Embracing Sport!

"Hurling is hockey mixed with murder"

I might have mentioned recently that I’m all on for learning new things, at a rate of about one a week.
I think expecting any more than that is over ambitious, and would be too much for me.

Last Saturday morning, I was sleeping, at about half past ten.  His Nibs and the hounds had gotten up and started their day and I had the bed to myself.  His Nibs had opened the blind and the window, but I was in that happy Saturday morning state where neither blinding light nor a gentle breeze could disturb me.

It’s not so long since my lovely husband used to wake me up on a weekend morning with a cup of coffee and a smile.

I cannot help but notice that this has gone by the board completely.  These days, he walks into the room, starts talking aloud, more or less mid-sentence, as if we’d been having a conversation previously. This baffles and confuses me, and rather than object I find myself struggling to sit up and answer him coherently.

He did this last Saturday morning.  He was talking about hurling, which he loves, and I have less than no interest in. 

It’s not that I don’t respect and admire the skill involved, I really do.  I cannot think of anything more tiring and annoying than galloping around a field after a tiny ball, usually while being hit with hurls by people who come from a different county.

But I choose not to get involved.

His Nibs loves hurling.  Every Sunday from at least May to September, he sits in our darkened living room, screaming at the television and swearing like a maniac.

This Saturday, I had no hope.  He had a plan in mind, and one way or the other, he was going to get me involved.

I think the first sentence I even caught was
“So you’ll come with me then?”

I hadn’t a clue.

“Go where with you?”

“To the match.  It’s only down the road.  Ah go on, sure we should do things together at the weekend.”

I remained baffled.  “What match? What are you on about? “

“The match.  The match.  The hurling match.  Wexford are playing. Ah go on.  It’s no fun on my own.”

I think the last time I went along with this caper was the early nineties.  We were a very short time together then, and very much in love.  We weren’t even living together at the time, so any time spent together was a good time.

A lot has changed since those days though.

I’m one of six children.  And the daughter of two GAA fanatics.  When I was a child many a Sunday was spent with the living room in complete darkness, both parents screaming, us afraid to run across the room, lest we do so exactly when a free was being taken, or someone was being fouled. 

Needless to say, as a teenager I was so appalled by everything my parents said and did that I started considering liking GAA to be something akin to biting your nails.  A dirty habit.

And one of those things that once it takes you over, you’re never free of.  Sort of like the Mafia.

So I wasn’t keen to accommodate His Nibs by attending this match with him.  First, I asked him whether he was sure he wanted to go.  He confirmed that he’d love to, but that there was a possibility that there might be thunderstorms.  And he didn’t want to leave Marley all alone and frightened if that happened.  Nothing bothers our dog Oscar, but Marley gets hysterical and terrified when there’s thunder, and His Nibs is the only one who can comfort him.

This show of kindness made me feel smiley and tender toward my husband.  And so I said that if he really wanted me to go, I’d go with him.  He doesn’t ask me to go to many matches, and I thought that feck it, it’s only a couple of hours.  I’d go.  And I thought that the forecast thunder might materialise and I could look like a good wife without putting any real effort in.

That didn’t happen.  And when His Nibs happily handed me a Wexford jersey and told me we’d be leaving in a few minutes, I knew that the effort was going to be required.

I had absolutely no clue how to get to the pitch, and so we had to print directions.  We were doing surprisingly well, him not ignoring my instructions, when we saw a huge amount of cars parked on both sides of the road, causing traffic mayhem.

I thought that there was no way the traffic could be built up this far from the grounds.  His Nibs asked for my suggestion, then, as to what all the cars were about.

“Hmm.  Maybe a funeral?”

He smiled.  “Love, there’s hundreds and hundreds of cars here.  And buses.  There wasn’t this much traffic at Nelson Mandela’s funeral, I’d say.  It’s not a funeral.  I’m parking.”

And he parked his car on the grass verge, and informed me that we would be walking the rest of the way.
I tried wailing about how it was still miles to the pitch, according to the directions, but as he rightly pointed out, if there was anywhere to park closer to the grounds, people wouldn’t be parking here.
And off we went.

I was amazed at how many people were there.  And delighted to see that the majority of them appeared to be from Wexford, my own home county.  I did a bit of giving out about the long walk.  To be honest, I was whining “are we nearly there?” within five minutes, even though I knew perfectly well that he knew no more than I did.  And I quite enjoyed judging the women in high heels (“At a hurling match, I mean, why would you bother?”) and those who were in full makeup (same comment). And eventually we got there, and got tickets, and he bought me chips and a burger to keep me quiet, and I started to quite enjoy myself.

The players came out onto the pitch about fifteen minutes before the match started, to warm up and do their exercises.  At first they just hit the ball and over and back to each other, practiced scoring points and what have you.  Then they all lay down on the grass and started stretching.  All this seemed perfectly normal to me.  It was when they all started doing the “downward dog” and other yoga moves that I became amazed.  Both at the fact that hurlers now practice yoga, it seems, and at the lovely bottom on one of the Wexford lads.  GAA shorts aren’t usually that flattering, surely?

It’s difficult to describe the match itself. 

So difficult, in fact, that I've decided to put in a link to YouTube, showing bits of the match, so that readers not familiar with our national sport can get some inkling of what I'm talking about.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wF8ymfA970Y

Some readers may remember the Spot the Ball competition in the newspaper that they used to do years ago.  It was a photograph of a soccer match, usually with all the players staring at one spot. There was no ball in the picture, and you had to play an X where you thought the ball should be.

The hurling match was like being in a three dimensional spot the ball competition.  I was there, I was watching the match, I was not thinking about shoes or more chips or even why I was there.  I was focussed. 

But at almost no time did I know where the ball (it’s called a sliotar, for non-Irish readers) was.  You'll understand why if you looked up hurling on YouTube.  I was at least two seconds behind the action at all times, and sometimes looking at the completely wrong end of the pitch.  Eventually I started just cheering every time all the other Wexford people cheered.

 

But strange to say, despite my complete ignorance of what was going on, and my lifelong determination not to become a fan, I got completely involved in the match.

I was the large woman shouting and cheering and screaming and waving my hands in the air, and generally turning into my parents.  I stopped short of roaring instructions to the players, as the twenty thousand other people there were doing, but that was only because I had absolutely no idea what they should do.  Sometimes I shouted the same thing as His Nibs was shouting, but only because I knew he was probably right.

Wexford won the match.   I was absolutely delighted.  I joined in with the shouting “Wex-ford! Wex-ford! Wex-ford!”  I threw myself into the arms of a complete stranger who was standing beside me when the final whistle blew.  She didn’t seem to mind.  She was also in the purple and gold of Wexford, and jumped up and down and screamed in my ear enthusiastically, as we hugged. 

I really enjoyed the shouting, the singing, the drama of it all. 

They say that hurling is the fastest grass game in the world.  If there’s a faster one, I won’t be going to see it.  I nearly got dizzy watching this one.

But His Nibs was right, when he said I’d enjoy it when I got there.  It was great fun.  

Sadly, just as I’m writing this, Wexford are playing again.  And by the roars and swearing out of His Nibs, it’s really not going well at all.

They’re playing Limerick.  My Dad was from Limerick, and I’d be shouting for them if they were playing any team besides Wexford.  

Anyway, being half a Limerick person, I’ve decided that no matter what happens on the field today, I’m a winner.

 

 

Further Misadventures of Oscar the Wonder Dog

“Dogs are great. Bad dogs, if you can really call them that, are perhaps the greatest of them all.”

John Grogan, author of Marley and Me.


I knew Oscar had put on a bit of weight.  We both did. We’re not completely stupid, and we’re sort of in the habit of carrying him around when he refuses to go where he’s told, so we had some warning.

He’s become incredibly lazy over this winter.  He won’t even go upstairs to try to sleep on our bed anymore. He’s happy on his sofa. 
Of course it could be because he’s fed up being woken by His Nibs’ snoring, like I am, and like Marley is.  But if we have to suffer he does. 
So sometimes we carry him up to his bed.  I can’t bear the thought of him downstairs by himself in the dark all night. 

He’s put on the weight over the winter.  I think that often happens to dogs.  At least I hope it does.  We go to work  in the dark and get home in the dark and the only decent exercise he gets is when His Nibs takes him to the forest at the weekends.  Other than that it’s just a quick run around.  Sadly, even this doesn’t really happen if there’s heavy rain or snow. 

This doesn’t affect Marley at all.  Because he’s more or less deranged with giddiness.  I don’t know what he does all day, but I imagine there’s a lot of running around in circles in the garden, barking and generally making a nuisance of himself to the neighbours.  Also, as often as not we find the rug from their kennel in the middle of the back garden when we get home.  I assume he drags it out of the kennel, with Oscar still lying on it, in a futile attempt to get his lazy companion to move about a bit and have a play.

The other day,  His Nibs took the pair of them to the vets for their annual check-up.  They had their medicals, and their pedicures, and their weigh in.

No good news for Oscar.  He has to lose three kilos.  They say dogs and their owners grow more alike as they get older, and it would appear that in the case of Oscar and I, that’s completely true.  Except that if I lost three kilos nobody would even notice.  Three stones might make a difference.

Oscar is the three legged one.  Being overweight is particularly bad news for him because carrying around the extra weight puts pressure on his remaining front leg, and may lead to problems in the shoulder later.

I’ve been overweight my entire adult life, and have done nothing about it.  When it comes to the dog, though, it’s a different story.  Something would have to be done.

I hitched him up to a short leash, and took him out for a walk up the main road.
He was furious.  It appears that he no longer likes walking.  He prefers to lie on the sofa and be left alone.

I thought at first that he just didn’t realise that we were going out for a fun walk, that he was going to enjoy himself, and sniff the hedge, and pee at his leisure on his way up and down the road.  

Usually he only wears a short leash to go out in the car.  I assumed he knows this and wasn’t keen to be brought to the vets, or the kennels, or similar places.  I give that dog far too much credit.

He wouldn’t walk.  I swear it, he just sat on his bottom and forced me to drag him along.  This dog is at least seven years old.  He’s been in the habit of being on his leash since he came to live with us, at ten months old.  There’s no question of his not being used to the leash.

Until now there’s been nothing he likes more than a nice walk.  I usually bring him down through the little village we live in and to the tiny park.  This year, though, they’ve gone all posh and filled what used to be a grassy field with fancy wooden adventure structures, for the benefit of our younger residents.  They’ve banned dogs. 

I think that’s a bit unfriendly, actually, but then maybe not everyone brings poo bags on their walks, so you can’t have the children and the dogs in the same place.

We'd taken the main road out of the village.  For some reason, giving the dog a lot more credit than he deserves again, I thought that maybe if we turned back and went through the village he might be more co-operative.  At least the route would be familiar to him.  So we turned, and he suddenly sprung to life, and trotted merrily down the street with me.  Until we got to the entrance of our estate, which we needed to pass.

Once more he sat firmly on the ground.  I’d been through all this yesterday, and had ended up bricking myself that all my dragging would pop his collar over his head again, like it did before. He can’t afford to lose another leg.  So yesterday I brought him home early.  Today, though, I had his harness on him.  Because he has no front leg, the harness doesn’t go around him as it should, and doesn’t really act as a harness at all.  It ended up almost twisted around his neck.

Anyway, I insisted that we carry on.  I found myself talking to him on the road, in a fairly mental fashion.

“Come on, Oscar,  you have to walk.  You need to lose  weight.  This is ridiculous. What kind of dog doesn’t like going for a walk?  Will you come on?  You’re making a show of me”.

The leash was under pressure, him sitting on his bottom, me leaning back on my heels, trying to drag him to movement.

I was right about making a show of me.  The local teenagers were hysterical. 

The sight of this large woman begging a disabled and clearly ridiculously stubborn dog to walk must have been quite a sight, in our small village.

I had to drag him every step of the way.  The little brat. I’m afraid to look at his arse, it must be red raw from being dragged along the road.

I was still giving out stink to him as we walked in the garden gate. His Nibs was gardening, as always. He immediately started pitying the dog, and saying I’d pushed him too far, and it was too much exercise all of a sudden.

I tried to explain that he’d been carrying on since we left the house, well before there was any question of over exercise.  That in fact, he’d done feck all exercise, having been on his arse the whole time we were out.

But when Oscar threw himself on the hall floor, panting and carrying on as if he’d been put to work in a coalmine, His Nibs immediately rushed to his aid, carrying him to the sofa, and bringing him a bowl of water to sip from.

We’ve stopped all treats, but to be fair, he never had human food, he’s only ever had high protein dog food and a Bonio a day.  We can’t cut his food down by much. 

The dog is absolutely livid.  It’s obvious he’s not speaking to me. 

 

How in the name of God am I going to get nearly half a stone off a disabled and difficult dog?

Heels over Head

I've taken a notion.

I have decided, very suddenly, for no good reason, and showing no common sense at all, that I should embrace heels.

I was never a big fan of the heel.  I've only ever worn them going out, and if I can get away with it, I don't wear them then. 
I was lucky enough to be young in the grunge years, when you were considered dressed up if your Doc Martens were the genuine article, so I never really got acquainted with the stiletto.

They look like instruments of torture, and let's face it we all know that that's what they are. 

But my work summer shoes, a pair of red pumps, have become shockingly shabby looking during their holiday under the stairs, and last week I decided that if I'm to carry on with any dignity whatsoever, I had to get a new pair.

I hadn't the slightest intention of buying heels when I went into the shop.  I went straight to the pumps section.  Not a single shoe there even caught my eye, an unusual occurrence enough.

As I wandered around, I caught sight of a pair of nude court shoes, with a much higher heel than I'm used to.
I remember a couple of years ago, when everyone who was anyone was wearing nude coloured stilettoes.  I remember it, because I was so jealous of the glamour that the other girls were prancing around in, that I got a burning pain in my jealousy zone ( a spot between the heart and the stomach, just at the bottom of the rib cage, and in the middle, in case you're nicer than me, and aren't familiar with your jealousy zone).

I knew then that I'd never be able to wear those shoes.  The combination of a back injury about six years ago, and a husband who is the same height as me in our stocking feet, put paid to any notions of glamorous heels some time ago.
Now, for some reason, when I saw them in the shop my first thought was
"Life is so unfair.  I'm a good person.  I should be allowed, at last, to have a pair of nude court shoes."

It dawned on me eventually that the only person stopping me is myself.  If I'm willing to put up with them, I can wear what I like.
I started to tell myself that shoes are different now than they were years ago, they're all wide fit or soft sole or designed to take the pressure off the balls of your feet, and I'd probably be fine.  I put the shoes on, walked around the shop for a few minutes, skidded twice and wobbled once, told myself the result was better than I'd expected, and I put them under my arm while I continued looking around.

Then I saw a pair of black suede shoes with tiny kitten heels.  I stopped and had a good old stare at them.  If I couldn't manage the court shoes, I'd still need work shoes, wouldn't I?  Maybe I needed a back up plan?  Under my other arm with them.

The obvious thing to do would be to put the first pair back on the shelf once I'd chosen the second pair.  But I didn't do that.  Because the black ones have almost no heels at all.

Regular readers will know that I turned forty a few months ago (God knows I made enough fuss about it at the time).

Dylan Thomas once wrote

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

I've developed a fear that I'm tending toward going gently into that good night.  It's too early.  I've a lot of fun to have yet.  And I feel that I should be having it in heels.
I'm worried that if I don't start wearing heels again now, I might be in orthopaedic shoes within a few years.

I was absolutely sure, by the time I got back to work that fateful lunchtime, that I'd never walk in the nude courts. 
I placed them under my desk, with all the other shoes, and began wearing the black ones.  I told myself that the whole project would have to be undertaken in stages.  I'd start off in kitten heels, and work my way up to the big girl shoes.
Obviously I should have gone back to the shop with them.  But I didn't.
And yesterday I decided that feck it, since it was Monday anyway, I might as well give the high shoes a try.  Better to break my ankle on a Monday than on a Friday, I told myself.  I don't know why.  I suppose things are so difficult on Mondays anyway that a broken ankle is all that you'd expect.

I warned my colleagues that I was taking a big step today, both literally and figuratively.  I suggested that if one or two of them wanted to walk beside me, ready to catch me when I fell, that might be a good idea.  They didn't seem keen.  I don't know why.

I wore the shoes anyway.  I'm as brave as a lion.  I got all the way to lunchtime without a stumble a trip or a fall.  Not even a blister to show for my efforts.

Did I celebrate this victory by smiling quietly and congratulating myself on still being able to keep up with the other girls?
I did not.
I put my pumps back on and insisted my good friend Ciara accompany me back to the same shop again.
I saw a lovely pair of shoes in there on Saturday. They were lovely, but even higher than the nude coloured pair I'd been wearing all morning.

For some reason I thought that if I could handle the court shoes, I should keep pushing myself.  Ciara, bewildered now, I'd imagine, by my utter lack of common sense, stood back and watched while I walked around in what I hoped would be my next victory.



I say I walked around.
I actually staggered around the shoe department, while the other shoppers jumped out of my way.  I caught a fleeting glance of myself in the mirror.  I would have run away too. 

I suppose Ciara thought she should be kind and try to talk me down, rather than just tell me what a twit I was being.  She suggested a more realistic pair for me.

 

But I wouldn't have it.  Sure they were only the same height as the nude courts.  What's the point in that?  Where's the challenge?
Then Ciara suggested that since I already have a new pair of black shoes, maybe I should just wear them.

Then she must have lost her head completely, because she suggested that I shouldn't buy any more shoes until I've worn out all the ones I already have.  I refused on the basis that I'll be dead by then.

I didn't buy anything yesterday.  I suppose I should calm down. One step at a time. 
And in my heart I know that within a week I'll be back in my flats.

After all, as a wise woman once said, if high heels were so great, wouldn't men be wearing them?

Bad Hair Day

“Some of the worst mistakes in my life were haircuts”
― Jim Morrison

 

 

If His Nibs finds out how much I spent on my hair last week, he’ll kill me.

He won’t mean to of course, but he’ll give out so much that the tedium will make me lose my will to live and I’ll eventually slump lifeless to the floor.

It all started when I read a piece about some new magical hairbrush that makes you look like you’ve had a professional blow dry. 

Apparently, I'd just put batteries in the handle and the brush would heat up and a simple sweep across the locks would transform my usual mess into a glossy, smooth mane.

My hair is one of the banes of my life.  It has neither the manners to be straight nor the courage to be curly.  Or even wavy.  It’s thick and heavy and shapeless, no matter what I do with it.  And I spend half my life trying to dye it any colour except its natural snow white.

His Nibs reckons I should stop moaning and either just let it grow white and mental, or shave it off altogether.  Not helpful.

I’m not so old that I can accept white hair.  It’s not time yet.

And I have a head that without hair would look even more like a slightly deflated football. 
There’s no question of shaving it off.  Or of just getting it cut short.  I've made that mistake once, and once is enough.

I’m a marketer’s dream.  Or, if you will, a complete gobshite.

If I saw an ad that said, for example,

"Save Time!  Forget Tangles! Our expensive piece of crap will give you hair like

Miranda Kerr's in eight seconds flat!"

The intelligent part of my brain would obviously think "yeah, right, like there's anyone or anything in the world that could make me look like I had Miranda Kerr's hair, other than a wig actually made of her hair".
The less intelligent part, however, would niggle and torment me and wake me up at nights with thoughts of "What if?"

So this magic hairbrush was tormenting me slightly.  Every time I fought with my hair for some days, I thought of how much easier my life would be if I had the magic brush.

Of course it’s sold out everywhere.  You can’t get one for love or money.

On Friday evening, I was finished work and had half an hour to myself before I had to collect His Nibs.

I decided to go into the nearest department store to check out the new summer shoes.  I like to buy a couple of pairs at the start of every summer, and wear them to death, throwing them out in September. 

This enables me to prolong the life of my more expensive, more comfortable, and harder wearing summer shoes, simply by leaving them on the little shoe rack under the stairs all year round, and completely ignoring them.

Not a particularly intelligent idea, but not to worry.

They didn’t have any shoes I liked, unusually enough.  Probably for the best.  It’s not summer yet, and if I bought shoes now I’d probably have gone off them when it’s actually time to wear them.

I decided to go and collect His Nibs, and stop causing trouble. 

Sad to say, on my way out of the shop I noticed the hair styling tools section. 

My first thought was

“I’ve decided not to buy that brush, but I’ll look and see if they have it.  Just because I’m curious.”

I had decided not to buy the brush because it is a normal square brush.  What I really want is to be able to blow dry my hair with a round brush like the hairdresser does.

Little did I know that the shop had a round brush, a hybrid of hairbrush and hairdryer, which blows hot air out and dries your hair as you brush it.

How could I resist, in all fairness?  Who could resist the promise of having blow dry looking hair every day?

Not me.  I bought it.  And I was so absolutely confident that all my hair worries were over, that I even bought a tiny handbag sized hair straighteners to go with it.  The miniscule device would suffice for the little bits of hair that might, unlikely as it seemed, not do exactly as I wished.

I was quite excited when I washed my hair that first night.  I couldn’t wait to give myself the lovely hair my hairdresser had bestowed on me a couple of weeks before.

I’m such a complete eejit.

It was handier, I suppose, than blowdrying and then straightening.  The trouble is, I don’t have very long hair.  Hardly even jaw length.

And in an effort to simplify things, Tara the hairdresser recently cut it into short layers, to make it more manageable, and less heavy.

This blowing round hairbrush worked fine on some parts of it, but other bits were just too short to go around the barrel of the brush.

I didn’t look fabulous after my maiden voyage into the hot brush world.  I looked very much like I usually do.  The only improvement was that I no longer had the square looking layers the ghd often gives me.

So what did I do?  Did I throw the brush in the corner and lament the loss of more money? No.

I made my way back into the shop and bought another, smaller hot brush to deal with the short bits of hair. 

This smaller brush doesn't blow out hot air.  It just heats up, and you brush your hair with it. 
I suppose the fact that it was simply called a hot brush should have alerted me to the fact.  It made no difference whatsoever to my hair.
I was lamenting all this to a dear friend, and explaining that my ghd, now as old as the hills, and bought when I had very long (and naturally dark) hair is no longer sufficient for my needs.
Wearing my hair long didn't make it any less frizzy or mental, and so when I was buying it, I bought the wide one, suitable for afro hair.

Because of my now layered style, this ghd is practically useless.  My friend informed me she had the exact opposite problem.  Her small ghd is now too narrow for her long hair.  So we swapped.
And all is well.

 

Or as well as can be expected.  I'm never going to have lovely hair, I accept that now.  But the narrow ghd does as much as anything could to make it decent looking.

The two new hot brushes and the teeny straighteners, none of which were free, I may tell you, will now spend their futures hidden under the bed in an effort not to drive poor His Nibs to distraction.

The worst part of it is that no matter what I do or spend or try, my hair will grow snow white forever more.

I don’t know why I bother.

Dear Oscar the Wonder Dog

I love you with all my heart.  But you absolutely put the heart across me today.
It’s been a rough week, by any standards.  At the beginning of last week I collapsed under the worst kind of vomiting bug.  So bad, in fact, that I had to have a vicious injection in my bottom just to stop the puking. 

I suggested, of course, that maybe the doctor would like to put the needle in my arm, but he refused, on the basis that there’s more muscle in my bottom than in my arm.  He could be right, I suppose. But if he is, my arm is the only thing in the world with less muscle than my bottom.

Anyway, the shot stopped the vomiting eventually, but the suddenness and veracity of the puking was such that the part of my inner ear that controls nausea went bonkers.  When I woke up on Thursday morning, I was as deaf as a post.  When my hearing finally returned, I had vertigo.  Which is an ongoing problem.  Apparently, it could last for six weeks.  Lovely.

But all that faded into insignificance compared to today’s drama.

We all know that it was supposed to be stormy today.  I won’t pretend to have been terribly worried.  We’ve had storms before.  Needless to say, I’d prefer not to put you out in the garden when we go to work on bad days, but needs must. 
If we don’t go to work all four of us will have to live in your kennel.

Sometime after half past four this evening, I got a phone call from a very nice woman who lives next door to us.

The news wasn’t good.  The ridiculous winds had blown the fence panels out of their places all along our back gardens.  The panels, needless to say, are destroyed and must now be replaced.  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Our other dog, your brother (yes, I know, you’re not blood related, but adopted children are considered siblings, so why not adopted dogs?) Marley had been found trotting around the neighbour’s garden.  And when he was called to heel, he had the wit to answer the call.  They say border collies are the most intelligent dogs.

 

Marley was safe,  and was being cared for by another neighbour, until we got home.  But you had disappeared.

My beloved, disabled, wild-at-heart little stray.  My heart nearly stopped.

You are the dog that I chose. 

Although I love Marley dearly, His Nibs chose him, and I know that Marley is more loyal to him than to me.  Marley adores His Nibs, and follows him everywhere, tripping my husband up at least once a day.

You, on the other hand, were the one who captured my affection at first sight.  We didn’t get you from a rescue centre.  I got you from the pound, on your fifth day of captivity, the day you were due to be put down.

When I brought you home, and you turned out to have a life threatening illness, I was the one who insisted that we ignore the fact that you’re a mongrel from the pound, and keep paying to make sure you weren’t in pain, and could be cured if possible.

And I was with you the night you were hit by that car.  The one that caused you to lose your front leg, and hop around ever since, a tripod where once you were a quadruped.  You broke my heart, with your yelping and crying, and struggling to master the stairs again.

You were the one that finally inspired me to write a book.  Just last Sunday, I finished my first draft and printed off the whole thing, ready to start my first re-write.

The main theme of the book is taken from the look I sometimes see in your eye.  You see, I know that dogs can’t talk, but I believe that they have strong personalities.

And I know that you’re an  independent soul.  I know that you think you’re above the dog food we feed you, and that we should be feeding you the chicken, sausages, and other things we eat.  I know that you think you shouldn’t have to sleep in your little blue bed, but that you belong on our bed.

Not going to happen, my friend.  Not until you get a job and start paying your share of the mortgage.

But the drive home today, with diversions and trees and debris flying around the road, seemed to take forever.

I had visions of you out on the road.  Not a life skill you possess, as we know.  The last time you were on the road on your own you ended up losing a limb.
Or maybe you were running with another escaped dog, in lamb season, a hopping target for an angry farmer.
Or maybe you were just wandering around, getting into fights with bigger, stronger, able bodied dogs.
Poor His Nibs was as bad as I was, if not worse.  I don’t think we exchanged two sentences, all the way home.

The kindly neighbour who was taking care of Marley came out to greet us when we got home.            I don’t think you or he will ever know the favour he did us when he told us that he had found you.

I’ll admit it.  There was tears.  And His Nibs wasn’t much better.

Isn’t it great to have good neighbours? 

And good little dogs who know when to come home, to warmth and comfort and food and safety, instead of following their nose out into the wide blue yonder.

Now.  There’s no fence panels in the back garden anymore.  And I can’t go through another evening like this evening.
And so I’m taking a huge chance.  I’m going to let the two of you stay in the house for the next two days, while we're in work, until His Nibs has a chance to complete repairs on Saturday.  We've never left you in the house before.  But I was sick last week, I can't take holidays from work this week.
I know that there will be weeing, and I’m prepared for that, to some extent.  It’s not ideal, but you have to be kept safe, the pair of you.

But I’m begging you.  Please try to keep indoor pooing to an absolute minimum.  And for God’s sake don’t eat the furniture.  Or knock over the television.  Don’t get fed up in the house and start fighting.  Don’t wreck anything.  Just be good and nice and well behaved.  We already have to buy new fencing, we don’t have the money for any further repairs.

It’s great to have you both home.

Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree

 

We’re not great on Christmas decorations in our house. 

His Nibs, for example, will have absolutely nothing to do with the whole business, and insists that there’s no need for a tree, no sense in fairy lights, and absolutely no rational explanation for the two foot high Santa I like to stand in the hall, to be knocked over every time the door is opened, or a waggy tailed dog walks past.

I’m not the most Christmassy of souls myself.  It’s not that I don’t like Christmas, I do.  But only when the Christmas season has actually arrived.  I wouldn’t even consider putting the tree up in the last weekend of November, which seems to be quite popular these days. 
And I can’t stand when people start wishing me a merry Christmas from the 8^th of December on.  It’s always a struggle not to shout “It’s not bloody Christmas yet!”
A few years ago, after a few accusations of being grinchy and a general misery arse, I picked 15^th December as the beginning of Christmas.  I decided that’s when I’ll stop whinging about its being too early, and agree that fair enough, it’s Christmas.

So in my little world, Christmas has finally arrived.

 Merry Christmas, everyone.

I decided to put up the tree at the weekend. 

We’ve had our Christmas tree since 1998. 
Yes, it's an artificial one.  I never fancied dragging a real tree up and down the flights of stairs to our various flats. 
And almost as soon as we got the house we got the dogs.  Only a complete moron would put a real tree in a room with our dogs.  I know what  they do to every tree they pass, and I'm not putting one in the house.

Anyway, when I put it up last year and took a step back to admire my handiwork, I was distressed to realise that it had had its day, and it had become completely ragged and sad looking.

By the time I realised this, all the decorations were on, and there was no way I was stripping it again and starting all over. 

So last year was the Christmas of the shabbiest tree I’ve ever seen.

I set about buying a new tree last Thursday, when I was off work but was very much supposed to be involved in another project entirely.

I chose one in a shop near us, but of course they didn’t have the tree I wanted in that branch (pardon the pun).  So I phoned His Nibs and demanded that he purchase the tree in Dublin before he came home.

He rang me back from the shop.

“How big is this fecking tree?” he asked.  “The box is enormous.”

“Seven feet tall”. 

“Seven feet?  Seven feet?  Have you gone mad?  What are we going to do with a seven feet tall tree?”

“Well” I told him, quite sourly “if history is any teacher, I think we can safely say that “We” aren’t going to do anything with it.

I’m fairly sure I’ll put it up, decorate it, make the place nice and festive, and then after Christmas take it all down again and put it back in the attic.”

“Love, how are you going to decorate the top of a seven feet tree?  You’re not seven feet tall.”

“Ah now” I told him reasonably “Sure aren’t I at least five and a half feet tall?  And my arms are definitely eighteen inches long, it’ll be no problem.”

“I don’t think it works like that” he told me.  “Mainly because your arms aren’t growing from the top of your head, so you can’t actually reach seven feet into the air.  But if you want it, fine, you will get it.  I’ll be home soon.”
It never crossed either of our minds that we could use a stepping stool, for some reason.

When he arrived home, on the 12^th of December, three days before my “beginning of Christmas” date, my curiosity overtook me and nothing would satisfy me but to open the box for a look.

Then the tree couldn’t be got back into the box in any sort of reasonable way, so the box was sitting under the stairs with branches poking out and being generally messy and annoying looking.  It was annoying me so much that the following day I had to put the stupid thing up.

His Nibs was in work, and rather than wait for him to return, then have the annual argument about how he should go up into the attic to get the decorations, why he should go up, when he should go up, and so on and so on, that I decided to do it myself.

I was on the second step of the stepladder when I realised that it was very unsteady.  I checked the catch, the legs, the stoppers, but could find no reason for the shaking of the ladder.  It turned out that it was caused by a large woman shaking with fear because of a terror of heights.

The whole business took fecking hours.

I was delighted to find the silver pine cones I bought in the pound shop the first year we lived together, when I was a student. 

I can’t believe that I still have decorations that were bought in an actual pound shop, rather than a Euro Store.

Then I found the gorgeous little silk decorations I bought from a woman in Laos years ago.  Again, it’s my beloved His Nibs who gave me the memory.  I distinctly remember him giving out about how it was only October, and we were on our holidays, quite a long way from home, and still Christmas was invading.  And I told him to belt up or the tiny seller would think he was giving out about her, and stuffed them in my rucksack.

I found the little snowmen I bought in a Christmas market in Brussels the year my sister was so pregnant with my beloved nephew that she couldn’t come home, and His Nibs and I went to see them instead.

All very sentimental, so far.

When I finally, eventually, got what felt like thousands of decorations onto the tree, I discovered that the fairy lights had given up the ghost.  I didn’t get new ones until the following day. 

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get fairy lights around the top of a seven foot tree, when your own husband is standing chanting “I told you so” in the background and you haven't the wit to get a stepping stool?

Finally I was finished.

I haven’t a minutes peace.  I sat down to watch an episode of Frasier yesterday, and I stood up at least seven times in the twenty five minutes it was on.

I’m constantly seeing two of the same bauble, side by side.  Or two purple ones too near each other, or too many baubles on one branch, and none at all on another.

I won’t be happy with it until well after the New Year.  Just in time to take it all down again, as usual.

 

 

Happy Christmas, dear readers.  Thank you so much for reading the blog .

 

 

 

New Suede Shoes

It’s hard to part with an old pal.
I’ve had this one pair of boots for absolutely years.  They’re flat, and they’re a rather weird shade of brown.  They’re nothing special, I suppose.  But for some reason, I’ve loved them since the first day I saw them.

I’ve worn them everywhere.  Not to weddings or fancy do's, they’re flat ankle boots after all, but to work, or with my casual clothes.  I’ve brought them on holiday, and wore them every day in all that snow we had a few years ago.

I always assumed that when they finally gave up the ghost, I’d simply get them re-soled or re-heeled or repaired in some miraculous way that would ensure their immortality.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a pair of boots for so long.

The kind of damage they've now sustained is definitely irreparable.  It hurt a little bit, to finally throw them in the bin.  They've been a friend, those boots.  When I was in trouble in work, or having a row with His Nibs, at least my feet never gave me any trouble, encased as they were in the world's most comfortable shoes.  And I didn't take a single tumble in them, when the compacted ice on Abbey Street was causing people to drop like flies all around me.

I’ve always been a fan of shoes.  Of looking at them and buying them, I mean.  Not necessarily of wearing them, especially if they happen to come with a heel or a pointy toe. 
I like nice shoes, but I’m fond of my comfort too.
And from the day I found those boots, all other footwear had to start vying for my attention like never before.

I’m so fond of them, that for years if I said to His Nibs, usually late, and in a hurry to leave the house,
“Quick, quick, get my boots”

And if he decided to take the opportunity to have a quick little give out about how many shoes I own by saying

“Which boots?  God knows, you have so many, it's hard to know”

I’d yelp

“My boots, my boots, what do you think I mean?  My boots!”

Eventually, he got so used to seeing his wife in the same boots every day that he stopped asking, and just got on with the boot fetching.  
Sometimes he’s a marvellous husband.

One day last week, though, the left one started making a weird sort of puffy noise with every step I took.  I make a good few puffing noises as I walk around anyway, so I didn’t worry.

About two days later, sadly, the boots went to the great cobbler in the sky.  The sole actually split completely in half.  It’s never happened to me before, that I wore a pair of boots so much that they eventually  collapsed.  I could fit my finger in the space between the two halves of the heel.

 

I was distraught.  I got a bit dramatic, actually.  I started thrashing around a bit, and wailing, and wondering what I’d do now. 

Eventually somebody suggested that although I may have loved these ones, there are actually other boots available in the shops.  That God be with the days when I’d be almost vandalising my own shoes, just for an excuse to buy a new pair. 
That I should stop whinging, basically.

I grudgingly went out to look around the shoe shops.  I was unusually downcast. In normal circumstances, there’s nothing I’d like better than wandering around shoe shops, with a leftover birthday voucher in my bag.  But before I went in the door I’d already decided I’d never find a pair of boots to match those I’d lost.

They had a lovely pair of brown leather Chelsea boots, as it goes.  I’m very fond of a nice Chelsea boot.  I was absolutely delighted when they came back into fashion.  They were reduced by 25% and I didn’t even miss my tram, I bought them so fast.

When I got home, I took out one of the boots, and put it on top of its box.  I placed it between myself and the television, where I could glance at it on and off all evening. 

At first I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that I liked the boots as much as I’d thought I did.  That happens to me sometimes.  While I'm in the shop  I love something so much that I believe I can't carry on unless I get it.  Then when I get home I might find that what I've bought isn't actually that special, and I've wasted more money. 

I’m trying to stop throwing money around.  Money I don’t have, and cannot seem to stop myself from spending.  So these days, I look at things, decide I want them, and then leave the shop and don't return for about three days.  If I still like and want it, then I feel justified in buying things and do so without guilt.
I didn’t do that with the boots.  I’m not quite sure why it was so urgent that I get new boots on the actual day the old ones fell apart, but that’s what I did.
To make sure I hadn't made my usual mistake with the boots,  I set them up on the box for a full review and consideration.

I love them.  I don’t know why, but I’m taking it as a good sign, seeing as the last boots I loved as soon as I bought turned out to be my favourite shoes ever.

I wore them going out the following night.  I wasn’t going to a particularly Chelsea boot place, but did I care? I did not.  I even walked home.  I wasn’t in pain.  There was a bit of pinching, but I was well able to put them on again the following morning.

The next day, I sorted out a space for them on the shoe rack under the stairs.

And what did I find?  A really nice pair of brown suede Chelsea boots.  They’re very similar to the leather ones I’d bought on the Tuesday.  And I have absolutely no idea why I’ve never worn them, or why I never even broke them in.  I presume it must be because I loved the old boots so much I didn’t bother.

But they’re not leather, they’re suede.  So that’s not the same thing at all, is it?

 

The Social Whirl

It’s been a mad week.

Well, in fairness, that’s probably not true, if I was in my twenties, and a city slicker still, it would probably have been a very ordinary week. 
But for those of us who have had our fortieth, and live in the country, and become alarmed when the phone rings after 9pm and jumpy when the doorbell rings unexpectedly, it’s been quite an adventure, since last weekend.

On Monday I went to see my friend and her children.  Because I’m such a country mouse these days, my visit necessitated an overnight stay.  I arrived armed with wine, and toys to bribe her children into liking me, and had a lovely time with them all. 

But wine on a Monday night is a bit of a treat, and I have to say, part of me was glad when she said at eleven o’clock that she had to go to bed, since her new little son would have her awake for most of the night. 
I’d already had three glasses, which is about six times more than I should have on a week night.

We had a lovely time on Tuesday morning.  I’ve finally reached an age when I don’t get panicky when a baby roars.  Obviously, if he’d needed winding or feeding or changing or something I would have done my best, but he had a pain, the poor little pet, and I couldn’t help him. 

Just a couple of years ago I would simply have thrown him at his mother and found a way to make it look like I was doing something productive, and so couldn’t mind the baby. Surely it’s a sign that I’ve grown up, that I insisted that his mother bring her little girl off to crèche, that he’d be fine with me?

And in fairness he only cried for a couple of minutes, he was very good.

I had a half day off that morning, and had a great time with my friend, who I don't see enough of recently.

On Wednesday night I was meeting my lovely niece, and an also lovely friend of hers.  I always have a good time with my niece, she’s fun and funny, and the best of company. 

We met in a wine bar.  I’d say it’s probably a very cool wine bar, but frankly I wasn’t impressed.  It works like this.  You go in, and give the man some money, and he gives you a plastic card, much like a hotel room key card.  You put this card in a slot in the wall, it tells you how much credit you have, and you choose a wine from the display behind a glass door.

Then you press a button to determine whether you want a taste, a half glass, or a full glass.  The wine is dispensed in a not dissimilar way to how the fizzy drinks are served in McDonalds.

This caper is referred to as their “specialist Enomatic serving system” and their website boasts “We afford wine enthusiasts a rare opportunity in Dublin to explore their passion, not only in an efficient, but also in a thoroughly enjoyable fashion.”

A right load of cockology if you ask me.

I realise I’m getting old and grumpy, but I don’t like this carry on one bit.  I thought it very much had an “Emperors New Clothes” feel about it.  They have a nice four word name for it, but it amounts to their not having to pay a student to work in their bar at night, and the customers having to pour their own drinks.  And I may as well say it,  the wine wasn't any cheaper for having to do it yourself.

The illusion of “exploring your passion in an efficient and enjoyable fashion” was completely ruined when one of the bottles of wine ran out.  The one I was drinking from, incidentally, but that was just a coincidence, I’m sure.

The single staff member in the place came along and opened the glass door, pulled a tube out of the empty bottle, a rosé, put it into a bottle of white, without even the pretence of any sort of rinsing or wiping, and wandered off again.

Now, my lack of approval of their system didn’t for a minute detract from how much I drank.  But the less said about that the better.  Suffice it to say that it was well after midnight when we got our midnight chips, and I was working again on Thursday.

Then on Friday night we had a work night.  That was great fun.  I had unhealthy food and started drinking pints rather earlier in the day than I usually would.

And last night I was at a play, being all cultured and grown up.

The social whirl, my darlings.  I was exhausted, I swear.  It’s just as well that I won’t be going anywhere for ages again.  That was probably my socialising for the whole winter, all done and dusted in a week.