Let the holidays begin ...

We spent the actual Christmas with Alex's folks and it was a quiet one with all the family present. Alex's grandmother did not make it to the table, however. She is 91 and has had a few set backs since the night of the election count last May when she fell down the stairs and escaped largely unhurt but clearly shaken. Since then, she has endured a minor stroke which has frozen her left arm. Then, another fall resulted in a fracture in her right arm. But she is still managing to smile and here's hoping that she is not in too much discomfort as she sleeps in her chair each night.
Before leaving the Piccadilly Line for the trip back to the Village it was amazing to see on the BBC weather, that it was 18 below in the Village over several nights - colder than Moscow in fact. We loaded up the car on Monday morning promising to call in on Pobol Y Cwm on our way back to the Piccadilly Line and headed for the ferry at Pembroke.

As I was walking Blue around the port before the crossing I got a call from BF in Florida. I stood in the gale force wind and torrential rain while I listened. She and husband had escaped in a three hour window of snow ploughed runway from Dublin airport a few days earlier and were reunited with their three daughters - one from NZ, another from Vancouver and the baby from Germany. They had been for a swim on Christmas day and were heading down to the Key West on the morrow. I heard all this as trickles of water ran down the back of my neck and I eyed the hulk of a ferry through my rain splattered specs. It's bound to be a rough crossing I was thinking and I was right.
In County Wexford, near the town of New Ross we checked in to a pet friendly hotel. Dogs are allowed in the room but not in the bar. So Alex and Blue stayed in the room while I adjourned to the bar with the Irish Independent where I enjoyed a lip smackingly good pint of Guinness and ordered some food for us.
The next morning, a little more than four hours after breakfast, we pulled up at the house in the Village. I was unpacking upstairs when the doorbell rang. It was Jeremy and Bojangles. They have sold their house and will be back in England before the end of January. Hurrah. I dare say Hilary will be over the moon. Bless.
We are happy to be here, far from the Piccadilly Line. There's food in the fridge, wine in the cellar, books on the shelf, broadband to surf, DVDs to enjoy, a TV in the corner, fuel for the fire and friends nearby. The winter break has well and truly begun.

Oat Bran and the Weather

Marge and I got drunk one night, years ago, with the Proclaimers as we walked 500 miles around the houses in the bar of a hotel on the banks of the Foyle. The great thing about Marge is that she had no idea who they were or anything about their music. But she loved the talk of politics and the unions and when Marge is in full flow it's hard to get a word in edgeways. I met my dear friend, Marge, last night in Fitzrovia. In the pub, to be precise, where Dylan Thomas and George Orwell enjoyed a pint in days of yore. Not sure how they would have enjoyed last night, packed as it was with well heeled, well wrapped up 20 and 30 somethings. Anyway, enough of them. Marge was looking well, so well in fact, that I passed her by without recognising her. She has lost one and a half stone since October. Oat bran is the answer and weight loss is not its only benefit; apparently. It's good for reducing both cholesterol and fluid retention So I am now trying to source this miracle food . . . but why oh why do the main supermarkets not stock it? I am taking it as a sign not to rush into these things and hold off on diets and eating plans until the New Year.

Marge is also an expert on the weather she reminded me, as she relished the organic wheat beer in the tavern. Marge explained in great detail, what the source of this cold weather is. It’s to do with the airplanes, you see. In the summer. And something to do with the displacement of the Gulf Stream. I am not sure if this is linked with the Volcanic Ash or not.

I have noticed with Marge that her knowledge expands in direct relation to the number of pints consumed. I have also noticed that my ability to digest knowledge reduces in direct proportion to the number of pints consumed... but if George and Dylan had been around last night they would have hung on to her every word as the Proclaimers once did, back home in Derry.

Corrie at 50

The woman on the radio was well excited. Corrie is unmissable this week, she declared breathlessly. So with that in mind I suggested to Alex last night that she interrupt her viewing of Come Dine With Me and switch over to real TV. So we watched. Tyrone bought a bottle of whiskey in the local shop from the blubbery Asian who was fooling around with the dippy one from Dinnerladies. Sally was worried about Tyrone and suggested she would pop around. Kevin’s face clinched stiffly and said no. Meanwhile Sally served dinner to her pretentious elder daughter (apples fall from trees) and her younger lesbian daughter who now seems to be living at home with her lover – while both of them are still at school. Rita meanwhile, at 70+, weaved home tipsy from her vodka and tonic in the pub – good on you, Rita, while the bride to be sat glum at the bar amid the raucous singing at her hen night in the Rovers. Ken, looked dashing in his open necked shirt at the stag night in the new night club and kept glancing anxiously at Nick while smiling nervously at his son Peter, the groom and former bigamist.

An ex-con railed around the street looking for a lost little blond boy and called her ex-con husband to help in the search. Meanwhile Molly, who moved into the street some time ago from Emmerdale, delivered Tyrone the killer blow that he was not baby Jack’s father. Oh my God. In one of the houses on the street, Fiz’s slimy husband ended up killing the deluded Glenn Close like character. Then there was chaos. I think there was an explosion in the nightclub and the pub emptied of women who ran running towards the club screaming about their men folk. It all happened so fast. The posse from the pub was led by dearest Deirdre with her big glasses and orange face. “Oh my god, Ken, do something,” she rasped in her smoky baritone voice. Just as Ken was about to save the day a passing train collapsed from the bridge, like they do. More screams and chaos. The camera, which was in the right place at the right time, caught the horror of the scene in Ken’s face. What on earth would Uncle Albert make of all of this he was probably thinking.

The title to the show read four funerals and a wedding. The woman on the radio was so right. Another typical night on the street it was not. I wonder will Google do a special on the day Corrie reaches 50.

The Party is well and truly over

Ireland has ended up with egg on its face. The responsibilities for it, it is said, are collective. As the Celtic Tiger slithered off to its natural home in the East, the hangovers set in and the revellers turned roundly on each other. Everyone blamed the developers, the banks, the government and the teachers. The public sector and the private sector were barely speaking to each other as they compared pension pots, conditions of service and what have you. The banks were at fault for dodgy practices. And Mary Harney still did not sort out the Health Service. Bertie and Bernie of course were at the helm, steering the whole caboosh into a stormy sea. Now it seems the state is becalmed. Ireland is forced to accept a handout and all the agony that goes with that. I was going to say that no-one died. But sadly, some did. Despair took some to the ultimate brink. Surely, there’s nowhere to go now but up again. Surely, this time, as situations improve people’s memories will encourage more use of the brake mechanism. It’s time for the Irish to reclaim their sense of humour and take pleasure in the things that mattered before. The talent, the music, the art and the poetry that was lost at the drunken party. Periods such as these can produce great creativity as people look to their inner resources to sustain them. It’s a great opportunity to bring back the sense of community that gave Ireland its soul. Perhaps history will look back on the Bertie and Bernie show as the lost years. Ireland will bounce back, we always do.

Act of rememberance

I woke up yesterday to the news that Claire Rayner had passed away. Yesterday was also the second anniversary of my mother’s passing and I was feeling the loss of her. I listened to Clarie’s son Jay, on the Today programme saying that his mother fought her illness right up to the end. Illness is hard to witness at close hand and the irony is that Claire and my mother, who had each dedicated their professional lives to improving the health provision of others, albeit in different ways, ended up as patients themselves. They had much in common. While Claire had national prominence, my mother had a local notoriety in her rural community as they both strived to improve both the quality and longevity of patients’ lives.

Alex and I sat in our front room in candlelight last night recalling my mother’s last few hours two years ago. We flicked through photos on the i-phone remembering her fighting spirit as she lay attached to oxygen and drips in her hospital bed. We talked and waited for the moment of her passing at 9.15pm. I felt lighter when the moment passed.

Afternoon Tea

Alex and I had spent Sunday morning painting and decorating after spending all day Saturday at it as well. The Leonard Cohen words from the Tower of Song, accurately summarised how I felt, "I ache in the places I used to play". Alex and me visited a Builders Depot and paid for some flooring to be picked up by our darling builder. Darling, my foot. But after weeks of stand-offish behaviour on both our parts, we decided it was in our best interests to sweeten him up so that he gets on and finishes the job.

In the midst of all this grout, paint brushes, white spirit and putty Jack rang about afternoon tea in his new apartment and to meet his beau, Nils. So rarely does one receive an invitation to the above than no sooner had we received we accepted it with an alacrity that could have been viewed by some as vulgar. On arrival we were taken on a guided tour. The late 30s block had several rooms and while none of them were too big, the picture rails and fireplace gave it a sense of period. We were impressed with his £2000 sofa specially ordered and imported directly from Italy. His dining table was imported from Vietnam, but not directly by him, you understand. I believe a certain John Lewis brokered the deal.

And so the afternoon tea. The Vietnamese table positively creaked with goodies. There were three varieties of sandwiches on offer. Beef, egg mayonnaise and ham was the choice, with not a cucumber in sight. Next there was a series of cakes. Fresh cream sponge, as light as the proverbial feather, then a walnut topped fruit cake, Scandanavian cinnamon buns, fresh cream eclairs, custard pies and Belgian chocolate biscuits.

Without doubt, the highlight of the afternoon was meeting Nils, who has put the spring into Jack's step along with the twinkle in his eye. He was absolutely lovely. Nils was warm and chuckled easily and we got the feeling that this was it for the two of them. They slipped into the "we" as if they had spent a lifetime together. It's wonderful to see Jack so happy. The conversation meandered to matters Swedish with ABBA coming up in the conversation. Jack mentioned a lesser known song of theirs, "The day before you came", which I think, he thought, summed up their coming together. What a romantic old soul.

Falling in Love the other side of 50

Jack is one of my longstanding friends and he and I both moved from the old country to London around the same time way back in the late 80s. And while I was happy to live in Zone 2, Jack wanted to be near all the action and moved to Zone 1 and remained resolutely there. The advantage for me in this, was that Jack was a mine of information on the best bars and eateries within the central zone. In fact, Jack introduced me to many a fine place in WC1, SW1 and nearby postcodes. Without him, the Blues Bar, Ramen, Swallow Street, the Dutch Bar, The French House, St Christopher's Place, Marylebone High Street, Charlotte Street, Lamb Conduit Street to name but a few, would have remained untried and undiscovered by myself. In the 25 years or so, that we have been larking around the Piccadilly Line, Jack has had three partners of significance as well as countless nights of love with temporary and transitory figures but none led to lasting commitment. In fact, he resigned himself to an uncommitted existence and declared that he cherished his freedom, just like a tom cat.

Back in May, Jack invited me to try a new Thai place he had discovered in Covent Garden. He told me that evening over dinner about the flat he had just bought out in Zone 3. It’s on the ground floor, he declared, thinking of the future. The French windows open out onto a communal garden and the block is small and well tended. It’s time I moved to a less frenetic zone and lifestyle he sighed, a touch wistfully, I thought. As we parted that night I wished him well in his new place and hoped that the move would go smoothly for him.

Jack rang me two weeks after that Thai dinner. How is the new place I asked him. It’s fine, he brushed me aside quite quickly. He then informed me breathlessly, I have met someone. Four little words, I have met someone. You know when you hear those words that someone, is much more, than just anyone. Someone, is absolutely significant. Someone, is life changing. Well, take my breath away. Resigned Jack, that I had dinner with a few weeks earlier had gone, and hello to excited, life-loving Jack, down the phone line. The transformation was simply executed. The very day that Jack’s flat purchase was completed he was having a quiet drink in his local gay bar, when in walked Nils: they have barely been apart since.

Last night was the first time I could prise Jack away from Nils and we met up in town for some Tapas and Rioja. I am glad to report that Jack’s as in love three months on as he was at the outset. The tom cat has been tamed and is purring with delight. It just goes to show, that when you least expect it, love can walk in the door and take you completely by surprise. What’s more, being the other side of 50 is no barrier either. On the home front, Jack has scarcely spent a night in his new flat in Zone 3. Nils, as it happens, has a great place. And, yes it is in Zone 1. So, here’s to Jack and Nils. Be happy, you two. Purrr...

Imagine

Home is an elusive concept at the moment. When we got back to the Piccadilly Line from the Village just over a week ago our new house was like a building site with a film of dust everywhere and in a completely uninhabitable state. Now, just over a week later we have one bedroom painted (rather tastefully) and the hope of the bathroom and toilet being finished and fully functional in the next day or two. When that happens we’ll be in a position to sleep there. We can see in friends’ eyes, immense relief that they are not in middle of what we are and thanking their lucky stars that their own house is perfectly fine. I must say, that while I am looking forward to the day when we don’t have to visit such places as Wickes and Homebase, situated as they in dismal enough locations near dual carriageways, cutting through outer urban wastelands, I realise we are more blessed than not. Despite our fleeting hardship it’s rewarding to see the creeping progress as one day gives way to the next. Each evening brings a new wonder – and sometimes horror. We are just holding on to the vision of 3-4 weeks hence and imagining where we’ll be then.

That was the summer that was.

So today, with the dust settled after the departure of one and all, there is no time to relax and little time to reflect. We have spent the day at the washing machine and packing.
The break kicked off with Leonard Cohen

and ended with a game of golf.

In between, we had Orla, Blue’s new BF,

my BF then Alex’s parents and her BF from London.

We braved the elements for a BBQ,

spent a rainy day traversing a lake in search of ancient monuments.
There was the annual dog show at the Village Festival and Hilary and Jeremy entered their Bojangles. And he won. As I congratulated her, Hilary said that Bojangles had not faired so well at the dog show in a neighbouring festival. Clearly a fix, she decided. Of course, I agreed, but did point out to her that had our Blue entered the dog show then her Bojangles would not have won his prize. Miaow. All good banter.

We have an early start in the morning as we drive across the country, sail over the Irish Sea and head down the M6 and back to the Piccadilly Line. Ouch. Back to earth with a bang.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word

Sorry, is, in many respects, a throwaway word, uttered countless times during the course of a day. You accidentally bump into someone, you sympathise with the bereaved, you hurt feelings unintentionally or you merely want to ask a question and utter the word in advance. Today, the word is so necessary. Tony Blair is giving the profits of his much talked of memoirs to injured veterans of Iraq. The reason for his generosity, it has been suggested, is to restore his tarnished reputation. While I do not wish to deny the vets this facility, I am disturbed that Tony Blair remains resolute about his cavalier decision to take the country to war. Restoring his reputation, in my eyes, would best be done by coming out now, or indeed at any time, putting his hands up and telling us he got it wrong about Iraq and that he’s sorry. As long as Tony fails to utter this word, then all the sports centres for wounded soldiers in the world, will do nothing to restore his reputation in my eyes. Sorry, Tony, but that’s the way it is.

Crossed Wires in the Village

Hilary has an accent that would cut glass. Even if I heard her speak anywhere near the Piccadilly Line I would find it so. But to hear it here in the Village is quite another matter. It’s as foreign here as the sands of Arabia would be. Hilary has dwelled in the Village for seven years, but now she’s desperate to return to England. She misses her culture and the English way of doing things. Hilary is hilarious and within five minutes I am in stitches listening to her stories about how very strange things are here in the Village. It was Blue, in fact, who brought Hilary into my life.

Hilary lives with her son, Jeremy, and Jeremy invited me and Blue to meet his mother and his dog, Bojangles, over the weekend. I promised I would call and it was only on Sunday evening that I remembered that promise. So I put Blue on the lead and walked the 100 or so paces to Hilary’s house on the estate. The two dogs disliked each other on sight and the loudest barking match ensued. I hastily withdrew much to Hilary’s relief but not before I had given her the loaf of brown bread that Alex said I should bring. We are trying to eat healthily and someone gave us the loaf which would not be eaten. It was either that or a box of out of date ginger thins. I opted for the unusual visiting present of a loaf of bread (fresh of course). And so this morning, Hilary appeared at our door with an M & S quiche as a return gift I guess, which she advised to put in the freezer. We came off best there I think – loaf versus quiche, hmmm no contest.

Over coffee Hilary informed me that in England she had lived in a small close, not dissimilar from the estate where we are now. There, she said, they had fallen into the pleasant habit of having drinks and nibbles on Sunday at noon with the neighbours before lunch. It developed into an informal rota and was generally a good way to keep in touch and what have you. So when Hilary and Jeremy moved to the village she decided that this would be a good tradition to maintain. When they had settled in she sent out her invites to her nearest neighbours for Sunday nibbles before lunch. So far, so good, except, that all her guests were still there at 5 o’clock, more than worse for wear. Her guests were clearly in need of greater sustenance than nibbles as their sobriety had seriously waned. Poor Hilary had to resort to some pizzas in the freezer in order to redeem some semblance of order and the tradition of Sunday drinks was unceremoniously abandoned. So, here we have a case of crossed wires and cultural differences. To the rational English, drinks and nibbles before lunch mean precisely that. Lunch would be no later than two,(in your own house), presence would not exceed two hours and drinks drunk would be no greater than two. To the Irish, drinks and nibbles before lunch would have been quite different. All that they would have heard in the invitation would have been drinks and may have assumed that the invite actually included lunch. And it would have been rude to leave before all available drink had been consumed and that you had regaled your host with tall tales and shown what good craic you are. An occasion such as this is a test of English hospitality to see what they provide and the guests likely thought the nibbles very poor fayre indeed.

Hilary remained both undaunted and in the Village and did make many friends here and engaged as fully as she could in village life. But after seven years, enough is enough. She misses her country and their ways and she wants to go home. Safe home, Hilary. It was more than a pleasure to meet you. And yes, I would love to go back to your house, before you leave, without Blue this time, for that glass of wine and see your garden.

Cohen comes to Lissadell: a living poet comes to a dead poet's corner.

IN MEMORY OF EVA GORE-BOOTH AND CON MARKIEWICZ

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams -
Some vague Utopia - and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
Pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.

Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.

Alex and me bade adieu to the Piccadilly Line and the house project and repaired to the Village for a few weeks. The first event to attend to on arrival was the Leonard Cohen concert in Lissadell. BF and I had a long discussion about travel and parking arrangements. Lissadell has never been used as a concert venue before and practical advice is scant. To drive to the venue direct and hope for the best regarding parking or to hop on one of busses leaving from various points. I favour taking a chance on parking at the venue while BF leaned towards the bus option. In the end we both ended parking at the venue.

It promised to be a special event. The setting was awesome, to be sure. The stage was set against a canopy of hazel wood (I went down to the hazel wood and hooked a berry to a thread) and through the trees the odd boat passing by on Sligo Bay could be seen. To the left of the stage is Sligo’s own Table Mountain, Benbulben, at whose foot, Yeats is buried in the graveyard of the church at Drumcliff.

The man I heard on the radio summed up Leonard Cohen far better than I ever could when he said that his lyrics contain much meaning which resonates with life’s cards of love, longing, loss and lust. BF and I along with her daughter had seen Leonard in Dublin last year and it was the most spiritual event that I had not anticipated. We had not been prepared to cry as we did. Leonard Cohen arrested us on that occasion and made us stop and reflect on our lives through his words. His delivery and respect for his musicians and for us was so evident. It was moving beyond belief. It was also fun. He delivered comments gently and with a wryness born from a life fully lived. And a life fully lived, contains loss. Alex and some friends who came with BF were as moved as we had been in Dublin 2009 but BF & I did agree that, Cohen in Lissadell, while thoroughly enjoyable, did lack the intense intimacy of the performance in Dublin 2009.

Moving out and moving on

That Alex and me are still smiling after loading this lot up is amazing. There was much coming and going, lifting and toting, not to mention pushing and shoving. The hardest thing, we both agreed was removing the two sofas. So happy that we pulled that off and did not have to ring for help. This is the last blog from the cottage. We had some great times here as well as some great fights. But we are still together. Alex is understandably emotional as this was the first home she owned alone. Her blow at independence, her place in the world. But ever onwards and upwards as we move ten minutes around the corner. So adieu from the Piccadilly Line for a while - it now has to get unloaded at the other side xxx

Packed up

Alex and me been packing for the best part of a month now. Well, to be fair, Alex has done the most of it. So here I sit tonight surrounded by all our worldly chattels which we have to load up tomorrow in the truck. As I blog, Alex packs. There's a crash. I raise my eyebrows. Just cutlery being flung in another box. I promised to carry her over the threshold when we get to the new house on Friday. Too damn right she says.

Christmas in the middle of the summer

I went to the old country for the weekend to catch up with BF’s two daughters who were home. One had flown in from New Zealand and the other from Vancouver. It does not seem that long ago since they were two wee tots sitting all squeaky clean after a bath in their pajamas on the one easy chair, their pink faces encasing eyes full of expectation. I came in behind them and gave each of them a selection box. The boxes were slightly different and had a few cut out games and gizmos with them. Well, if I had given them an ounce of gold along with a handful of emeralds, they could not have been more excited. Their eyes opened wide as saucers as they scampered off to different places in the house to examine their treasure. Then, when calmer, they compared their respective booty and munched their way through the chocolate. Now look at them - they are beautiful, accomplished women. Where did the time go? It was more than lovely to hear their stories, see them looking so good and to see BF looking so happy.

Kitchens & Bathrooms

We made great progress this weekend. We have sorted the kitchen, worktop, door handles, appliances, bath, bathroom pottery, taps, flooring upastairs and flooring downstairs for the new house. So a lot was done. We also fitted in the annual International Evening at Alex's school which had good music, food and everyone in good humour. We met a newly elected councillor there who looked all of 16 mind you, and her knowledge about a local issue I raised with her was very impressive. It's great to see younger people being informed and engaging with politics. So there's hope yet. We even managed a picnic by Kenwood House in Hampstead Heath. Rufus Wainwright was performing in the Summer Season. Perfect evening - great to see my old friend Brid. And we bagged a parking space right by the gate. Could life be more perfect?

So when Alex said you won't forget to ring the builder and tell him what we want before she left this morning, I was gripped by mild panic. What we want, I asked, through my waking up. Yes she said - the kitchen, the cabinets, the worktop, the bath, the basin .... the taps. Taps, I shrieked. Oh mother of god. The house move will be in just under two weeks and we are moving in to a project. It has to be rewired, central heating installed, new kitchen, new bathroom, walls stripped of wall paper and painted and ceilings, carpets lifted and new flooring installed. And I can't remember a damn thing, fittings wise, we agreed upon.

PS. Blue is fully recovered - she really enjoyed her trip to Hampstead Heath on Saturday and was enraptured with Rufus

Blue - out of sorts

Poor Blue. She has been really out of sorts since we got her speyed two days ago. Clingy, sad looking and a bit stiff. I hope we've done the right thing. My BF skyped yesterday to check how she was and said that she when her kids were ill, she got the chance to really mother them. I know what she means. We just want to make her better. Get well soon, Blossom ...

The Summer Ball Season

Let's go to a summer ball, Alex said, and so went to Stonewall's, a fundraiser to support the eradication of homophobia. The venue was the swish Roof Gardens in Kensington and the evening was balmy. Stella Duffy opened proceedings with an empassioned reminder, that Martina and Billie Jean apart, out sport persons are a rarity. Gareth Thomas was given a cheer by us all, in abstentia, but Stella's words did make us stop and ponder the fact that in the midst of the World Cup, there is no out and proud premier division footballer. The roofgarden made a refreshing change from some of the dives wherein I have attended fundraisers in the past. The last time I was that close to a flamingo I was in the Great Rift Valley. We enjoyed our bbq alongside the two lovely Patricks. They make a habit of attending as many of these events as possible. The previous evening they were at Elton John’s White Tie & Tiara Ball at a cost of three mortgage payments for us mere mortals.

Alex’s parents came for the weekend and we ate al fresco at our local Italian on Saturday evening. Italians are great maitre d’s and can make such a drama out of the simplest things. Straightforward statements become the grandest pronouncements of authority by virtue of hand movements combined with a facial expression fused with a slight shrug of the shoulder and a raised eyebrow thrown in for good measure. “The chilli sauce must be hot,,, but not too hot...”.

Sunday was England’s big day and two Irish friends came out to the suburbs for the occasion. It was officially the hottest day of the year and there was a palpable air of excitement building up all morning. BBQ proteins were flying of the shelves and beer stocks were rapidly depleted. We were lucky to find ice in the third outlet we tried. We repaired to the pub to lend our support to the three lions. The hope which was very much alive in the first half vaporised as the second half progressed and twenty minutes before the end the writing was on the wall. I am no football expert but was amazed that such a good team (allegedly) could be beaten by what is on paper, a lesser team, so comprehensively. The three lions became the three minnows but for one Italian it was always a win-win situation. Fabio is one of the few in Britain, the Patricks, celebrities and footballers apart, who could now afford to attend the Elton John Ball.

The Crucible in Regents Park

Last evening was my first time at the Open Air Theatre in Regents Park and the play being performed was Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible”. The play, while not without its difficulties is nonetheless recommended viewing. It’s much more than just another evening at the theatre and the themes should be a matter for discussion, reflection and action. When Miller wrote the play it was entirely allegorical about the 17th century witch hunts in Salem, Massachusetts. He drew on these events to highlight McCarthy's right wing vendetta against those in the performing arts and other notorious positions in the US of the 1950s, who might harbor any communist tendencies. Today, it could be applied to all sorts of issues – whistle blowing as vengeful tool, inciting peer acquiesence in a harmful way, over reliance and acceptance of institutions of rule such as the court and the church – neither of which are always right. Today, the publication of the Saville Inquiry Report into Bloody Sunday is an instance of a flawed institution (The Army) literally getting away with murder even if it cost £120million and 38 years for the fault to be unearthed and acknowledged. Despite the acknolwedgement and the prime minsterial apology it seems they will get away with it. Another insitution which got away with gross misdemeanours for years is the Catholic Church in Ireland.

However, I digress, so, back to the play. It is a difficult play with a large array of characters whose lyrics are dated and stilted to the modern ear and era. However, after a while, like a scar on a face, this becomes less noticeable and before long it's possible to listen to and understand the text. There's another challenge with this particular performance and that is the venue itself. While enchanting on the one hand, by 10.00pm it’s bloody cold and the concentration needed for this play is put to the test with the evening chill. Challenges aside however, there are no regrets about attending the performance. Indeed as time elapses after leaving the theatre, the play’s themes and events return to the mind for interpretation and consideration. The set itself was wonderful and the array of girls sitting around the stage reacting in communion with events being enacted was an effective visual ploy. There was one outstanding performance. Patrick O'Kane played the central character, John Proctor. The transformation from his first appearance as a confident man striding on stage to his last appearance as an utterly broken one is firmly planted in the mind. The cast is enormous and all performed the play to great effect. All in all, this play is more than worth the effort.

That was the weekend that was ....,

My commute this morning was longer than usual. From BF's house in the West of Ireland to my office near the Piccadilly Line in four hours flat. That's great said BF on skype later asking me did I see her camera. But is it? I had my enthusiastic colleagues getting excited about what we are doing and while normally, I am in the thick of it, today, I was kinda quiet. I guess I needed a bit more space between tranquility and action. We all need time to digest and reflect.

BF and I attended an art launch exhibition - a brave venture in a recession as the local politician who opened it intoned. An ecletic range of art with a packed gallery to view it. An amazing number of people I met there are natives of districts located near the Piccadilly Line and they moved the other way. Am I missing something? The artists were Breda Burns, Margaret Duffy, Betty Gannon, Pamela Gray, Mary O'Grady, Grainne O'Reilly, Susie Quinn, Sinead Wall and Ian Wieczorek. I particularly liked Breda, Margaret and Susie but resisted buying as the thought of flooring and light fittings took over.

So we stopped off in McGing's Pub on the way back and caught a bit of a session. I enjoyed the pint of Guinness and me and BF reviewed the weekend. We had ticked a lot of boxes - delicious dressed crab, a long walk, a Guinness, art, coffee, talk and relax. So I am back on the Piccadilly Line and will be back to normal tomorrow.

Mrs Robinson

The unfettered joy I felt when Mary Robinson was elected President of Ireland came flooding back to me this morning. I slept in my god daughter’s bed last night while she is working and living away in Vancouver. I left the Piccadilly Line to spend this weekend with my BF on the west coast of Ireland and I found, on the bookshelf, the former president’s biography, written by John Horgan, published in 1997.

Mary Robinson’s election to the presidency was a welcome alternative to decades of political partisanship in the 70 year old Irish State. When I started out on my working life in Ireland in the 1980s, the country was in a parlous state. Taxes were high, jobs were scarce, emigration was commonplace and people were deeply frustrated. The country was trying to wade through a vat of tar and our citizens, informed by education, television, overseas experience and travel began to realise that it did not always have to be like this. Voices from the far right scare mongered about emerging dissenting voices such as Mary Robinson's, and overseeing all this was the Catholic Church who seemingly were in cahoots with the government in keeping citizens under thumb. The 1980s was a decade of much moral debate which followed the even more miserable decade of the 1970s. There was a so called abortion referendum (lost), a divorce one, (lost), the case of the Kerry babies, and the poor schoolgirl who gave birth and died in childbirth at a grotto in Granard.

Reeling in my own 1980s I recall picking up condoms in the Well Woman Centre in Dublin for my married friend living on the west coast. I also remember speaking to the manager of a building society about getting a mortgage. He laughed out loud at me and said that single women could not get mortgages. I moved near the Piccadilly Line towards the end of the decade with a band of others. London offered and delivered liberation from faux morality, fun and opportunity. Ireland carried on in sharp denial of realities led by hucksters of dubious ethical provenance. The words banana and republic spring to mind with the tribunal era still some way off. The 1980s drew to a close and in 1990, Mary Robinson rose from this undiluted mire and was elected, against all the odds, as the President of Ireland. It was so refreshing. I heard it on the Friday night news and hungry for information, I travelled all the way the following morning, on the Piccadilly Line, to West London to a newsagent I knew for certain stocked the Irish Times. I needed to soak up the all the comment and coverage. It was a tweet free zone back then.

The election of Mary Robinson offered new hope for the country. I remember, she declared that she wanted to be a president for all the people of Ireland, not just those who supported a particular party or section. She acknowledged the diaspora and promised to keep a candle lit in the Aras for all emigrants. The biography related an incident from her own life which might have influenced this. In her early 20s, Mary was a student in Harvard and while she enjoyed the intellectual stimulation she was heartsick and homesick. She stumbled upon her local paper “The Western People” in a Boston newsstand and as the biographer reports she soaked up every inch of it.

Although I dwell near the Piccadilly Line, Ireland is always in my soul. In my exile the country became the subject of envy of many tomes around the world as its economy grew at an unprecedented rate and when it crashed spectacularly many spirits and hopes were crushed. Ireland has had to raise taxes, cut incomes and benignly endorse emigration as its brightest graduates, such as my god-daughter, leave in droves in search of work. And there is the wanton waste that is so evident in town after town of unoccupied and unfinished housing developments. These estates are spooky places which apparently attract disaffected young people, alerted through social media such as Facebook. The word here on the by roads is that of demolition. The Ireland of today is in a much more depressed state than that of the 70s or 80s. At least then, we had not known any better. This time around, a greater number of citizens were invited to the party but the ensuing and enduring hangover has been both severely acute and chronic.

Ireland is due for a new President next year as the current incumbent, Mary McAleese’s, term of office comes to an end. Let’s hope that the new President can reinvigorate the mood of the country in the way that Mary Robinson once did.

Poem extract

in all her life, she never thought
that she'd ever be stranded
in a place known as stansted

Eurovision, Six Degrees of Seperation and Way on High

As soon as the osteopath sorted us out on Saturday morning it was time to turn our attention to the Eurovision fancy dress outfit. Alex barred us from the top floor and when this Moldovian Jew appeared in our cottage Blue and I were taken aback. I realise there's a recurrent theme here. Since I started this blog of our lives, Alex has a penchant for dressing up. Maybe a psychoanalyst could make something of that but as a documentalist I am easy about it. The best part of the Eurovision party, costumes aside, was watching the geopolitical voting patterns.

On Sunday we hit the road to South Wales to meet friends of Alex's family visting from Vancouver Island. Bob's claim to fame was that he had been in the US Peace Corps in India back in the day, had dogded the US draft and absconded to Saskatchewan and never went home. And there's more .... He had his photo taken with Bob Clinton in a remote outpost in Canada but more impressive was that Pete Seeger played and sang in in his front room in San Franscisco. Now, I went to see the late Kirsty McColl in concert many moons ago on the Euston Road. Her dad, Ewan was married to Peggy Seeger who is Pete's sister. So there you have it - six degrees of seperation.

Monday, we dropped into the festival at Hay on Wye en route back to the Piccadilly Line. A glorious day, the tented village hummed with readers, writers and us lot. It's a glorious location with bleating sheep in the background. Kicked ourselves that we did not plan things better to spend more time there. Sill, we managed a refreshing Pimms watching the literati go by ...

Proof is in the pudding - praise indeed...

SoS and colour co-ordination

Alex had an early start this morning. No less a mortal than the SoS for Education (that's how they are referred to by their civil servants) dropped by her school. With all the usual media, the official added casually in a conversation with Alex the day before. And who would they be Alex asked. Oh you know, BBC, ITN, London News, Sky TV the official drawled in response. Gosh. So there was a deep discussion between Alex and her boss Pamela about colour co-ordination. They settled on purple (Pamela) and green (Alex). In the event, they both wore red and black. In mourning for Labour I quietly wonder? Although they are seemingly getting into bed with the Tories, it doesn't mean that they are going to go all blue in their wardrobe. Or yellow. Alex looked peachy sitting beside Mr Gove in a circle of children. The dog and me - we are so proud of her.

Under the weather

The cottage became a potential location shoot for ER, Casualty, Nurse Jackie & Holby City. It all began with Blue. Move the olive tree, Alex shouted up at me as she left for work on Wednesday. She did not want Blue to attack it in a fit of pique while we were at work. A few minutes later, I tried to shift it. Aaaah. Something moved in my back. I hobbled into the sofa and Blue followed me darting about, her ears pricked and her eyes full of concern. I made it to work and took a ****load of neurofen and paracetemol. That evening we ate prawns and noodles. They were lovely and light. Delicate, even. Flavoursome and wholesome. We went to bed with me moaning about my back and Alex telling me to take some tablets and me saying - what's the point at bedtime. We fell asleep. I woke about 3.00am. Alex was sitting up in bed hunched over. What's wrong baby. I have never felt so ill came the reply. She sounded really really pathetic. I gave her some comfort but had to go to the loo. I got out of bed and screamed my way to the toilet. My back was in agony. As I was finishing on the toilet Alex came in. She was moaning really badly. I was screaming very loudly clinging to the wall while she was retching in the bathroom. Blue was looking at us both in a state of high anxiety. She came and sat at my foot and licked it saying - don't worry - I'll look after you.

We moaned and groaned our way back to bed. I had a deadline at work - not the best time to do your back in. We got a call through to an osteopath who advised, no sitting and painkillers. Alex had to get up from her sickbed and drive me to work where I picked up the papers I needed. I can still read and write in a lying down position. We decided that Alex's illness must be due to one dodgy prawn. She's off them entirely now. Come to think of it - having heard her getting sick I think I am too.

But that's not the end of it. The day after the night before Alex complained that her hand and arm were sore. And it got worse. Friday saw no easing of it. It's hard to see pain etched on anyone, especially Alex. Yesterday evening she gave in and said - take me to A & E. Flawed and all as it may be, we are lucky to have the NHS to tend to us. Take note, Dave 7 Nick. In the three hours we were there, we saw a preliminary navigator nurse, an investigatory nurse, had an x-ray, saw a doctor and finally a treatment nurse who fitted a splint. Along the way we came across a host of characters with their own stories from all walks of life. The stuff of television drama.

The possible diagnosis is calcification leading to tendonitis. Treatment: Painkillers, armrest and tlc ....

Happy Birthday, Richard Madeley

It's his birthday today my i-phone app informed me. Snap! Alex appeared with a breakfast tray laden with coffee and a tiny birthday cake with three candles. She then produced a huge basket of gifts loosely wrapped in green crepe paper. (It’s the way to go). There was a bag of coffee, a small box of Irish hand made chocolates, a metallic green “whistle when I boil” kettle (very cool), a black linen shirt, a bottle of Rioja, another bag of coffee (decaf), a metallic effect purple / pink cover for the i-phone (uber cool), a bar of Milka chocolate and the basket itself. Today, I feel truly loved. And so, to you, dear Richard. I sincerely hope that you feel as loved today as I do. Many happy returns to you and to all whose birthday falls today, and in this merry month of May.

The Election

As I write, the full results are not in. But it's not good. Oh dear. But where in the world can we go? Escaping to Ireland with its leery priests does not fill one with hope, even if we could make it there through the Icelandic Ash. Looking west, the US stock market has fallen badly and its southern coastline is being invaded by an oil slick of epic proportions, while looking east, the entire Eurozone is at risk and even a trip to the Isles of Greece is fraught with danger of getting caught up in a bank raid. For imbibing liberal gay women, any of the middle eastern countries is a no-go zone, while Asia is also a challenge. There are terrorists' training camps up in the hills and down at sea level a tsunami can happen anytime. Further east there's China but it's really too late to start learning a completely new alphabet. Ditto for Japan. Which leaves Australia or New Zealand. But the solicitor for the house purchase has not returned my passport. So we are trapped. Stuck. Can't move on. No going back...

Under the hammer

We discovered an auction house with a sale on Bank Holiday Monday, so we got there an hour before the sale and bought our catalogue. We ticked the items we liked from the 547 lots on show. There were mirrors (two different kinds), paintings, garden lanterns, some kinda chairs, another kinda chair, a coffee table, a writing desk. There was also a gents mahogany mirror, a Japanese cigarette box, a yew writing desk and a Victorian pine chest of drawers. We deliberated carefully and made a shortlist with three items on in it. The first was two fenders marked £20-£25. Then there was a gilt mirror – guide price £40-£60. Finally there was a coffee table with a guide price of £100-£150.

As proceedings began the atmosphere was marginally tense with the auctioneer in complete command of the room. It was no place for amateurs. He moved efficiently through the lots, keeping an eye on the bidders while managing the entire process with humorous banter. The pleasure of being there was following the fate of the items which we had picked out. Alex really has a good eye. The first lot to come up was the fenders. Alex raised our paddle at £25 and again at £35. Two others in the room were interested. The hammer fell for a woman at the front at £55. It was over in a matter of seconds. Several lots later Alex had another go. This time for some garden lanterns. Not in our shortlist but Alex is Alex. The auctioneer looked directly at Alex. Thirty-five? he asked. Alex shook her head purposefully with all the panache of a seasoned buyer at auctions.

As the auction flowed on we pinched each other. It was her first attempt to bid in an auction. I was still a bid virgin. Then came our gilt mirror. We did not even get a chance to bid on this as it shot up very quickly to £75. We watched and listened as a host of other items came under the hammer. Then Alex kept an ear out for the yew writing desk which did not make the shortlist either. It was in the catalogue at £50-£80. The bidding started at £40. Alex went £45. It went £50. Alex went £55. Then £60. I watched Alex in fascination. She went £65. The auctioneer looked at the other bidder. Then it was sold to us. We were the delighted owners of a yew writing bureau.

We had just one item remaining of interest in the auction room. The coffee table – guide price £100-£150. As it stands, dear reader, you are probably thinking it’s a bit steep for a coffee table. Well I can only tell you that it’s a most exquisite piece of furniture, with the circular table top supported by four of the most magnificent partly clad women who morph into table legs at the very base. There was an underneath about half the size of the table top and these ladies slope in to support it and back out to be in line with the table top. My description fails to do it justice but suffice to say, this is not a mass produced piece. Anyway, we fancied it would be a marvellous conversation piece in our new front room and somewhere elegant to rest a glass of Rioja upon.

The table was one of the last items in the catalogue and Alex slipped off to the loo after the victory of the writing desk. I was left in charge of the paddle and the catalogue and my mind wandered. Then I heard the auctioneer entreat us with his smooth words – pine drawers £20 as he looked for a bidder. In mind’s eye I could see the Victorian Pine chest of drawers which had not made our shortlist. I quickly lifted the paddle. Twenty pounds I am bid, he intoned. Twenty five, he asked the room. No takers. He nodded at me. The hammer came down. I had got us some pine drawers. It was item 402. I borrowed a pen from a punter. My first bid and I was a winner. When Alex came back I told her I had got us some pine drawers for £20. Of course it wasn’t the Victorian pine ones – it was a small set of three drawers. Never mind, it will look good painted up Alex said.

Eventually it came to the coffee table. Alex and I had a strategy. The auntioneer might start the bidding at £80 but we decided to sit back and come in as a new bid towards the end and we would snatch it at £150. In the event this was not possible. The bidding quickly opened at £160. It rose in twenties fast and furious with three people bidding. One fell away which left an oriental woman and an Egyptian looking man. The Egyptian won and the hammer fell at £400. All over in 30 seconds.

As we lugged our spoils of war to the car we spotted some of the items we liked being carted off. The fenders ended up in the back of a big grey van. Clearly professionals. I saw a tall bearded chap carry off the portrait of the lady under his arm and a blond woman who was bidding against us for the desk wished lots of joy with it. In fact two others said we had got a lovely piece in the desk. Funnily, nobody mentioned the pine drawers. Anyway, Alex is the auction queen and dreamt about another auction last night. So we'll be back.

Give him a fez

Is Paul thinking-where's me fez? The wispy dyed hair, the faraway puzzled look is reminscent of Tommy Cooper. Non?

While I was sleeping ...

I first heard of Web 2.0 technology a few months ago when I started a new job. The term was brought up at every coffee break, meeting and water cooler interface. I asked a colleague to explain. So it’s YouTube, Wikipedia, Face book, and all those facilities that put publishing power in the hands of us all without editorial interference. Life’s a gas. We were at a bbq yesterday and two of the younger guests (in their 20s) sat huddled together looking at a phone screen. Zoe was checking out Face book to try and piece together her vodka fuelled clubbing the previous night. Apparently, if Face book were a country it would be the 3rd largest in the world after China & India. Completing memory blanks is clearly one of its uses…

Alex got a new Blackberry at work last week and its strength is e-mails. She can deal with and delete so much before she even gets to the office. It’s amazing how many pings she got over the weekend – do some people not have a life? In the light of Alex’s acquisition I revisited my own i-phone and checked out the latest apps and downloaded some new ones.

The “on this day one” tells me that Shakespeare was born on this day in 1564. My mind-mapping tool, gives me perspective on complex issues I deal with daily and allows me to come up with creative and innovative solutions. I have a to-do tool, where I can schedule in tasks, resources and the order I need to do things in. The torch is useful when I drop my wallet in the car in the dark and the level tool helps when I need to erect shelves correctly. The gizmo that plays sounds to fall asleep to (garden, airport etc) also doubles up as a joke thingy to play birdsong sitting in the doctor’s windowless waiting room. To appease my sporty adventurer side I play bowls, pool, solitaire and even fly in with my helicopter to rescue strange business men while weaving my way around a series of hazards. I can convert stones and pounds into kgs, which make being overweight not quite so serious. I can read a novel (Anna Karenina currently), and check out 3 articles a month, free from the Financial Times.

As we lay in bed yesterday comparing our telecommunication devices, the i-phone won out on style, functionality and general sexiness. So, while I have my home e-mail linked in to my i-phone, it wasn’t until I got to work this morning that I became aware of another instance of Web 2.0 publication – the Marryoke. In my inbox a round robin e-mail from a distant colleague thanked us for our good wishes on his marriage and provided a link to a 3 min clip of his wedding. It’s hilarious. It’s a Marryoke. Geddit. Marriage combined with karaoke. So Web 2.0 has truly arrived.

Cable for the Treasury and Adonis for the Sin Bin

It seems the heavy hitters from both camps of Labour and Conservative are agreed on one thing. They have to stop the roll of Nick Clegg in advance of tonight's big election debate. The papers are full of inane revelations about Clegg as they have searched around the cupboards to see what they can drag out. We know they are seriously rattled when they have to look back to utterances made in a more youthful past, the price he paid for his Putney house and how much its value has gone up by.

It's been a full week since the airspace was closed over these islands and I have yet to see even a speckle of volcanic ash near the Piccadilly Line. Adonis the Greek has admitted they may have got it wrong by closing down the airspace so comprehensively and for so long. Walsh, the Irishman who runs Britain's favourite airline has suggested that airlines themselves should judge whether its safe to fly. Less government regulation would keep the skies open for business. Hmm. Isn't that what the city said to New Labour all those moons ago?