comes in and gives me a random present, I can give her the candle.  If another woman comes in and does the same, I can give them the first woman’s present to me.  If a man comes in and gives us an unexpected present, and a scented candle isn’t appropriate for him, I’m in trouble.  Thankfully, I don’t think I know a single man who is likely to do that.  If nobody turns up with something unexpected, I’m left with a lovely scented candle.  Aren’t I clever?

I’m always sucked into the whole caper in the end.  On Christmas morning, even though we’re almost never in our house, there is usually at least two cheese boards in the fridge.  And about eight bags of coal in the garden.  There's at least two tubs of butter in the fridge, and about a litre of fresh cream.   It's like I don't know the difference between Christmas and Armageddon.
The only tablecloth we own has shiny holly leaves on it.  Even though we’ve had Christmas dinner in our house once in our lives.  How come we don’t need a tablecloth all year but have one for Christmas?  Complete with napkins and a table runner.  I didn’t even know, until I saw them hanging beside the table cloths in the shop last year, what a table runner was.  But that’s Christmas for you.

When the big day finally arrives, there’s a certain amount of pressure to enjoy it, sort of like the relaxation room after having a massage.  You’ve opened your presents, your dinner isn’t ready yet, and there’s a certain amount of time that needs to be killed without taking the smile off your face.  Because God forbid that any one of us be accused of ruining Christmas. 

If His Nibs and I are together, the time flies by while we fight about our selection boxes.  He’s one of eight, and I’m one of six, and in the eighties, nobody bought that many selection boxes for one family.  We’re Irish, we just got a tin of Roses.  So now every year, to make up for it, we get a selection box each. 

I don’t like that Cadbury’s have now started doing His Favourites and Her Favourites. 

They both have a Crunchie, a Wispa and a Twirl.  But where the boys then have a Double Decker, a Dairy Milk, a Picnic and a Curly Wurly, the girls are left with a Flake, a Caramel, a Wispa Gold and Buttons.

I’m not happy.  In my opinion, a Caramel and a Wispa Gold are basically the same thing;  Cadbury’s chocolate with Caramel inside.  A Flake, which is kind of pointless where there’s a Twirl as well and a bag of Buttons instead of a nice chunky Dairy Milk?  I think not.  It’s two boys selections boxes for us.

This is what will happen.  We will get our selection boxes, we’re both delighted, he eats his favourite, then he tries to eat his favourite out of my selection box.  So I have a tantrum.  Then he has a tantrum.  The selection boxes are ruined, because I tell him to feck off and take the stupid Double Decker if it means that much to him, and he actually does.  He clearly knows nothing about women.

I suppose this is the thing.  Christmas comes, and goes, every year, whether it's been a good year or a bad one.  If you don't like it, it's really only one day that you have to get through.  If you like it, then feck it, throw yourself into it with gay abandon, go mental. 

Even though I spend all my time until the tenth of December giving out about it starting too early, it's here now.  Let's enjoy it.

Feck it, I'll put up a Christmas tree.  Maybe even next weekend, Oscar will have to take his chances.  I'll be using the shot glasses I accidentally bought in IKEA.  Copiously, I hope.  I'll be eating nice, intact turkey in my mother's house.

And I'm bringing my own selection box with me.  I might even set myself the challenge of getting it all eaten before His Nibs arrives up in the evening to take his share of it. 

 

 

I Needed a Hero

Remember how I said this week that our house has been like Antartica for over a week?

Well, today was the big day, when the oil was to be delivered and the airlock removed, so that normal service could resume, and I could stop trying to hug the sheepdog as if he was a hot water bottle.

I finally found Aaron, you'll be pleased to know. He promised, last Wednesday, he'd come around and sort out the airlock, and the kitchen light while he was at it. But he wisely pointed out that the airlock couldn't be fixed until the oil tank had oil in it again.

I duly ordered oil. A tankful, to be delivered before ten this morning. I was quite fussy about this on the phone. I told the oil company it was because I had a man coming to fix the airlock, but the truth was it was because I was having my hair dyed back to its unnatural colour at half past ten. There is no way I can go through another week apologising to strangers for my hair. I don't know why I do that.

"Hi, nice to meet you, I don't normally have hair like this".

The point is, I've had a couple of very busy weekends, and I'm due another busy one next week, so it was today or never.

I actually refused to use a couple of oil companies who couldn't guarantee the time, despite the fact that one of the was a tenner cheaper than the one we used (don't tell His Nibs, obviously).

Anyway, His Nibs was working today so I told him to be sure to wake me before he left, in order that I might be up and dressed and ready to greet the delivery man.

He didn't trouble himself to do so. He says he forgot, but I know it was because he had used up all the milk. He knows perfectly well that on a weekend morning, the first thi ng I do when I open my eyes is ask for coffee in bed.

He would have had to refuse, on the grounds that there was no milk.

I would have asked him whether he planned on fecking off to the Big Smoke and leaving me with no milk, he would have had to admit that yes, that was his intention, I would have started going mental about his selfishness and demanding he go to Centra, he would have moaned that he had to go to work while I had the day off and before we knew where we were I would have been saying that fine, I wouldn't be living here when he got home.

So he didn't bother waking me up. Which meant that I missed two calls on my mobile, I turned off the alarm, slept through the doorbell and eventually only got up to let the oil man in, (happily, because of recent events, in about four layers of flanelette) when the dog went completely mental.

The first piece of news from the man was that the oil tank was actually a third full and we didn't need as much as we thought. Which was good news financially, but bad news because it meant that it was something more serious than an air lock that was stopping the heating from working.

A few hours later, darker of hair and grocery shopping done, I rang Aaron to inform him that I was now available to have my house repaired, and that I could even pay him since we didn't have to spend more than a month's mortgage on the oil.

He was at our house within twenty minutes. He opened the boiler, and told me that the switch on the thermostat had tripped, whatever that means.  Within seconds he'd fixed it, turned the heating on, and was now ready to fix the kitchen light.

All was well for a while, we were having a chat, drinking tea, I kept stopping him from working by asking him questions about his child, his relationship, and other things that aren't my business. Then, excited to feel heat in the house at last, I sat on the kitchen radiator. It was stone cold.

I expressed my concern to Aaron, who was also concerned. He said he'd ring his friend, who would know exactly what to do.
A few minutes passed, with me still blissfully thinking Aaron's friend would give a few tips over the phone, and all would be well.
It turned out that the pump in our oil boiler was shot to pieces.

There's a good reason why I spent so much of my time last week specifically looking for Aaron. He had already called his friend Jim, who was on his way.
I love Aaron.

Aaron went off to direct Jim to our house, and to buy a new pump, which cost a hundred and forty pigging euro. Money I really didn't want to part with two weeks before Christmas, but it was better than I'd been expecting.

The new pump was put into the boiler and guess what? That's when we found out that there was a reason that the pump keeled over and died. There was absolutely no water in our entire heating system. Which wore out the pump, since it was pumping no water. When the pump wore out, it caused the thermostat to trip.  Apparently you're meant to top up the water in the heating system.

In all your life have you ever heard of anybody having to top up the water in their central heating system? I certainly haven't.

They were in the house for five hours, all in all, but fair play to them, they didn't leave until they were sure the whole system is up and running again, with no leaks or air locks or nonsense.

Of course, all the drama meant that His Nibs got away scot free with not noticing that I'd had my hair done.

I can't believe Aaron rang a friend who came over immediately to sort it out, and then charged us about half what a golden pages plumber would have asked for.

I needed a hero, and I got two.

The point is, our house is warm and cosy again, normality and comfort have been restored. The oil tank is full, the radiators are on, and the house feels more like the Bahamas than the Antarctic.

Please don't call around unannounced for at least three days. I'm battening down the hatches. I'm not letting His Nibs out, and the dogs will have to learn how to use the human toilet. No seal shall be broken, no door opened, until we start talking about how "it's too warm, it's very stuffy" again.

Let Them Eat Cupcake

I'm utterly bewildered by a story I read today.  I can't decide whether I'm completely amoral, or I'm right in thinking that people need to pull themselves together and get over themselves.

Allow me to set the scene.  A couple in the UK got married on 26th October, and had a fancy reception.

The groom's sister paid for the wedding cake for their present, and they chose to have a small traditional cake, with a five tiers of cupcakes, 75 in all, underneath.

It was lovely.  I've put in a picture to save you having to imagine it.

The wedding went very well, apparently. The bride and groom had intended to give out the cupcakes late in the evening, delighting each guest, they hoped, with the gift of what is, essentially, a tasty bun with buttercream icing.

They forgot. They got so carried away with the excitement of the wedding, that the cake remained untouched at the end of the evening.

After the party was over, one of the bridesmaids and an old friend of the bride decided to help clear up the cake.

The friend started to pack the cupcakes into boxes. The bridesmaid told her to leave the boxes in the reception room, and that they'd deal with them the following day.

The friend announced that no, that was daft, she'd bring them home with her.

The bridesmaid says she assumed this friend would hand back the cupcakes the following day.

The following morning - the day after the wedding, bear in mind, when any decent person would be roaring for a bucket, the bride and bridesmaid discussed what had happened and the bride immediately phoned the friend to demand the return of the cupcakes.

She got no reply.  I assume, to be honest, that the friend was lying in bed swearing she'd never drink again.
The bride became enraged at the theft, and went to the friend's house, this is the morning after her wedding, remember, where she banged on the door for some time, but she says, got no answer.
Somehow, though, the cupcake swiper put 25 cupcakes on the doorstep, in a black plastic bag.

The bride continued to demand the return of her other 50 cupcakes, to no avail.  As the happy couple were leaving for their honeymoon later that day, they received a text from the woman,  which said that she'd sent her partner off to work with the cupcakes under his oxter , to hand them out at work.

The bride and groom now say that the memory of their wedding is ruined by the theft of their wedding cake.

Now there's no way I'd go to a wedding and volunteer to bring home the cake.  I think that's a bit odd.

But the bride and groom phoned the police, to have the ex (I assume) friend charged with theft.

As I say, going to a wedding and bringing home the cake is bonkers.  But can you imagine your friend calling the police on you for this?

Do cupcakes last more than a day anyway?  What were they going to do with 75 of them before they got on the plane? 
Am I a natural born thief, or did they over react wildly?
Could their wedding really have been ruined by this?

And most importantly of all, when did buns become cupcakes?

Baby It's Cold Inside!

You're not going to believe the latest from Chez His Nibs and me.

Last Friday night, we came home from work to a freezing house.  We had our takeaway chips under our oxters, lit the fire, turned on the heating, and waited to get cosy.

All was well for a little while, until His Nibs went out to the kitchen to get me another drink.  (I'm especially demanding on Fridays).  As soon as he opened the living room door, the cold that came into the room would stop your heart.

Our fecking heating is broken.  I don't know what happened.  The place was nice and warm on Thursday night. 
I immediately resumed my search for the lovely electrician who used to come to our house and fix things for almost no money.  The last time I saw him, he'd done a course in boiler maintenence, and was all set to start keeping the heating going for us too.

A couple of weeks ago, on one of my trips to Ikea, I bought a new kitchen light fitting.  We currently have the most romantic kitchen in Ireland.  Of the three lights currently on the ceiling, only one is working.  Three of the four corners are steeped in darkness.  If there was ever a place where romance was wasted, it's our kitchen.
So I bought a light and even had the presence of mind to buy the appropriate bulbs. 

I came home, and tried to phone the electrician, Aaron.  No answer.  To be honest, the phone didn't even ring, it just made a sort of disconnected noise.  I was unhappy with this, and worried that Aaron might have emigrated or something.  So I emailed him, and got absolutely no response there either.  I wasn't happy, but in fairness, we spend little to no time in our kitchen.  I didn't think it was a big deal.

It's a big deal now though.  It's been six full days since there was heat in any room other than the living room.  You can physically see your breath in our bedroom.  I had harboured some kind of hope that maybe this would lead to fun warming up exercises, but sadly it's not to be.  In fact, we're both going to bed in two pyjamas each, and trying to talk the dogs into sleeping on the bed with us, for the first time ever, just for body heat.

We get home really late a couple of nights each week, and are only up for about an hour before we retire for the evening.  So the fire isn't even getting going by bedtime.  My hands kind of hurt just typing this.  It's a big commitment just to go to bed, because the whole changing into pyjamas business causes the kind of cold that tends to get into the bones.

We're up half the night fighting over the duvet.  Not because either of us is stealing it, in particular, but because if one of us moves the duvet, dragging a cold bit of duvet onto the other one, ructions ensue.

The dog is in a mad sulk.  The little brat.  If the place gets too warm, he gets sulky too. But I think he's probably fed up of finally being let in from the garden on a cold night, to find he was actually better off outside, where at least he had the space to run around and warm up.
The other dog doesn't care, he just runs around in the complete lack of space that our sitting room contains. It's like living in the bloody monkey enclosure of the zoo, with all the running around, His Nibs shouting at Marley to calm down, and me and Oscar fighting for the warmed up bits of the sofa.

The night before last, I got into bed and assumed that usual marriage laws applied, that I could warm my hands on His Nibs' back, and my feet on his legs.  He almost lost his mind.  There was no talking him around, the mean yoke.

My hands were still cold when I woke up the following morning.

Last night I decided to read for a little while when I got into the bed.  I was too cold to sleep, so I thought I might as well. 
My hands went completely numb.  So I put my gloves on. I know that sounds like the behaviour of an utter maniac, but I was frozen.  I woke up this morning still wearing my black woolly gloves.

Another example of middle age creeping up on us.  When we moved in together first, we lived in the dampest flat in Ireland for a couple of months.  There was no kind of heating there either, and after a couple of months the clothes in the wardrobe started growing mildew.  We moved out, of course.  But strange to say, it mattered less then.  I suppose we were young, and had fire in our bellies to keep us warm.

Those days are over.

Aaron, if you're out there, I need you.  Please. Come home.

Sleeping like a baby?

Now that I have finally accepted that I’m no longer in the first flush of youth, I notice that everyone seems to be treating me a bit differently than they did when I was young, and allowed to be foolish.

I was fourteen when my first niece was born.  And every few years since then, another little person has come to join our family, and we’ve been delighted with every one of them.

I love to spend time with them, and enjoy their company hugely.  But I’ve always gotten away with one challenge.  All my life, I’ve explained to the Mammies and Daddies that I can’t be expected to change a dirty nappy, for lack of experience. 

In my younger days I was let away with utterly refusing to have hand act or part in the foul business.

Basically, I only usually step in for babysitting duties if the child is old enough to not wear nappies, and to tell me when they’re hungry or need to be put to bed.

It would never cross my mind that they might like to go to bed at random times in the middle of the day, or that they might like to eat at regular times.  I once had my nieces for the weekend and offered them Saturday night’s leftover Chinese takeaway for their Sunday brunch.  They’re not foolish girls, and immediately contacted their mother for rescue.

However, because of a series of unfortunate events, culminating in a medical emergency, my sister and her husband bravely left their four year old and fourteen month old in my sole care recently.

It was to be my first foray into getting a baby ready for bed on my own, but, showing my age at last, I felt ready.

People often assume I don’t like babies, just because I chose not to have one.  But they’re incorrect.  I actually love them.  Especially when they’re giddy and funny, like the ones my sister has.  And they seem to love me.  They probably know  they can wrap me around their little finger .

I was feeling pretty confident by the time bedtime came around, the first night I was left alone with them.  My beloved godson, four years old and full of wisdom and divilment, was insulted out of his mind when I offered to help him change into his pyjamas.  So that just left the baby.  No bother.  I’d tackled my first dirty nappy the day before, with what I thought was great success.

It hadn’t been a difficult one.  Nice and quick and clean.  I assumed it was because he’s over a year old, and finished with the disgusting nappies I’d heard about in the past.

He soon put me straight there.  I was horrified, that night, to discover a nappy that looked like he’d sat in a bowl of funny coloured stew.  Two month old stew, by the whiff of it.  The baby was very good humoured about it all, and kept giggling and trying to steal my glasses while I was staggering around the changing table, trying not to retch, so what could I do but deal with it?

Then we got to the pyjamas. Is there a reason why baby pyjamas are so complicated?

I don’t mean the toddler ones, the trousers and top sort of thing.  I’m talking about the little sleeping suits they wear that make them look ridiculously cute, once you get the damn things on.

The baby was lying on the changing table, opening the bum cream and spraying it around merrily. So I tried laying the sleeping suit flat on the baby to see if I could match up the pieces. They’re quite a confusing garment, sleeping suits, when you’re not used to them.

Of course he thought laying his pyjamas over him was hysterical, and started playing peep with me. You know the thing, he puts the pyjamas over his eyes, I start acting all confused and saying “Where’s the baby?” over and over.  Then he pulls down the pyjamas, I shout “There he is!” with a surprised face, he laughs hysterically, we do it again, then again, then I tried to put his pyjamas on, and he gave out stink.

The older, wiser boy walked in, told me that’s not how his Mummy does it, got bored of me begging the baby to let me dress him, went off and brushed his teeth.

I got one leg of the sleeping suit on, despite the fact that the baby was pulling at the neck of it to put it back over his eyes.  Then I buttoned up that leg.

It turned out that it’s not possible to put the suit on successfully if you button up one leg before putting on the other leg.  Especially if you button the legs on when the baby is still under the body of it, pulling it over his eyes.

Eventually in his pyjamas, I put him in the cot, and he turned on his mobile.  I turned out the light and went out to check on the four year old, who was sitting in his bed, in his pyjamas, teeth brushed, storybook chosen, wondering what on earth the delay was about.

When I’d had a chat, read the story, sung a couple of songs and left his room, I was confused to notice that the baby’s light was on.  I told myself I must have forgotten to turn it off, and went into the room to find the baby waving at me and smiling, and suggesting that I pick him up and bring him back upstairs.

Lights off, obviously, and music on again.

I was very surprised, when my sister arrived home and went to check on her small sons.  She told me that she doesn’t usually leave the baby’s light on, it keeps him awake.  I was sure I’d turned it off, and immediately started wondering whether I was further along in middle age than I’d accepted.

The following night, the same thing happened.  I peeped around the door to discover that our lovely little boy had twigged on that there is a second light switch in the room, which happened to be just above his cot.

When we were putting him to bed at night, he would wait until we were gone, turn the light back on, and proceed to play with his toys.

Considering I’d never noticed the second light switch, I suspect he might be a lot more clever than I am.

All in all, I’ve learned more new skills in the last few weeks than in the previous year.

I can change a dirty nappy, though not with much grace. 

I can think of songs to sing to a four year old.  He wasn’t impressed with my dreadful renditions of Take a Chance on Me by Abba or The Killers, Read My Mind, and now I know that the songs I was taught in national school are a better starting point.  If only I could remember them.

I’ve learned that baby food doesn’t necessarily come from jars, and that in fact my beloved sister, obviously an excellent mother, doesn’t like feeding her children from jars.  It isn’t that difficult to cook a carrot and a potato for the baby, or to plan such cooking around the times when he is likely to wake up and be furious with hunger.

I also found out that conker collecting should only be done when the children understand that the ones in the prickly cases aren’t a good choice.

And that knights and pirates are the coolest people on earth, and if I want to be the cool auntie I’m determined to be, I’d better buy a horse or start tying my scarf around my head before I go to the door when he comes to visit.

Onesie for the Road

The news is not good, people.
I’ve been on the online newspaper again, and guess what?  Guess what this year’s massive Christmas seller is?

The onesie.

I’m not joking.  New Look report that they’re selling a onesie every three seconds.  This is New Look UK.  But it doesn’t bode well, does it?  Twenty people a minute buying a onesie, just in New Look.

I can’t bear onesies.

They’re bad enough as pyjamas, but this new caper of people wearing them out on the streets is frightening.

And in fairness, I wouldn’t imagine they’re much cop as pyjamas either.  I have to imagine that being in bed with someone in a onesie would be both creepy and warm beyond reason.  And any night time piddling would become insanely difficult for them, and cold, I’m sure.  And surely if their bedtime pal was hoping to get lucky, they'd be far too repulsed and tired by the time the damn thing was off to bother?

I blame celebrities.  It used to be the people from the reality shows who'll do anything to be photographed, but now it’s actual famous people.  Those little lads from One Direction have apparently done a photo shoot all wearing them, and Rihanna is also a fan.  These are the people that the next generation are taking inspiration from.  They’re a very bad influence, by any standards.

Having said all that, a much loved family member once bought me a onesie. Naturally, the least I could do was try it on.  I don't know why she bought it. Maybe she was stuck for a Christmas present for me, or maybe she thought I’d look like a big cuddly teddy bear in it. 

I didn’t.  I looked more like one of those strange people who like to dress up as babies for kicks.  And I didn’t think it was that comfortable either, to be honest.  It was too warm and fleecy and slightly claustrophobic and much less comfortable than the average pyjamas.

And His Nibs was definitely not a fan. He suggested, when he saw me, that we might be better off as “just friends”.  We’d been married for about seven years.

I resent that onesies are forcing me further and further into the role of grumpy middle aged person.  I don’t want to be the woman who rolls her eyes and shakes her head at young and fashion conscious trendies.

God knows I’ve never been a stylish sort.  These days I just do my best to cover myself as much as possible.  But for God’s sake.  Surely this is as bad as the shell suit or the mullet?  You’re making fools of yourselves, dear youngsters.  You’re wearing baby clothes.  Pull yourselves together.  You know it makes sense.