tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15688640099782235312024-03-08T02:43:56.781-08:00The Kickass CoachUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-90818079716267672452019-11-29T06:21:00.001-08:002019-11-29T06:21:22.166-08:00New WEBSITE<div style="text-align: center;">
Hi there, I have moved my Blog to:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> <a href="http://www.loose-lips.de/">http://www.loose-lips.de</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's brilliant! See you there.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-13498072688162883072019-11-14T17:10:00.001-08:002019-11-14T17:18:16.035-08:00The Headstone<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Do you
remember any affectionate moments with your mother?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The therapist
was probably feeling an awkward silence that I was blissfully unaware of while
I attempted to route through a few decades in under a minute. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“No”, I
said, “Mammy wasn’t touchy feely. Just sometimes if she had an itch she might
ask me to rub her back.” It was true that Mammy wasn’t the kind of Mammy to
have us on her knee or give us a hug, but there were things I would remember later,
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>maybe too late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That day in
Dun-Laoghaire when we went to the bakery and she told me to pick out whatever bun
I’d like, and I had the chocolate éclair. </span> Of course, I wasn’t allowed to eat it on the spot. There was the torture of carrying it to the bus stop in its paper bag and holding it on my knee until we had completed our journey up the hill on the number 7A bus to Sallynoggin and then the ten minute walk home until I could tear open the bag at the kitchen table and demolish it with a cup of tea that Mammy poured from the same tin teapot that everyone else on our street had. I remember biting into it and some of
the cream oozing into my mouth, with the rest of it falling from my lips to my
chin. Bits of chocolate breaking away, but never getting as far as the floor,
and that light choux pastry, all air and chewiness, slaughtered by the captor
of my mouth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9m9-MwXwd58/Xc36Q_FMryI/AAAAAAAAZPQ/oJreI2Ap-bklwN_M5ixC-dOegCI53KcGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Dad%2Bgrave.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9m9-MwXwd58/Xc36Q_FMryI/AAAAAAAAZPQ/oJreI2Ap-bklwN_M5ixC-dOegCI53KcGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Dad%2Bgrave.jpeg" width="180" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There were
other things I remembered. The time I was so sick that I couldn’t get off the
sofa, and Mammy got a bucket and every time I got sick she emptied it into the
toilet. The bucket was orange and Kay from next door was called in because she had
a book where you could look up any kind of illness that a kid had. It was
called the Dr. Spock book. You knew that if your mother went next door to
consult from the book that it was serious. The time with the bucket was apparently
a stomach virus. I didn’t know what that was, but it sounded good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I was a bad
daughter from the start. Mammy went in next door all up in arms one morning because
I had such acute lower abdominal pains. Kay looked it up and diagnosed a kidney
problem. The doctor was summoned. Neither the doctor nor the Dr. Spock book
could diagnose that I’d been up until the early hours of the morning, straining
my back, reading ‘Tom Sawyer’ with a torch under the sheets. I didn’t dare tell
the truth. I had too much to lose. As the years went on, I missed copious amounts
of school suffering from the insomnia induced by my secret reading habits: Enid
Blyton, Patricia Lynch, Louisa May Alcott and Mark Twain, are but a few of the
bad influences who weakened my academic prowess. Thanks to the Dr. Spock book,
I was unable to get through the day due to anaemia: “ look at the black rings
under her eyes”, which sounded too professional to contest. I was on a roll, I
could do all nighters at the age of nine and was already cute enough to know
that the best policy was to keep shtumm. It worked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Therapists are
always looking for a sad story, and if you are the victim in it, even better.
People who do therapy all have the same story. It is ‘look at how damaged I was
by my terrible parents and look at how well I have overcome it.’ My story is
different. My parents were not the only perpetrators of my childhood misery and
traumas, and quite frankly, not many people would have survived my childhood as
well as I did. In my case, therapy helped me remember things from both sides,
and ultimately all I could do was to thank the above mentioned authors for saving
me. When the real world was too overwhelming to deal with, reading became a form
of escapism. There was the real world, and the other world , the one I lived
in, full of books <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- novels, poetry and
even the odd Dale Carnegie thrown in, that might have wandered in from my
father’s bookshelf to my grubby child <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hands. My favourite though, was Patricia Lynch
‘King of the Tinkers’. Granny gave it to me for my tenth birthday, along with a
book of Irish fairy tales by Sinead DeValera. By ten it had become official
that there was no point in giving me anything other than a book. One cousin was
creative with a cookery book, and for about three years I managed to combine reading
with making peppermint creams – a hideous paste of caster sugar, water and
peppermint essence, rolled into little round coinlike discs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There are
probably dozens, even hundreds of kind and loving things that my mother did for
me, but the relationship sets the tone, and it was always strained. A difficult
marriage, the demon drink and a basic lack of parenting tools were things that
set the scene when I was a kid in the 70’s. I may not have been alone in this,
the only thing that set me apart was the fact that my mother never really liked
me. For whatever reason that may be, and there is a plethora of possibilities,
it shaped our relationship and I never managed to find a way back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Ask her
though. She may have a different story. Her prodigal daughter. No respect. Breaking
with convention. A lesbian. Every mother’s nightmare. Maybe getting married and
having children was a last attempt to win her over. And when the whole thing
backfired, it was nothing but a confirmation for her that her daughter was a no
good loser. Might she have influenced my decision not to follow my other true
love, my passion for writing, in order to look good in a capitalist corporate
role? Status, money, power. Not really. That was something that she only valued
as something a man does. The woman really only needed to ‘mary well’. I didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But who really knows what makes us do the
things we do? Not even the shrink. Not even ourselves most of the time. Life
happens, and if we decide to navel gaze we can come up with all sorts of concoctions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In life she
was quite the drama queen; in death she was very amenable. A short illness
without much pain, one that meant we could say goodbye. There were nights on a
recliner chair in the nursing home. There were long days where all we could do
was sit around her bed and wait. But what were we waiting for? Does your mother
ever die? Now, years later, I have discovered that no, she doesn’t, she is
always there, and no matter how difficult the relationship was, she is still
your mother, and yes, even if it was the hardest love you ever had to fight
for, you loved her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qwbxBr2ECyU/Xc36XeeMvTI/AAAAAAAAZPU/4ZzIJ6GpB1olZlCj8JL13D8VWxloVjT9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Mum%2Bgrave.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="1512" height="209" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qwbxBr2ECyU/Xc36XeeMvTI/AAAAAAAAZPU/4ZzIJ6GpB1olZlCj8JL13D8VWxloVjT9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Mum%2Bgrave.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She was
right. I’m a bad daughter. It’s taken me four years to get the ball rolling to
have her gravestone heading engraved. Since 1979 it boasts my father as a permanent
resident. She has been there with him since 2015, unbeknownst to strangers who
like to roam graveyards reading the epitaphs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Having a
gravestone engraved is not easy. We edited and reedited and found multiple errors
before realising we had forgotten to add that she was also a grandmother, and
then the issue that her name was not written in the same size her husband’s
was, which her feminist daughter was not going to let happen. Then, there it
was. A sentence that said Mammy was there with Daddy, in St. Fintan’s graveyard,
on the other side of the bay, the place they grew up before they got married. All
of the lettering correct perhaps, but is that where she lies when I can hear
her right here beside me, egging me on to eat an éclair or retreat to read a
book, still whispering into my ear that I need to be respectable, that I’m a
lost case, her ghost handing me a gin and tonic to keep my grief company in
the only way that she knew how to deal with it. Just this time round, instead of giving her an angry lecture
on the evils of drink, I let her off, raise the glass and say ‘Cheers’. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Rest in Peace Mother, see you another time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-39176596861876699222019-09-09T06:11:00.000-07:002019-09-09T07:12:03.472-07:00ForgivenTHIS BLOG USES COOKIES.....<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE"><br /></span>
<span lang="X-NONE"><br /></span>
<span lang="X-NONE">You would think that telling a story</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">to a bunch of listeners</span><span lang="X-NONE"> is safer than writing one down. When I was in New York a few years
ago, I told a story about an exciting sex adventure with a lover who was 20 years
younger than me. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As the mother
of 3 millennials there is no way I was going to have that story told anywhere
other than a continent away from my children’s ears and nowhere that it could
be found online. </span><span lang="X-NONE">In Seattle I went on stage with a story about
a dildo, and</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">this time</span><span lang="X-NONE"> I
even</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> ventured to </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZI6J-TCT-o/XXZNE9MF5JI/AAAAAAAAXqA/Wcis5Ohl4ZAs6gq4hmlZBJJjt9-1dqRZwCLcBGAs/s1600/Mags%2BLL%2Bforgiven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZI6J-TCT-o/XXZNE9MF5JI/AAAAAAAAXqA/Wcis5Ohl4ZAs6gq4hmlZBJJjt9-1dqRZwCLcBGAs/s320/Mags%2BLL%2Bforgiven.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="X-NONE">g</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">ive</span><span lang="X-NONE"> a </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">tamer</span><span lang="X-NONE">
version of it in Germany, at the Loose Lips storytelling even</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">t</span><span lang="X-NONE"> that was
being hosted by</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> no
other than </span><span lang="X-NONE">my</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">own</span><span lang="X-NONE"> son. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE">Telling a story is safe because</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">there is no real evidence other than other
people’s version and interpretation of it. No matter what you tell, all that
can be passed on are other peoples version of it, combined with my denial of
ever saying anything remotely close to what I really did say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So when the
topic las</span><span lang="X-NONE">t week at Loose Lips was Forgiveness and/or
Betrayal</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">, I began to
get stuck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-Forgiveness! The very cornerstone
of who I am, I could take over the mic for the whole night and give a keynote
speech on the topic. </span><span lang="X-NONE">Again, it was being hosted by no
other than my son Eddie. The day before the event he explained that he had
chosen this topic as he wanted to see if people would come along not only with
hilarious stories, drinking stories and fun anecdotes. Now was the test to see
what kind of sad and deep stories might come up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE">The way Loose Lips works is that there are
always three or four planned story tellers and then, after a short break, the
stage is open to members of the audience to come up and tell a story for about
5 minutes - a true and mostly unrehearsed story. The most exciting thing about
the evening is that you just don't know what's coming. Exciting to the audience
that is, and absolutely nerve wrecking for the host of the show</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">not knowing just what is coming next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So I was
all gung ho with my forgiveness tales, and yet when he called me up I found
that I </span><span lang="X-NONE">couldn't bring myself to getting up and telling
</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">that one</span><span lang="X-NONE"> sad story, </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">possibly
one of the experiences that I see as a great milestone in my life, </span><span lang="X-NONE">and I realised that actually, when it comes to the sad ending</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">maybe</span><span lang="X-NONE"> it is easier to
write about it than to take the wind out of a fun evening by sharing a therapeutic
past experience with an audience that are waiting for a laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE">So I told the story of the ex boyfriend
who was a serial liar and how indignant he was at being ditched just for
telling a few lies about two timing me. It managed to get a laugh and I
followed it up with a short lecture on the topic of forgiveness. You see I have
this theory that forgiveness is not really something that you decide to do or
not do, it has to come. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Well,
to me it does. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE">For many years I could never find a reason
to forgive the man who abused me as a child.</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">( In Ireland we use words like abuse and molestation to soften the blow
of hearing about child rape.) And in Ireland, abuse was not a very uncommon
thing when I was growing up. In fact, looking back today, on the abuse
histories that have become public, I hardly make the grade – it wasn’t a priest
or a person of authority, or better still a Rockstar or celebrity like say
Jimmy Saville or Gary Glitter. I was a huge fan of Gary Glitter at the age of
ten. If I was going to be abused, why the hell could it not have been him, I
even had his poster on my bedroom wall. No, it was just a random uncle. Not
even a blood relative, one that married in to the family. A boring chef who
looked a bit like Elvis and made me feel like it was all my fault that he had
become a paedophile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that’s Irish
guilt for you. We were reared on it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Years later
I decided to confront the bastard. I had just returned to Ireland after many
years abroad and by now I had kids of my own. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This guy was still on the loose and I wondered
what my kids would think of me when they were older if they asked me ‘hey mom,
what did you do about it when that uncle molested you?’ What if my answer was ‘nothing’?
That thought drove me to the cops and then the whole thing was exposed. (Pardon
the pun).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">t</span><span lang="X-NONE">he was confronted with it and </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">not only vehemently </span><span lang="X-NONE"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>denied it,</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">but tried to claim that it must have been my father
(who died when I was 14) who had abused me and that I was all confused now,
what with the passing of time, </span><span lang="X-NONE"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was even more sure that forgiveness did not
belong</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">anywhere</span><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">in this story</span><span lang="X-NONE">. He knew what he did, and</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> it wasn’t as if I was out to get him, </span><span lang="X-NONE">I</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">had</span><span lang="X-NONE"> only wanted</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">it acknowledged and</span><span lang="X-NONE"> to
get an apology. I expected<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the typical
Irish bigoted schmuck behaviour that I grew up with. That he'd say something
like 'ah well, it was different in the 70s, and I was drunk and frustrated and
blah blah I'm sorry luv...' I was expecting to listen to that and to name and
shame him in public</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">, or
at least make sure that all of the family knew,</span><span lang="X-NONE"> and
that would be it. Of course it didn't happen like that at all</span><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;"> though</span><span lang="X-NONE">. The plot only
thickened. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As soon as</span><span lang="X-NONE"> he denied everything and made me out to be a liar</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> and tried to pin the guilt to a
dead innocent man, he became the family hero</span><span lang="X-NONE">. Of
course, it was easier for the</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">m to </span><span lang="X-NONE">believe him as it meant that they wouldn’t
need to come to terms with having a paedophile in the family. The case was
dropped and over the next few years two of my cousins approached me
privately telling me that they had also been victims, yet neither of them
wanted to make a statement or stand behind me, </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">even though they knew the truth</span><span lang="X-NONE">.</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">One of them beratingly told me that
she didn’t think it was a good idea to upset the harmony in the family. Harmony? Hello? </span><span lang="X-NONE"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interestingly, </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">another </span><span lang="X-NONE">of
these cousins is a therapist, which I found pretty scary, knowing that by not
coming forward all they were doing were protecting a paedophile. Families are
erm, </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">so harmonious...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">About then
years later, i</span><span lang="X-NONE">n 2013 when Nelson Mandela died, there
were a lot of tributes paid to him. Let's face it, this man was the crown prince of
forgiveness, something that I couldn’t understand</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">given that he had been so brutally tortured</span><span lang="X-NONE">. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yet, he </span><span lang="X-NONE"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>forgave the prison officers who</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">had</span><span lang="X-NONE"> tortured him over
many years. I remember reading somewhere that they would put him standing in
front of a desk and slam </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">the
drawer of it closed on </span><span lang="X-NONE">his testicl</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">es.</span><span lang="X-NONE"> What
part of this is forgivable?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE">Then one day I heard someone on the radio
quote something he had recounted about forgiveness. He said "As I walked out the door toward the
gate that would lead to my freedom, I know if I didn't leave my bitterness and
hatred behind, I'd still be in prison." </span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So in other words he was saying that
if you don’t forgive people, you will never be free. Damn it, the man was
right. Here I was years and years later, still not free, while my rapist was
probably out for a round of golf, or more likely a round of beers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE">So that was it. If I wasn't able to
forgive </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">this person</span><span lang="X-NONE">, I would never be free of what happened. I</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">still</span><span lang="X-NONE"> didn't decide to
forgive him</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">though, not because I didn’t want
to, I’d gotten that far, but because I just couldn’t. </span><span lang="X-NONE"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Then one day
it was as if it happened all by itself.</span><span lang="X-NONE"> Instead of feeling </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">the way I imagined Jesus might have felt when he said things like ‘forgive
them, for they know not what they do’, ( I imagined he would feel a bit like a very humble Rockstar)
</span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="X-NONE">I realised that instead of feeling pain, grief </span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">and anger and all of the feelings you might expect to have from time to time when dwelling over a lost childhood</span><span lang="X-NONE">, all that I felt </span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">now </span><span lang="X-NONE">was sorry for this
pathetic</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">excuse of a human</span><span lang="X-NONE"> being. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">How
awful it must be to come into this world and be nothing but a lying conniving
paedophile who knows how to make choux pastry. And I felt thankful. Thankful
that I was never sold into his behaviour and never believed that it was a good
idea to protect a paedophile in order to play at happy families. A whole layer
of pain slipped away, I was a caterpillar who turned into butterfly all of a sudden, and a whole new era began, one that he didn’t feature in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="X-NONE">When I recently read his death notice
citing how he would be sadly missed by his nieces</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">and nephews, etc.,</span><span lang="X-NONE"> I thought about writing in
the</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">online</span><span lang="X-NONE">
condolence book that this niece will not sadly miss him due to what he did.</span><span lang="X-NONE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I decided not to, I think it belongs to the whole forgiving thing.
It was because whatever I write or think or do, it truly does not have a place with anyone else. There are people who cared for this person and believed his lies, there
are others who knew his crime and protected him, and there is me, who knows
what happened, me, who couldn’t tell this story out loud in public. Me, who
knows that if I hadn’t forgiven him, he never would have died. </span><span lang="X-NONE"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-40829479004672848222017-12-30T04:08:00.001-08:002017-12-30T08:13:04.203-08:00The Now or the Nervous Breakdown?<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There’s a thin line between reaching a state of inner peace
comparable to that of a Buddhist monk and being bang on in the middle of a
nervous breakdown. Thing is, I’m never sure which state I currently find myself
in. It’s true that one feeds the other at times. You need to have a proper
meltdown to let the storm settle and find your peace. And peace wouldn’t be
peace if you didn’t allow the true tempest of this life to enter your accepting
and non-judgemental state of whatever you want to call not letting stuff get to
you. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HP0HbE044_Q/WkeBhNAY9GI/AAAAAAAABf4/k22J7PKWYFc1zsgJ0PK0RTxHaI6809BSgCLcBGAs/s1600/all%2Bis%2Bfine.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1032" data-original-width="774" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HP0HbE044_Q/WkeBhNAY9GI/AAAAAAAABf4/k22J7PKWYFc1zsgJ0PK0RTxHaI6809BSgCLcBGAs/s320/all%2Bis%2Bfine.png" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The buzz word nowadays is ‘Mindfulness’. If I understand it
correctly, it means that you should mind your mind, like think of it as a place
where you set yourself up for feeling good or bad, and as with all of these pop
psychology hits, it’s about living in the now. Like Buddhism it involves meditation
and sitting cross legged on a straight-backed chair, and then you have to
focus, focus, focus…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So far, I’m pretty good at not sweating the small stuff. I don’t
worry about the mess, in fact, I’m fond of my clutter, and fortunately my body
image is not dependant upon what people or media say it should be. (But unfortunate
for those who have to look at me on a regular basis). I’m the high priestess of
detachment, as soon as I find love I begin hatching an escape route. Having
moved house roughly 20 times in my life – and that’s not counting the in-between
places, clutter just doesn’t have a chance to raise it’s little head. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When finances are low, I live in the moment by maxing out my
credit card. Because in that moment the transaction goes through, and past and
future there is none. And so on…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And yes, I know that that’s not the way you’re supposed to
do it, and maybe that’s why doing it also ends up in a near nervous breakdown,
or burnout as they like to call it in Germany, pronounced ‘Bern hout’. Here’s
the thing though, surely this condition of being on the verge of a breakdown is
the most honest and realistic state a human can experience? It means you are
not trying to fake everything being all happy and rosy. It is real. Life is
hard, even the Buddha himself said that. </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">If you want to live life to the full, embrace
every challenge, accept yourself, live on your terms and be true to yourself,
believe me, it’s going to be damn hard. That is the secret that you won’t read
about very much, because who the hell would be stupid enough to write a book on
the doom and gloom of self-realisation. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So what to do? Cross your legs and meditate? Shop online for
stuff, stuff and more stuff? From Dale Carnegie to modern day Mindfulness, it
all boils down to the same thing – if you can just be fine with yourself the
way you are, even on the days when the roof seems to be caving in, then
everything else will fall into place. </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-32284325597126426972017-11-01T11:19:00.001-07:002017-11-01T11:29:08.399-07:00The MoMa, a Beggar and my Limp<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a woman who walks up and down the streets around
West 82<sup>nd</sup> and Amsterdam Avenue asking people if they’ll give her a
dollar. I’d put her around 80. Small, wiry, bent, wispy hair. Brittle bird legs
in black tights, but still a follower of fashion in a knit skirt with a tartan
pattern, more the kind of skirt you might see on a 20-year-old Asian student. Pale
pink lipstick, and a crimson red blouse topped with a cream overcoat despite
the muggy August New York heat. I wonder what she does with the money she
collects. She doesn’t look like she eats anything, can’t tell if she drinks.
She’s sober when she pushes her trolley bag up and down 82<sup>nd</sup>, asking
‘do you have a dollar for me?’ I don’t give her one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep my dollars for the MoMa. My feet are killing me after
walking into the city, but I’m scared of the subway. I did make a weak attempt,
but have no idea what they mean by uptown and downtown. Both of these expressions
mean the same thing where I come from: Uptown – as in, I’m going up the town to
get some shopping. Downtown – as in, I’m going down the town to get some
shopping. And there’s no way I’m going to ask a stranger what it means. After
all, this is New York, I might get shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8Tid39wGQ1Q/WfoO8mRuiZI/AAAAAAAABfA/srcr4m1jGvs83ETxevuyIW9ciSPJdS70ACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_6017%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8Tid39wGQ1Q/WfoO8mRuiZI/AAAAAAAABfA/srcr4m1jGvs83ETxevuyIW9ciSPJdS70ACLcBGAs/s200/IMG_6017%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh Jackson...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing I see in the MoMa is a long way from art. It’s
an obese ageing woman with poor dress sense and flat shoes. Myself. There I am,
my reflection scaring me in long glass window as I make my way over to find
Jackson Pollack. And I’m on my own. This is a recipe for becoming depressed and
lonely, but it’s New York, a place where people go out of their way to
translate anything negative into the positive. For ‘no’, they say ‘I don’t
think so’, ‘yes’ is ‘of course’, so that translates my sad reflection in American speak as something like: an interesting and
rather unique lady of a certain age. That sounds better. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And how emotional this interesting woman gets when she walks
right into the massive Jackson Pollock painting. You see, this is the man who
made me fall in love with art, not just now as a distraction to my unique self,
but towards the end of the last century when I bought a book of poetry, having
fallen in love with words. The cover of the book had this amazing painting
screaming out at me, all colour and splash and alive and hungry and happy, it was a picture of how I wanted to say I
felt. And somewhere at the back of the book in tiny writing it named the artist
as Jackson Pollack. So there I was, touched by beauty on the cover of a second
hand poetry book at the age of 17 and now, decades later, standing in front of the
real thing, wishing I could have met this genius, if only just to tell him ‘Thank
you for creating this and not Microsoft Excel, because this makes so much more sense in my attempt to understand the universe.’
But I will never get to talk to this man who died before I was born. Jackson
never got old. Killed in a car crash aged 44. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_PvtLvBIVJw/WfoO8eEsulI/AAAAAAAABe4/4BI60rpD0jUfnxGnz8dZAKTjm4gKsnSXgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_6041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_PvtLvBIVJw/WfoO8eEsulI/AAAAAAAABe4/4BI60rpD0jUfnxGnz8dZAKTjm4gKsnSXgCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_6041.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Art Revolution</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to keep doing a reality check. Up to a few years ago the
thoughts of walking around the MoMa on a Wednesday afternoon seemed about as
likely as riding a unicorn through the desert to a gay ice cream parlour with massage chairs
and chilled champagne. So given the difficulty in accepting that this is
actually for real and that I’ve made it to New York, there is nothing about it
that can possibly be complained about, not the queues, or ‘lines’ as they call
them here, not the obnoxious family with the mom picking on the dad and the dad
picking on the kids and the kids picking on each other. What the hell made them
feel it was a good idea to appear in public is beyond me, unless, of course,
they are a live art installation or something. Not even these awful sensible shoes that are still pressing into my bunion and giving me an ever so slight painful and embarrassing
limp, no, nothing can take away the excitement of the MoMa NYC. Everything is
art. Everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matisse’s dancers spread across another wall, a vibrant
spread of color and movement, in one way so simple and yet, this is the art
that influenced radical contemporary art of the 20<sup>th</sup> century. I sit
back from it for a while and let it wash over me, trying to absorb it in
combination with the flow of people coming and going. It’s loud. The world is
alive and free, in the painting and all around me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DziL8n_oWto/WfoO8tIX7SI/AAAAAAAABe8/P8BTHhgmJ5M_45dmVVMztAjIa1EwL3KYACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_6021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DziL8n_oWto/WfoO8tIX7SI/AAAAAAAABe8/P8BTHhgmJ5M_45dmVVMztAjIa1EwL3KYACLcBGAs/s200/IMG_6021.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A drabness of Art Lovers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place is full of the greats that have inspired me since
my teens. This is the art that made me love art. I feel high. A large group
have gathered around a small painting, I stroll over and realise that it’s a
Salvador Dali, ‘The Persistence of Memory’, which I had always thought was just
called ‘Time’. It is surprisingly small, given that I’m used to seeing massive
prints of these dripping clocks. I’m not a Dali fan, I don’t like moustaches
and I just don’t get him, but apparently most people visiting this gallery are,
and a drabness of art lovers surround the painting, holding up selfie sticks to
create hideous snaps alongside the painting – after all, what could be more
exciting than seeing a real Dali, other than getting a photo of it with your
own face taking up half of the phote. I decide to join the mob and politely ask
the gallery attendant standing beside the paining, ‘would you mind taking my
photo please?’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sorry Ma’m’, he replies, ‘I’m in uniform’. So that’s me
told. I assume him being in uniform means he cannot take a photo, so I manage a
selfie of my face, which I don’t particularly like, alongside a painting that I
don’t like at all. This is wild, I think, just wild, and limp on without
questioning myself as to why I just took a photo that I am never going to post
on any social media site. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OhK5hPBJDDg/WfoOo1mxJOI/AAAAAAAABe0/6e3BfBF7QpkNZev5yCRJIPBOaeca8X29wCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_6048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OhK5hPBJDDg/WfoOo1mxJOI/AAAAAAAABe0/6e3BfBF7QpkNZev5yCRJIPBOaeca8X29wCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_6048.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Art of the Cloakroom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s no way I can take in as many painting as I’d like
to, so I watch people dropping their bags at the cloakroom for about half an
hour, not sure it this too is art or just a practical necessity. There are two old dears, I mean ancient old dears serving
at the random information desk, and they are most definitely art, no doubt about
that. I walk a few blocks, venturing my way down the steps of the subway, and
manage to navigate my way back by public transport without being shot or
murdered even once. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s almost dark, and as I walk along Amsterdam Avenue I see
her from behind. She’s still at it, been walking these streets all day. Yes, it’s
the same old girl asking people ‘would you give me a dollar’? I’d love to know
more about this woman’s story, but I don’t dare approach her. I pass her on the
left, and she doesn’t need to ask, because yes, I would give her a dollar, and without
much eye contact, I awkwardly slip one into her hand and keep walking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of those big red Hop-on/Hop-off buses passes along the
street. It’s showing people the highlights of New York. I’m glad not to be on
it. The streets of New York are a work of art, and here I am, in the very
pulse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-50342326799994947772017-02-14T02:44:00.002-08:002017-02-14T02:55:49.143-08:00Letter to a Boy, who Died aged 18, by Suicide<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Tiernan,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shouldn’t be writing you this letter. I should be hearing
about you from my son, your childhood best friend. It should be about some
course you are doing, or a plan that you all have to meet up. But that’s all
gone. Now there’s just that awful day that you went missing. The day a boy
was seen jumping off the bridge. Next time I saw you, you were in a coffin,
your body, bashed up by the waves; bruised, broken, dead. The boy who told me ‘be
nice to nerds, you’ll be working for them some day.’ The boy who I watched grow
up, who I held great faith in. Dead at 18.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what’s left? The rest of us. Your inconsolable friend,
his sister and his mother, travelling back to the West of Ireland for your
funeral. Sitting in your home. Going into your bedroom and picking up your
things. Yesterday this was your camera, these were your pyjama bottoms, that
was your sketchbook. Now they feel strange to the touch. Relicts. And we, who
never shut up, are silent. There are no words for our despair. This anger,
confusion, grief that we carry, all ends with the fact that you are gone, and
we didn’t save you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6GER1-niZ7Q/WKLc4FWTzkI/AAAAAAAABZ8/zuvk_Do0sdUnPVmij9oZDjrd-nso4kfhwCLcB/s1600/IMG_3219.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6GER1-niZ7Q/WKLc4FWTzkI/AAAAAAAABZ8/zuvk_Do0sdUnPVmij9oZDjrd-nso4kfhwCLcB/s320/IMG_3219.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look, I’m sorry if there’s anything I could have done but
didn’t. You do remember how I told you that I preferred chatting to kids than
adults, right? That kids were more interesting and didn’t judge me the way
grown-ups so often did. You were five when we made friends, and by barely nine
or ten we were having our chats about god, gays, politics and chocolate. You
were a clever kid with the dry wit of an adult, but you were still a kid, and even if I
was raging when I caught you gliding down the stairs in a plastic laundry basket, I loved how brave you were. Always. Everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember the Lego, the Bionicles, the Forts, the Pirate Ships?
Cinema visits and the time you kids got the bus into town on your own and came
back so late that I almost had the police out? I assumed that all of that was a
preparation for decades of adulthood. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the pre-teen years of Vans, Canterbury pants and Game Consoles. You
were brilliant. When the real teenage years hit, you were level gazillion at
any game you wanted to be. School was a doddle and you could crack codes so
well that when the legal department of some American gaming corporation called your
home to track down Pakka al Sharu, your mother politely explained that this was
the fake ID of a 14 year old boy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Vs5YvrBFnX4/WKLdGEsfNLI/AAAAAAAABaA/BY3KUn0zpf07yPCgxlLrOsRVpbBVlsVpgCLcB/s1600/IMG_3218.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Vs5YvrBFnX4/WKLdGEsfNLI/AAAAAAAABaA/BY3KUn0zpf07yPCgxlLrOsRVpbBVlsVpgCLcB/s320/IMG_3218.PNG" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But something happened along the way. Why will I never get
to work for you? I agonize over what killed you. Were you too sensitive? Was it
society with a heap of expectations that you didn’t want to live up to? Was it
because of us liberal parents allowing our kids to think for themselves? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that medication they gave you. Did it really work? Did
your hormones attack your sense of reasoning so badly that you couldn’t see
beyond that dark place you had come to? You had your issues; maybe they
overwhelmed you, and blinded you to how much you were loved and admired. If
only I could have seen it coming. If only, if only.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But understanding it won’t bring you back. Believe me please
that I’m not mad with you. Not anymore. Just heartbroken.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think about all the
fun we had when you guys were kids, and try to accept that all those years of
you coming in and out of our house, the shared driving to school, the kids
parties, the sleepovers, playground politics and books and games so carefully
chosen to help you kids think and learn new skills, that all of it was not
about you preparing to be an adult at all, in fact that was it: those were the
days of your life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They say it takes a village to raise a child, but sometimes
one child raises the whole village, teaching it that this world, the way it is
now, cannot save everyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I could go back in time, there is only one thing I would
ever want to change. I would slap you alive again and convince you not to jump
off that bridge, insist that you give life a chance, believe me that in order
to love life you must despise it sometimes. Be that nerd who we all end up working
for. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s not going to happen. So, I guess I’ll do my crying in private
and write you sometimes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goodbye little friend, I’ll see you another time.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W47cumqtEOE/WKLdiaBL1gI/AAAAAAAABaM/CkAss8HVDV0-ZG8-C-S_xnxZtbW2E4K-gCLcB/s1600/IMG_3216.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W47cumqtEOE/WKLdiaBL1gI/AAAAAAAABaM/CkAss8HVDV0-ZG8-C-S_xnxZtbW2E4K-gCLcB/s320/IMG_3216.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Tiernan Zephaniah Archer.<br />
17.10.1997 - 28.04.2016 <br />
R.I.P. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-86695243049200220252014-05-16T04:02:00.000-07:002014-05-16T04:07:22.883-07:00An Unexpected Twinge of HumanityThe art of the wallet for personal, sentimental, important and irreplaceable belongings seems to have survived the revolution of the electronic everything else. So being robbed when away on business can make life very awkward, especially at 11pm at night in a train station.<br />
It's not like thinking your phone is gone and then finding it after you look for the third time and find it down at the bottom of your bag. Well not in my case anyway. My ex-wallet was big and bulky and flowery and heavy and generally not to be missed. But still, when I got into the taxi and saw that my handbag was swinging open, I immediately checked to see if my wallet was there - no. So what did I do, looked again. Still not there. So I got out of the taxi and sat on the side of the pavement and went through my bag again. And then again. Despite my efforts at cognitive dissonance - otherwise called denial, I eventually came to the conclusion that I had just been robbed.<br />
Then came the helplessness. In a flash I went from being respectable business lady about to take a taxi back to her hotel, to penniless bag lady on the side of the road. What to do?<br />
Somehow, I found, or got guided to the police station. It was right there at the train station. In fact, I think they call themselves the train-station-police, but it was a bona fide German cop-shop, hats and bats and guns and all.<br />
There was a queue - one other person. A very perplex young Indian guy who had had some sort of run in with his friends and was now missing his wallet. Whereas I tend to implode in a stress situation and just go quiet and pale (I was sitting on a bench staring into space with a white face), this guy was all hands and arms waving about the place and basically coming to the conclusion that since his wallet had been stolen, his life was now ruined. In fairness, he had some good arguments - his I.D. card was in the wallet, and he needed it to register for his upcoming exams, but now he would have to stay back a year, and his girlfriend was at home waiting for him and she was pregnant and she wouldn't believe that he was robbed and would leave him over this, and he would never make it home anyway because his travel pass was in his wallet and now he would have to walk 15 kilometres and that would probably kill him, but first of all the guy who he owed ten euro to would probably kill him since his fortune of 15 euro was gone.<br />
I was a bit luckier. I had only been robbed of 180 euro, my credit cards, bank cards, Bahncard100 - which gives me free travel across Germany, my health insurance card, and basically any card that is vital for my survival. A different cop came and took all my details, and it was like, incredible what you have to tell the German police about yourself in order to report a theft. They needed to know how old I am, what I work at, and my marital status. I told them I was divorced, had a partner, a secret lover, a lesbian liaison and the occasional visit from a Brazilian call boy. Look, if this information will help find my wallet, then hey…<br />
Actually no, I told them that my marital status is 'divorced but complicated' and that they now know more about me than Facebook does. The policeman laughed. Yes, as in sense of humour. The Indian guy was pacing the floor at this stage, and starting to get a bit too hectic. Another cop asked him to take a breathalyser. It was 1,4 promille, with the guy repeatedly telling them that he had only had two beers.<br />
I myself had had two beers that night, and I was tempted to ask if I could do the test too, but no, I waited patiently for the policeman with the sense of humour to come back with the 25 million official forms that stated not only had I been robbed, but had now been legally and officially robbed.<br />
But then it got interesting. I was done, but I had no money, no travel card, no relatives, no friends, no Irish embassy - no way home.<br />
And that's where the unexpected twinge of humanity happened. The cop looked at me and said 'hey, you know what, I'll lend you 20 quid of my money if you like. I just feel I can trust you. I'll give you my bank details and you can send it back whenever.' Then another cop said 'hey, we're not that busy, c'mon, we'll drive you home.'<br />
I'm not sure what the hotelier thought about me arriving back at 1:30am with a police escort, but I definitely felt cool. I didn't take the offer of a loan from the cop, but I did tell him that when you've just been robbed, a gesture like that helps one to see the good in the world again.<br />
I wondered if I was slowly going mad when I decided that whoever stole my wallet is either on drugs, so not in their right mind and not ethically in tune with what they are doing, or else someone who is down on their luck and doesn't have the same opportunities as me, so hence, the thief must be forgiven.<br />
Next day I took a taxi to the bank to get some cash and I told the taxi driver my story of woe. He was a big old teddy bear with a foreign accent, and embarrassingly, he was almost in tears when I explained what had happened. He then told me that he often takes people who have no money and promise they will come back with it tomorrow, or send it, or whatever.<br />
'And do they?' I asked. 'Mostly not', he replied. 'But then why do you do it?' I asked. 'Because you have to believe in people' he said, 'if you don't, you're lost.'<br />
I have often cursed the wisdom of the taxi driver, but this time, I was on a learning curve. Yes, you have to believe in people, even the ones who rob you, for they will force you to find goodness where you never expected it. And if you don't, you're lost.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-45667222816156305712014-05-12T02:16:00.001-07:002014-05-12T02:24:05.956-07:00The Madness of the Short Distance RunnerSo after a short break of 8 years, I've started running again, and this weekend marked it officially when I ran the 'Badische Meile'. Sounds like bad-ass miles to you non German speakers, what it actually is though, is an 8,88km road race that marks the distance of some old city wall or something.<br />
As I am a mere fan of Germany and not an actual German, I can not bring myself to say that I participated in an 8,88km run - let's just call it a 9k run, ok?<br />
Running is an important activity for those who leave the house too late in order to catch buses & trams, handbag snatchers, people who get caught in the rain a lot, latecomers, and those who are not clinically insane but in general just a bit mad. I belong to that latter group of the 'just a bit mad'. So I started running again.<br />
There are benefits - when your mind is racing 24/7, running chases it and calms it down, running gives you a high, gets you fit, and it is seductive. Once you get involved you will find yourself falling in love with running and out of love with the couch potato.<br />
Running in the forest and feeling alive is one thing, running around the streets of whatever city you find yourself on business in, is another, but running an official race when you're about 20 years older and 20 kilos heavier than the average participant is a bit like trying to fit back into one's wedding dress again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-06VOB9C4VAM/U3CE1TGSCUI/AAAAAAAAA8k/1DaoUkKvu1A/s1600/Shoes+still+fit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-06VOB9C4VAM/U3CE1TGSCUI/AAAAAAAAA8k/1DaoUkKvu1A/s1600/Shoes+still+fit.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
But hey, I'm at the start line and my three teenage kids have all declined the challenge to run with mother - possibly more due to the mortification factor of being seen with mother than actually running. But still - it's an official run and the fear of failure, the fear of an injury in public, the fear of looking downright stupid (I get a big red face when I run, from the outset), and the fear that I will publicly display what a stupid idea it was to think I was even possibly a candidate to be in the running, makes this very very different to my daily runs. I'm scared!<br />
Besides, I run anywhere between 4k to 6k when I'm out running, so how the hell am I going to get out there and run 9k?<br />
Before race day I had practised running 6k and then walking 3k, just to get the distance, so my strategy was to just get out there and push the 6k, then walk the rest, even if it meant that I would come last out of the 6,000 runners. I pictured the TV being there to film the crowd cheering me on for being brave enough to be the idiot who came last across the finish line. I'd be interviewed. I had my speech in my head. It began with 'I had a dream…'<br />
<br />
But then, all of a sudden, I was right in the middle of thousands of other slightly mad people - and my feet were moving, and my Nike App was telling me that I was doing great, and suddenly I had run one kilometre and I thought, well if I can run one, surely I can do another eight.<br />
But seriously folks, here is what got me from start to finish - the training, of course. You need to build up heart/lung function and muscle in advance. But that is not enough. I decided to run each kilometre for somebody in my life. The first was for my mother who is very unwell. I decided to send her all the energy I was creating. I ran for my kids - it was also Mother's day, so those 3k were happy gratitude kilometres. At 5k I was hitting my boundaries and started to get a pain in my shoulder. It felt like someone was stabbing me, but I decided that the only way to cure it was to keep running. So that kilometre was run for an anonymous person - endurance to give me strength in a situation which is one of hopelessness and hope, pleasure and pain.<br />
Kilometre 6 was for my goddaughter Catherine. Just because.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y5ux-vJjYbc/U3CO-VEguiI/AAAAAAAAA80/KTnN2D9s19I/s1600/Mags+Badische+Meile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y5ux-vJjYbc/U3CO-VEguiI/AAAAAAAAA80/KTnN2D9s19I/s1600/Mags+Badische+Meile.jpg" height="320" width="313" /></a>The last three were for three people who have made my life happier, better and been there for the peaks and the troughs.You see, I wanted to celebrate the power of love and it worked. The last 3k were easy.<br />
The other driver was my playlist and the nice lady in my Nike App who kept interrupting my songs to tell me that I was doing great.<br />
So 66 minutes after leaving the start line I jogged across the finish line, it was about ten minutes longer than the few other people I knew who were running it too - but a few minutes under the time I had expected it to take. Yay!<br />
I was on a high. Full of fulfilment, pride and happy hormones. Yes, a big high for all of about 2 minutes.<br />
And then? Then I got into the queue to pick up my rucksack. Got it. Took off the medal and the number and put on my jacket. Walked to the tram stop and got the tram home. Showered, threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, sat on the sofa, watched Desperate Housewives and had a cup of tea. <br />
All in a day - the madness of the short distance runner.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-9805574222934724242014-04-17T15:08:00.000-07:002014-04-17T15:09:41.845-07:00The Journey & the Destination on a Delayed German TrainSometimes when people ask me why the hell I exchanged living in a country with beautiful landscape and fun people for living in Germany, I like to answer that it's because in Germany the trains run on time. But this is not always the case…<br />
And when German trains run late they do it properly. One of my favourite obstacles in getting to work is arriving at the platform and reading 'train cancelled'. In fact, it makes me feel that the Germans are becoming a tad Irish. Just like that - train cancelled. Oh, ok. And now? Well you wait for the next one, which, depending upon the reason for the cancellation may also be cancelled, and the one after it.<br />
My record in cancelled trains was 4 in a row - with an hour wait between each one. It meant I ended up arriving to the back arse of nowhere in the former East Germany at a late enough hour not to challenge the neo-nazis on the train when they did the Hitler salute (it's banned in Germany). But when you are already running 5 hours late and sitting in a carriage with two drunk Russians and three neo-nazis, it is not a good idea to go over to them and suggest in a foreign accent that maybe they should not do that, as it is 'polizeilich verboten' as the Germans like to say - legally forbidden. Forbidden is a word that the Germans love. I love it too, but in a different way.<br />
So this week was not so bad. I arrived to the platform to find an announcement that the train would not be leaving from that platform after all, or, indeed, from that station. No, today the train will start at Augsburg instead of Munich. Ok, so I get another train to Augsburg on the trail of my missing train.<br />
Yes, it's leaving from Augsburg, but has a 50 minute delay. The delay is due to what the Germans describe as 'human damage on the line', in other words, a tragic human accident.<br />
This is when it gets interesting. As Germans don't like making conversation with strangers, their way of communicating with other people on the train is to call their friends and shout into the phone so that the whole carriage hears it. In general, they are just not amused.<br />
And even if I agree that anyone who decides to commit suicide by jumping in front of a train, should not do so at rush hour, I am shocked at the attitude. An ugly woman in her 20's loudly makes a call:<br />
'Hi, can you pick me up a bit later because some total idiot threw themselves in front of the train.'<br />
Again, I use my better judgement not to go over and ask her to please help me understand what a total idiot looks and sounds like if it is not you, because you are in the train, not under it. No, I stay put on my seat, trapped between my handbag and a box of Dunkin' Donuts that I have bought my kids in order to make up to them for not remembering what their mother looks like anymore since I started travelling so much for work.<br />
I understand that one late train sparks off a whole load of missed connections, but hey, somebody, somewhere, is getting the news that they have lost a loved one. Somewhere right now there are people whose lives are falling apart, and somebody has been the victim of a tragic accident. I call it that, because nobody in their right mind is likely to jump in front of a train. Yes, they are strangers to me, and tragedies happen every day, but surely just the tiniest bit of respect is called for in these situations. Just a little twinge of human empathy. No?<br />
In an attempt to understand the mindset of my fellow passengers, I decide that they are even more traumatised than I am, and in order to cope, they need to complain and act as if only their little lives were all that mattered. Except for the guy sitting beside me that is. He doesn't seem to understand German, English or the fact that it's really not kosher to keep letting his head fall onto my shoulder every time he dozes off.<br />
We finally get to Stuttgart, where I can get my connection back home in ten minutes. I go to platform 9: '40 minutes delay due to technical problems on the line.' Technical. I want to become German and call home to loudly shout into the phone that they should know better than to have some stupid hitch delaying the train, even if it's now well past rush hour and the Dunkin' Donuts will be hard by the time I get to peep into the darkened bedroom where my offspring will be sleeping.<br />
But I don't. I sit on the cold metal seat on the platform, plug in my earphones and listen to Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing and feel thankful that there is always something good to come home to. Then I pass the rest of the time looking at all the angry people on the platform, and wonder if they are in a hurry to get home for the same reason that I am...<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-82925518580724430112014-03-31T05:22:00.000-07:002014-03-31T05:44:48.732-07:00Germany - The Home of Hideous ShoesYou really do have to hand it to the Germans, they are absolutely unbeatable when it comes to bad shoes. There seems to be some sort of belief that shoes are supposed to be practical, comfortable and long-lasting, and let's face it, if one were going for a long hike in the hills, or even prone to taking a pleasant walk along the seafront each day (oh sorry, I meant along some cemented walkway with a few withering trees, beside a motorway), well yes, it helps if you are not wearing stilettos or dainty little ballerinas that give you blisters.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y9RHdJjeUvU/UzlKou7FTII/AAAAAAAAAr0/efMH56fLOCo/s1600/shoes+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y9RHdJjeUvU/UzlKou7FTII/AAAAAAAAAr0/efMH56fLOCo/s1600/shoes+1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit 1: Mad Shoe Professor & Daughter<br />
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But hello - it doesn't end here. Do they really have to be this hideous? In an attempt to understand the minds of the shoe makers in the country I now call home, I am desperately trying to come up with a theory that might justify how these shoes came into existence. Exhibit 1 - wide, wild flowery peacock look shoes with cork insoles. 100% comfort, 100% durability, 0% cool, minus-a-gizzilion% sexy.<br />
My theory here is that the shoe factory hired a mad shoe professor and asked him to design the perfect pair of shoes. As this professor was the traumatised son of war refugees who walked across Siberia, tragically walking in the wrong direction, sharing one pair of second-hand shoes, arriving to Japan only to find themselves surrounded by people walking around in flip-flops with wedges, and then walking all the way back until ending up in Germany, one can understand that his only thoughts were those of comfort and durability.<br />
But then the boss of the shoe factory decided that a fashion factor would also be important, so the shoe professor took the nice wide cork soled inventions home to his six year old daughter who 'coloured them in'.<br />
Exhibit 2 - No nonsense, cost-saving design made in Swabia.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M39Eh0gq_jE/UzlKiiClM2I/AAAAAAAAArk/mOWk9XExy7U/s1600/shoes+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M39Eh0gq_jE/UzlKiiClM2I/AAAAAAAAArk/mOWk9XExy7U/s1600/shoes+3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit 2: </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This shoe has obviously been cleverly designed by cutting out little pieces of the leather and recycling them in order to make the fun ('fann' as the Germans like to say), pretty, attractive bow at the side. The practical, dog-poo, brown colour also means that the shoe is camouflage compatible should the wearer have to go to war at short notice, or alternatively should the wearer just wish to play hide-and-seek in the woods. In this case, exhibit 1 wouldn't stand a chance, unless the game of hide-and-seek took place in butterfly land. Again, 100% in the durability department, but only an 80% for comfort, as the tips of the flower may cause irritation. Reader, if you find this shoe in any way sexy, please visit a therapist. But that's the thing, I'm in Germany, shoes are not supposed to be sexy, right? In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if anything is, but this question will be explored in a later blog. It's all about cultural integration I guess.<br />
So I'm here on a train looking at shoes and feeling sorry for German foot fetishists. I'm also terrified to take any photos as the one time I did that on a train here, there police were called. I only wanted to take a photo of the nice train conductor and write a blog about train conductors don't have personalities and ponder on whether they are really automised robots, but it all fell flat when he objected to the photo and I objected to deleting it and at the next station the police boarded the train in order to clear up the problem. Then I really really really wanted a photo of the policemen with the ticket inspector, but instead I just showed the police my camera with the already deleted photo of robot-ticket-man (who I bet wears open-toe sandals and white tennis socks in private, at the mini-golf playground).<br />
So all I can do is post a photo of my own shoes, just to let you know that despite the recent sabbatical in order to research German shoe culture, I have indeed, managed to retain my 'ageing grungie converse' look. I swear…<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oNlStCJ8xAk/UzldjYdcH6I/AAAAAAAAAsE/aIa0g9hMNJc/s1600/convers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oNlStCJ8xAk/UzldjYdcH6I/AAAAAAAAAsE/aIa0g9hMNJc/s1600/convers.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-16344763662434834742013-07-07T06:21:00.000-07:002013-07-07T06:21:01.124-07:00On Sightseeing in GörlitzA number of weeks ago I took a visit to Görlitz, the most easterly town in Germany. From where I live down south it was 7 and a half hours on the fast train, so in other words I probably could have made it to New York in the same amount of time. Even though the nature of my travel was business rather than pleasure, I did feel a tad smug at the fact that I am slowly beginning to lay claim to the fact that I have indeed seen a lot more of Germany than many of the Germans themselves. <div>
I guess it's understandable that if you are going to spend a day travelling to get somewhere, that you might just choose a trip to Italy above that of one to a smallish town on the Polish border, but still...</div>
<div>
Germany is a fascinating country. Culturally speaking it is very much like two countries because of it's divided history, and what I love about the east is that mixture of progressive can do newness combined with the remnants of the past. And being an island woman, there was also the buzz of being able to walk over a bridge and arrive in Poland. (Phone call to daughter: 'hey, I just walked to Poland, WALKED to another country like!' 'Mom, you're so pathetic.')</div>
<div>
Görlitz, without a shadow of a doubt, is worth a visit: beautiful buildings, culture galore, old churches, cobblestones and all that... </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JU6kx_9krqc/UdlqoLINigI/AAAAAAAAAnA/1YaVqop2qrI/s1600/Hotel+Goerlitz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JU6kx_9krqc/UdlqoLINigI/AAAAAAAAAnA/1YaVqop2qrI/s320/Hotel+Goerlitz.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My room, including cupboard with skeleton<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
And of course that eastern German flair whereby I wasn't really sure if my hotel was a shabby 'aul attempt at being posh, or if it really was a beautiful Jugendstil room with character. It was one of these run down places in an old building with old furniture and chandeliers, but it was a bit dead, and one of the doors of the wardrobe in my room was locked and without a key, so I did spend the night wondering if there was a skeleton in the cupboard. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But here's the thing. There were a few tables and chairs outside the hotel bar on the street and they were occupied by a few dodgy looking characters. As I arrived to the reception (where there was a sign saying to check in at the bar), a little car pulled in that was from one of these mobile carer companies, you know, those dudes who go to old peoples houses and check on them to distribute medication and whatnot. So the guy gets out of his car and I go into the bar to check in. The guy at the bar takes me back over to the reception where I see that in the meantime, the carer dude is in the hallway and one of the dodgy old guys from outside is sitting on one of those posh looking sofas taking off his shoes. As I check in, the carer dude proceeds to change a bandage or something on the old guys foot. I look away feeling nauseous.</div>
<div>
At this stage I am tired and giving them dagger looks from the part of me that is a cranky intolerant withering woman. But I keep the mouth shut and go to my room - the one that I'm not sure whether it's posh or not, the one with the skeleton in the cupboard. </div>
<div>
I decide I need to see more of the city (this is the part where I walk to Poland), but as I leave the hotel, I see that the old guy is back outside again, drinking a beer in the evening sun. He gives me a smile.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uTmwbwgT2iM/UdlqsD1KFiI/AAAAAAAAAnI/hwTYMCUnzxk/s1600/Goerlitz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uTmwbwgT2iM/UdlqsD1KFiI/AAAAAAAAAnI/hwTYMCUnzxk/s320/Goerlitz.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridge to Poland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
And that's when I see the beauty in it. A city where people can work around caring for the elderly in a way that means they still have the freedom to sit outside a bar and enjoy the evening. Humanity, that's what I saw - a twinge of humanity, in a country that gets a lot of flack for being otherwise. I wondered where the old chap would be sitting if powers that be decided it unfitting to attend his wounds or whatever it was with his feet, in the public hallway of a run down hotel. What about the legal aspect? Insurance? Hygiene? The logistics of the whole thing? But you see, Germany is country as diverse as it is big, and for me, this kind of 'sightseeing' ranks higher than a holiday camp on the riviera. </div>
<div>
Because this was something that told me that the world was an ok place and that's when the room and the skeleton didn't matter anymore. And even if there had been no cobblestones or culture or impressive buildings, I'd been to a place where I'd caught a glimpse of something beautiful, and a place where all of a sudden, I stopped being afraid to grow old. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-7405531309682685452013-04-05T01:11:00.002-07:002013-04-05T01:11:20.327-07:00How Important are Corporate Values?<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #d52a33; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font: normal normal normal 22px/normal Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; position: relative;">
<a href="http://lovethedayjob.blogspot.de/2013/04/do-we-really-need-corporate-values.html" style="color: #d52a33; font: normal normal normal 22px/normal Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; text-decoration: none;">Do We Really Need Corporate Values?</a></h3>
<div class="post-header" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<div class="post-header-line-1">
</div>
</div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5825329784870249008" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 586px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"> </span>Something caught my eye with regard to the Barclays scandal. It was the term: cultural corruption. I'm so used to skimming over details about complex derivative issues, that it made me curious to read more.<br />What was identified as cultural corruption was that Barclay's had pursued a 'revenue at all costs' strategy, fostered a culture of fear and intimidation, were actively hostile to compliance with banking rules, presided over a 'broken culture' where problems were ignored or buried, and ultimately allowed the business to 'spin out of control'.<br />That pursuing revenue at all costs has been highlighted as corrupt signifies the importance of corporate values. We all need to pursue revenue to some degree, but doing so 'at all costs' can ultimately end in disaster, as with Barclays.<br />When I explain to people that my work has a strong focus on delivering workshops on Vision, Mission & Values, I am often told how naive I am, and that ultimately corporations are only interested in the money. My argument is that the 'only' needs to be taken away. All businesses are profit driven in one way or another, but without a corporate culture that embraces even the most basic of values, they are headed for trouble.<br />Fostering a culture of fear and intimidation is not something unique to Barclays. From large organisations to the smaller family run business, I have witnessed this over the years as being almost endemic. Often during workshops and training interventions I've had a rosy view of the organisation, then when it came to one to one coaching sessions where individuals felt themselves to be in a safe environment, another story would emerge. I often got to hear alarming examples of the business not living it's principles. I also heard some fantastic ideas that were never put forward, all due to fear. People fear losing their jobs, bonuses, promotion opportunities and at times even subtle things such as shifts, break times and vacation approval. Bullying and harassment also effects self esteem and confidence, causing people to feel unsure and less likely to pose a challenge to superiors. This type of resignation is not only a heartbreaking let down for humanity, it is also destructive for the organisation, not only from a legal perspective.<br />I've noticed there is a paradigm shift in our attitude to business ethics when we now see cultural reforms up there on the top of the to-do list.<br />I worked for a company once where it was my job to workshop the business leadership principles with all new hires on the management team. I was impressed. Impressed, that is, until my boss told me that the leadership principles were 'good in theory, but nobody uses them.' He told me that actually, within the company it was more important what got done than how it got done. I soon realised that I may as well have been making sand mandalas with the new hires, and, coupled with a culture of fear and intimidation, stating my opinion meant that luckily I didn't last long there. That organisation have since had extremely bad press with regard to how they treat their people, along with very high fluctuation.<br />Despite all that, they are still an international hugely successful organisation. And it is important to note that as far as I am aware, they are not operating any scams. But the bottom line is, if a company doesn't foster a culture based on it's corporate values, it is only a matter of time until the fallout from this will force it to rethink it's strategy. High fluctuation, low morale and financial setbacks are the cost when it comes to double standards in corporate culture.<br />So what values do we need to live by in our modern organisations? How about: Communication, Respect, Integrity & Excellence. Sound good? Four essential values that could be the axis of any organisation. Oh wait, we need to live them, not name them. After all, these were Enron's core values!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-22141871695106037112013-04-01T11:47:00.003-07:002013-04-01T11:47:38.387-07:00After LentI've just had a glass of wine. I didn't really want one but I had to, because Lent is over.<br />
Giving up alcohol for lent is not easy. I don't mind abstaining from the drink, it's the explaining that's difficult. People can never understand why an atheist would do something for Lent. So I have to explain that as I eat a shit load of chocolate at Easter and masses of food at Christmas without being questioned about religion, that it is only prudent to adhere to the fasting traditions if one is also tagging along for the feasting ones.<br />
Alcohol - if you are Irish you will probably have an unhealthy attitude towards alcohol. Most people drink too much or don't drink it at all, neither of which are healthy. The ones who drink too much are either raving alcoholics whose whole life has been destroyed because of drink, or alternatively, people who function at about 60% of what they could be, but because they 'enjoy a jar', and pay a massive price to do so.<br />
Those who don't drink are either 'recovering alcoholics' (which to me is an oxymoron), who go to AA meetings and talk about drinking and live their lives thinking and talking about drink but just not drinking it. Alternatively they are crashing bores who chose not to drink and have a slightly condescending attitude towards those who do, but pretend that they don't. And there are the pioneers, but if you're not Irish you won't understand, so just imagine people who are clueless about drink and don't want to taste it because their mammy, or teacher or local priest said so.<br />
<br />
I should be one of the above, but the secret German in me causes me not to always fit in to Irish ways. So I gave up drink for Lent. I like a little tipple I have to admit. A shot of rum in my hot chocolate, a glass of wine with dinner a few pints in the pub and the odd mouldy night. So it's not as if I were giving up lollipops or condoms or sauerkraut. The first week was the worst. But then, the less you drink, the less interest you have in it.<br />
I only remembered today that I could have had a drink yesterday, so I had a glass of wine at dinner.<br />
And that made me feel that the whole thing is a bit silly. I'm just not a black and white sort of person.<br />
I'm also not a very balanced person either though, so it was good to see, just as a test, if I actually would miss alcohol. I didn't really, and I remembered that I've often been off it before as I never drank whilst pregnant.<br />
<br />
<br />
So now what? I've decided to open a bottle of wine and have another glass, to celebrate my successful lenten fast. A nice red rioca reserva. And then because it's open I'll have some more tomorrow and then finish it off on Wednesday. It's good wine, I can't let it go off.<br />
All the same, I'd love a nice cup of tea...<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-43197929674617073912013-03-30T03:04:00.000-07:002013-03-30T03:04:44.381-07:00A Cure for WartsA few years ago my daughter had a wart on her foot. But warts are like mice - they rarely come in ones. Soon it was a little cluster of warts so we paid a visit to our local GP who decided to use a selection of treatments.<br />
First of all he scraped at her foot with a little instrument that looked like a shaving razor for dwarves. When doctors do things like that it makes me wonder what the big attraction is to studying medicine and becoming a medic. "What do you want to do when you grow up little child?" "I want to scrape dirty warts of peoples feet."<br />
But it didn't end there. He also put some sort of ointment on it and gave her a few of those little homeopathic pebble-like sweets.<br />
Then he gave us both some serious instructions. There were 7 warts on her foot. We were to get a paper bag and put 7 small pebbles in it - not the homeopathic ones, real pebbles. Then we were to leave the bag at a crossroads. Whenever the bag disappeared the warts would also go.<br />
<br />
Of all the remedies I thought the latter made the most sense. Because apparently warts go away on their own eventually, and I was sure that if my daughter just believed that the warts were going to go that it might have some sort of influence on the mysteries of the immune system. Needless to say, the doctor we visited was in the West of Ireland.<br />
Despite similar university education, there seems to be quite a difference in cultural attitudes regarding best practise regarding the cure of the patient.<br />
Problem was, though, that my daughter wasn't sold on the pebbles in the bag idea. She wanted an operation, crutches, bandages, plaster paris and a week off school. It never happened, and years later the 7 warts had started to have offspring and I knew if we didn't treat them that eventually these warts would start taking over the family.<br />
So I decided to go the absolute safe medical route. I bought one of those sprays that freeze off warts.<br />
My daughter took a look at the wart spray and screamed, telling me that it would hurt too much. I assured her that it wouldn't, and that the only reason her brother had gone through severe agony whilst I used a similar freezing spray on a wart he'd had on his finger, was because he was the oldest kid and you use the oldest kid as guinea pig to test things on, and that I'd put on way too much by mistake, and that no, I was not going to accidentally burn a hole in her skin in the effort to remove the warts with a freezing spray. I would get the hang of it this time.<br />
We agreed to do it 'tomorrow'.<br />
Then the next day we agreed to do it the day after tomorrow. And then about a week went by.<br />
So I decided I'd have to spring on her when she'd least suspect it.<br />
So as we sat on the sofa, I hid the freezing stuff in my pocket and took hold of her foot to give it a massage. Oh, wrong foot. I took the other one. Also wrong foot.<br />
"Hey, where are your warts?" I asked.<br />
She felt her feet. I felt her feet. We looked at her feet. And there were the warts - gone.<br />
<br />
So I decided that buying the freezing tube of stuff had the same effect as the bag of stones would have had, if she'd only believed. The fear of her mother's use of poetic license with medicinal cures, rather than taking careful medical instructions, had just made her warts go away. It must have been the mysterious workings of the immune system.<br />
So here's my advice. If your kids have warts, forget about all the hocus pocus. Just buy some of that aggressive freezing lotion stuff, and then tell your kids you've bought it. If the fear of you using it on them doesn't make the warts disappear, then just go use it.<br />
You're cured.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-81977452352107696882013-03-29T03:51:00.000-07:002013-03-29T03:51:29.925-07:00A Revolution at my Kitchen TableSo this is it. I've just published my first ebook. It's an ebook for kindle and available on Amazon.
I'm still fiddling around with how it all works, but I've gotten as far as putting the whole damn thing together and publishing it.<br />
The cover is a photo of a deserted house. Now let's analyse - arsekick is diverse, it has many rooms, hence the house. The house is falling to pieces, so hence the relationship to my dishevelled life. The house started out in life with different aspirations. There is a story there. Stories. History.<br />
And you could also say that the trees and shrubs growing up around the deserted house are lush and fertile and that nothing is ever linear.<br />
In actual fact the only reason that the cover is such, is because it is a photo that I took myself and I was afraid of taking a photo from the web in case I get sued. I'd prefer a photo of a female warlord throwing a punch, or at least something sexy.<br />
<br />
I also downloaded a book written by a guy who has a number of bestsellers on amazon. He makes the very good point that 'vanity' is a word for private publishing invented by publishers. If a person opens their own business is it never referred to as 'vanity' business.<br />
And the way the publishing world is changing is really exciting. I've brought out this book all on my own. No editor, no publisher, no marketing, nothing. And because of the low costs, I will also be giving a chunk of the profit to charity - but I need to work that one out, more to follow.<br />
<br />
Most exciting is that it all happened at my kitchen table. When I finished uploading all the amazon files I baked a lemon poppy seed cake without having the feeling that baking the stupid cake and being the crux of a family meant the end of my writing career. This is a revolution!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yAQI3scyr7I/UVVxv7m-7HI/AAAAAAAAAg4/7AYyGqzNQlQ/s1600/book+cover+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yAQI3scyr7I/UVVxv7m-7HI/AAAAAAAAAg4/7AYyGqzNQlQ/s320/book+cover+jpeg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So next step is that you read the book, either for free from the Amazon library, or you buy the book which about the same price as a cafe latte - no cheaper actually, it's euro 2.60(ish) I'm not sure exactly. And if the link below doesn't take you there, than just search my name in amazon or the name of the book: Arsekick Pick.<br />
<br />
And if you think this is a good revolution, you might press a few stars on the amazon page to give me a bit of a reputation?<br />
<br />
http://www.amazon.com/Arsekick-Pick-ebook/dp/B00C2Y3OE6/ref=la_B00C3BYCB2_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364551127&sr=1-1<br />
<br />
And remember that this is all because of you. Without readers I never would have been inspired to take it further.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-73949697536346762962013-03-27T02:25:00.004-07:002013-03-27T02:25:45.231-07:00The RetreatWinter is a long time when you come from an island that doesn't really do seasons. It was so cold that I even had to buy a coat and also discover that things like gloves, hats and scarves have an actual function. But it wasn't just the weather. I've been on a retreat.<br />
<br />
I don't mean an organised retreat where you officially say you are going on a retreat, because that wouldn't really be a retreat, would it? It would be an action. A statement.<br />
What I did was retreated. I didn't plan to. I just became reflective and reclusive and my favourite place was solitude. I did a lot of thinking, a lot of deciding and a bit of changing. I was surprised at that. I thought people didn't change very easily, or that it was huge work to change, but in this case it just happened. A bit like puberty happens to kids and as they hysterically scream at you to 'leave me alone' they also reassure you that this behaviour is nothing to do with their hormones whatsoever, no, it's all because of 'you'!<br />
So was my retreat of the hormonal nature? I believe not. Possibly something to do with age though, and definitely attitude.<br />
And then something even worse happened. I shed a few layers of tolerance, patience and understanding. I decided that no, I won't 'stay calm' and drink coffee. It's not my fault though, it is the fault of the greater gods who sent me on the retreat. I didn't make these decisions consciously, the Gods just allowed me to release my inner cantankerous cow. Cows are sacred in some countries you know.<br />
Oh hang on a minute, cantankerous cow is what people used to call me before my retreat. So maybe I just became a tad more self aware.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zVFFDkctM4M/UVK6_Utd4II/AAAAAAAAAgo/lWD9D_axnJ8/s1600/i-won-t-keep-calm-and-you-can-get-lost.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zVFFDkctM4M/UVK6_Utd4II/AAAAAAAAAgo/lWD9D_axnJ8/s320/i-won-t-keep-calm-and-you-can-get-lost.png" width="274" /></a>And on the subject of the Gods, well I did something very wild recently. I went to church! You see I was sitting (on my own of course, due to the retreat) in a cafe on a Sunday morning and I saw people going into this big church across the road. Wow, I thought, how quaint, people still go to churches. So I got curious and went and joined them. I wasn't sure if it was a catholic or protestant church, but I decided protestant because there were bibles on the seats and when they sang a hymn, the number of the hymn came up on a display on the wall. Do catholics do that?<br />
I think in general that the protestants have better hymns, but otherwise the sermon was pretty much the same. The priest read a bit from the bible, and only then did I discover that the phrase 'healer heal yourself' came from the new testament. Very apt for my current state of mind I thought. Afterwards I thought about how as a kid I used to have to pretend I had been at mass. (Who said mass?) But now I would have to pretend I had been at the museum in order to save the embarrassment of explaining to people where I'd been.<br />
<br />
So the bottom line, reader, is that I have not blogged so much as I've been on the retreat, but now that I'm back, please expect the blogs to be even more bitter and twisted than before, and possibly not as frequent, as I am also doing a lot of business writing at the moment. I will post the links when it's presentable enough for the public eye.<br />
On the 2nd of April I move into my new office space on the 7th floor at Park Office in Karlsruhe. After the retreat I'm looking forward to a bit of elevation...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-60633838868447535262013-02-21T09:46:00.000-08:002013-02-21T09:46:04.947-08:00NewgrangeAround a year or so ago, I took a day off work in order to visit the Neolithic site at Newgrange.<br />
But because Newgrange was there and wasn't going to go away I decided to go for a coffee instead. I'd like to emphasise here that I've never neglected the importance of having time to go for coffee. After all, the 'coffee morning' is a significant instrument of gossip, one of Ireland's most important forms of social control. But Newgrange, well I'd been there before, a number of years earlier and I just felt incredibly drawn by the place.<br />
Newgrange is what they call a 'passage grave', and it being over 5,000 years old, one can only speculate that it might have had some sort of religious significance. Maybe that's one of the things that draws me to it - the fact that we can only wonder what the whole thing is about. How did people who only lived for about 30 years manage to gather stones from distant places and erect this massive building, aligning it with the rising sun so that the sunrise can flood the chamber at solstice? When they simulated the solstice light from within the chamber that last time I'd been there, I remember feeling overwhelmed. So I wanted to go again. And now that I don't live there and it's far away and almost inaccessible, I did go. Last Saturday.<br />
<br />
There was an old bokety van that left from outside the tourist office and charged 17 euro return. Not bad for a post celtic tiger trip, and the bus itself made me feel like Ireland in the good aul bad aul 80's: semi unprofessional, friendly, possibly illegal and somebody other than the driver is making a few bob out of it.<br />
As soon as I boarded the excuse for a bus, I hear 'hello, are you also travelling alone?' It's one of those annoying solo tourists who like to latch on to people.<br />
'Well, em, no, not travelling as such, just taking a day out to go on a spiritual journey.'<br />
'Spiritual?'<br />
'Yeah, I've been here before and I find it an incredibly spiritual place.'<br />
I politely hear that she's from Holland, staying in the city centre and that she loves Ireland. I politely tell her that she looks Irish with her red hair - because gingers who visit Ireland tend to feel special.<br />
And then I move to the back of the bus, excusing myself with a book. Some young Americans get on and a moody couple with a lunch box (I'm guessing Germans).<br />
I've been here a few times before so I'm not surprised to hear that there will be a two hour wait until we can do the next tour. I visit the tourist centre and the gift shop, pay some humungous price for some mini slice of quiche and as big as the place is, I keep on seeing the ginger Dutch lady who I have decided I am not going to be nice to, as I am on a spiritual journey and not a tourist hosting mission.<br />
It's about 3 or 4km to the actual site, so instead of waiting on the shuffle bus I decide to kill time and walk over. The smell of Spring trying to push it's way through the hard winter soil and lush landscape along the river Boyne is precious. As I approach the site, I begin to fill with wonder, awe, something that I can only explain as soul, I feel some sort of connection to the mystery of the past, to the things our ancestors knew and did that seem to have gotten lost along the way.<br />
How did stone age women have babies without epidurals? Whatever they did, the population grew, so it was something that worked.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JiLuuu2xpUU/USZaisHxlvI/AAAAAAAAAgI/MmNcdumzzcQ/s1600/photo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JiLuuu2xpUU/USZaisHxlvI/AAAAAAAAAgI/MmNcdumzzcQ/s320/photo2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking across the lush fields to the site</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When the rest of the tour arrive in two shuttle buses, the guide gives us as much info as there is to give, and half of the tour go inside whilst the other half walk around outside. I'm in the half that do the walkabout before going into the chamber. It's one of those sunny February days and a ray of light cuts across the low wintery sky.<br />
The sun - I realise that the sun is still as significant now as it was then - we just don't seem to notice that anymore. And I wonder about the soul. 5,000 years ago, when life was so visceral and short and survival based, what did those people know about eternity that got them building this passage grave. I feel overwhelmed.<br />
But then something happens. I walk behind a big stone in my spiritual state, and yes, there she is - Dutch ginger lady, throwing up, and believe me, not in a ladylike throwing up way, but more in how I might have imagined our neanderthal ancestors to have done.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KG6VV4cHkHQ/USZaiRiSGnI/AAAAAAAAAgE/GkSpbBwCsTc/s1600/photo-sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KG6VV4cHkHQ/USZaiRiSGnI/AAAAAAAAAgE/GkSpbBwCsTc/s320/photo-sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Light across the wintery sky. Newgrange on the left</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm mad. She's been ruining my spiritual retreat since I boarded the bokety bus. So I walk off in the other direction and get about 100 yards away before my conscience sends me back. I go over and put my hand on her shoulder.<br />
'Are you ok?'<br />
'Oh, yes, thank you, just feeling a bit sick, but better now.'<br />
I give her a paper hanky, then change my mind and give her the whole pack. She looks pale.<br />
'Are you sure you're ok?' I ask again.<br />
'Yes, thanks, I think it's just the stress of travelling alone and then the bus journey.'<br />
There's a story there I tell myself, but I'm not going to ask to hear it, not when I'm on my damn soul searching one day retreat with half of it already in the back of a 15 year old red Ford Transit Van.<br />
As we get our turn to go into the chamber she turns around and drops the whopper -<br />
'So where is the spiritual part of all this, is it inside the chamber?'<br />
'Oh, it's probably just me that finds it spiritual' I reply, offering her a Nurofen Plus the way you might hand someone a chewing gum.<br />
And that's when I begin to like her. I realise that the soul and the spirit are endlessly personal and unique, and that only by finding that out like this, can I understand that other people must also find their spirituality in the strangest of places, and that here, in this light chamber, it might be only me who feels a sense of eternity, of peace, of mystery and of soul.<br />
We head back to Dublin, and all I know is that I feel spiritually recharged. I feel kind again and have a newborn energy to cope with the worldly things around me.<br />
Somehow, being in that chamber makes me feel that some part of me will never die. I'm polite as I disembark the bus.<br />
'Goodbye now, enjoy your holiday in Ireland.'<br />
'Goodbye, you should visit Holland sometime, you would love the Windmills.'<br />
'Possibly' I reply, and when I don't mutter fuck off under my breath, I realise that<br />
I am truly on a spiritual high.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OebwIMHGw-4/USZahVJVntI/AAAAAAAAAf8/LfrZinPlfwk/s1600/photo-1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OebwIMHGw-4/USZahVJVntI/AAAAAAAAAf8/LfrZinPlfwk/s320/photo-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-7620872043398568222013-02-09T14:45:00.002-08:002013-02-09T14:45:31.752-08:00The Thing About IrelandThere was a time, years ago, my first stint in Germany when I was things like 20 something, that I had this madly romantic notion of Ireland. And that was back in the day when there was no internet radio that you could have blasting the farming news in the kitchen, and no Irish Times online or nothing. Germany was Germany and Ireland was Ireland. There were Deutsche Marks and Irish Punts, and the Irish 5p, which was on a par to today's 5cent, worked as a Mark, similar to a Euro in phone boxes and cigarette machines. So you didn't need WhatsApp and you could get a really cheap deal on cancer.<br />
Flights were luxury and you got a 'free' meal and 'free' drink in the air, or as my mother used to say (upon arriving sozzled to Germany) 'I paid £500 for that half bottle of wine.' It was just that the flight came for free.<br />
So every year or so I'd come home and go to a trad session, eat a 'full Irish' breakfast and buy a new aran sweater. Everything bad about Germany was purely because it was not Ireland, and my most used sentences were things like 'you wouldn't get that in Ireland' or 'the Germans just don't get it.'<br />
It was because Ireland was a place that no matter what was going on, it was all about people and community and caring and interaction.<br />
So, yeah, I went back. Lock, stock and barrel. I had originally only gone to Germany for three months, and always had the rule that I didn't want to own anything that wouldn't fit in my rucksack upon my imminent return. Of course the three months turned into fifteen years, and I returned to Dublin in 1999 with the aid of a professional removals company who required a removals truck and trailer; a camping van jam packed with the extras; three kids and a German husband ( the latter being the only thing I've gotten rid of in the meantime.)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LvAwc_MN3gA/URbQvJ6EsXI/AAAAAAAAAdA/99lw5I_S5Ws/s1600/john+hinde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LvAwc_MN3gA/URbQvJ6EsXI/AAAAAAAAAdA/99lw5I_S5Ws/s320/john+hinde.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's life Jim, but not as we know it...<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Twelve years later I realised that Ireland wasn't all that amazing once you were done with the aran sweaters and the sessuins. There was corruption that would make the Russian Mafia look like little Bo Peep, a police force to turn the Muppets into James Bond, and a public health service that couldn't hold a candle to the streets of Calcutta. So back I went. Realising that it may not be Ireland, or Germany or Germany or Ireland, but that maybe I'm just one of these eternal grumps where 'the grass is always greener, especially in Boolavogue, or the Black Forest, depending upon where I am at the time.<br />
<br />
So when I arrived in Dublin airport this morning, I reminded myself that I was spending the week in a dump. A nice dump on the coast, but a place where nothing works properly, and if it does it's because of some bribery or scandal or something that caused three people to get rich and 300 people to get poisoned, or end up homeless or something. Galway - a nice place for those who can survive life 200 metres below sea level. We spent the journey to Galway ridiculing the state of the roads, the god awful neo georgian monstrosities of ghost houses and the sprawls of fields that could be put to better use.<br />
I still had the number of my old taxi driver from Galway, so I gave him a buzz and he met us off the bus. Of course in Germany - the land of pretzels and good horse meat, there would be a proper taxi rank, there would be a proper set down point.<br />
But then the whole Oirish thing started to happen. You see, a German taxi driver wouldn't give you a bear hug to welcome you back to some gaff you used to live in, and a German taxi driver wouldn't remember all of your kids by name, and want to know how they were getting on. And would Mr Taxi, Germany, remember the last trip he picked you up on almost a year ago. But that's Ireland. Mr Taxi, Ireland, knows a few interesting details about my private life that the people who I plan to meet up with this week don't. You see, Ireland is a good country for the multi tasker, and with the demise of the church, taxi drivers have taken on the role of the priest when it comes to anonymous confessions.<br />
Mr Taxi, Ireland, took our cases out of the boot. I had a generous tip lined up.<br />
'Ah, nah', he said, 'get me another time, sure you'll see me again.'<br />
And that was the moment where I got dragged into that time machine, and I was 20 something all over again and Ireland was a place, yes, that place that I had written off, the one that was all about people and community and caring and interaction...<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-81886997209789439612013-01-04T06:21:00.001-08:002013-01-04T06:21:47.883-08:00Lucky for Some - 13!So I guess the first Arsekick of the year should be just about that - another year.<br />
13 just so happens to be my lucky number. My son and my brother were both born on the 13th, and 13 is also a baker's dozen, and that means that normally the 13th cake is mine...<br />
<br />
Looking back though, 12 was a good and lucky year. It was madly turbulent with the big move from the wild west of Ireland to the nice calm city outskirts of Karlsruhe, in the sunny south of Germany.<br />
But it was a good move and even if I miss Galway, and Dublin and people and landscape and culture and basic good manners from people in shops, I'm still better here. It just feels like that.<br />
<br />
And probably the best piece of luck I had all year was losing my job. Of course it didn't seem like that at the time. At the time I believed that it was a great challenge living away from home Monday to Friday without any thanks. I decided that this must be how some organisations operate and practised the buddhist art of acceptance.<br />
But in the end, to quote Rita-Levi Montalcini: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">“Above all, don’t fear difficult moments. The best comes from them." And she should know, she won the nobel prize for something to do with nerve growth, and lived to be 103, passing away just last week (R.I.P.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rita_Levi_Montalcini</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And that is really what happens, the best things are born from the most trying of times, so here I am working for a consultancy, doing work that actually makes a difference, working less hours and making more money. I also learnt that job security is actually at it's lowest when you are employed. Being self employed at least you always know where you stand, and that in turn, gives you the impetus to make things successful. </span><br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6O7Q_LBaUMA/UObla4GEHDI/AAAAAAAAAcc/Zo35h4Vn4J8/s1600/tarot+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6O7Q_LBaUMA/UObla4GEHDI/AAAAAAAAAcc/Zo35h4Vn4J8/s1600/tarot+13.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">So anyways, the year 13...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I did trawl the internet to find out some reasons why 13 is actually a lucky number and it's not very generous on the topic. I did find a piece that said that there are 13 steps on the ladder to eternity in Egyptian mythology, and that the 13th step is where the soul leaves the body. I'm still not sure if it was meant to be a good or a bad thing. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Having pulled a Tarot Card for the year at a New Year's Eve Party I got the card 'Death'. Yeah, I know, death doesn't mean you are going to snuff it, it means endings and new beginnings, which was very apt for my good self having left a lot behind me in 2012. But today I decided that I would take out the 13th card in the Tarot set just to see what card matches the year. And yes, it was then that I realised that the 'Death' card is number 13.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">So maybe numbers are more significant than one thinks. And if they are, then definitely, 13 is my lucky number!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Happy New Year!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-29956753184689274432012-11-27T09:28:00.001-08:002012-11-27T12:47:22.859-08:00In the House of ColourI've just returned from a long weekend in Dublin. It's a strange place to go for a weekend retreat away from it all considering that I just left Ireland six months ago on the grounds that I don't want to stay in 'that hole of a place' anymore.<br />
But Dublin was being its usual seductive self. The sky was blue, the streets were getting ready for Christmas and there was that buzz about the place that you just don't get anywhere else. When you've been away for a while you begin to see things with different eyes. And when you've been living in Germany for a while, you begin to value things like chit chat and common courtesy. You don't mind that the guy in the O2 shop who's title, I swear, is 'account guru', does not have a clue on how you can reactivate your old account and scribbles down some vague phone number of a place to call, no, you only care that he was nice about his incompetence, and you leave the shop feeling good about yourself.<br />
And you are more tolerant because it's Dublin and Ireland is supposed to be a bit higgeldy piggeldy anyway.<br />
So I did the shops, buying a heap of things that I can get over here or online, but still having the feeling that I couldn't, and managed to end up like I always do in Dublin, sitting in a dingy little cafe with my shopping from Pennys spilling out of damp paper bags that were slowly disintegrating. One fish and chips later and I dragged myself along the quays heading out to see my friends.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hvAlWcpt80U/ULT02_3H7_I/AAAAAAAAAaw/Q-Ex1TJCtWQ/s1600/house+of+colour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hvAlWcpt80U/ULT02_3H7_I/AAAAAAAAAaw/Q-Ex1TJCtWQ/s400/house+of+colour.jpg" width="400" /></a>But then I saw it - the sign: 'House of Colour'. Jeez. Would this be one of these Head Shops that they got closed down a few years ago? Turns out it was a hair dresser, and on the spur of the moment I decided to see if I could get an appointment. I needed to get the roots done, and if I was going to invest two hours telling my most intimate personal details to a total stranger, the dingy house of colour seemed like the perfect nirvana. And it's a cultural thing. Look, let's face it, if I go to a german hairdresser I'm going to get a german haircut, and the hairdressers will be honest and say things like 'your hair is not ze best' or 'i tzink that style vud not suit your age'.<br />
But this was the house of colour and yes, they could take me. I just needed about 3 or 4 minutes in total to tell the girl at reception that I'd moved to Germany six months ago, that I had 3 teenagers, that I was divorced, what the set up was with the ex and all about our new apartment. She told me about her one daughter, the ex, the schools and why she would or would not think of leaving Ireland. You see this is why you need to go to hairdressers. They are all secret therapists.<br />
My next therapy session was with the girl who put the colour in my hair. She was a young girl expecting a baby and I got to hear about the whole family from grandparents to siblings, let's call it happy therapy because I got to peep in at somebody else's life situation, and to do so was uplifting. Recently a woman I know in Germany was expecting and the only talk was around brochures on what the best wheels are for prams, and the colour coding of the baby room. But my hair therapist was all about people. I could almost pictures banners up in the house with 'Welcome' up for the baby.<br />
So this is it, I thought, the house of colour, the house of real people who make you feel a warm fuzzy glow about life. Well, the fact that this place served rose wine for free probably contributed to the warm fuzzy glow, but still.<br />
Then another girl washed my hair. She was going on about the amount of washes and rinses and conditioners and all that blurb that she was giving to my hair. I kinda switch off at that kind of thing, because no matter how kind anyone is to my hair, it always comes out looking the same: short, thin and a bit grey. But this girl was not only a hair washer, she asked me if I'd like a head massage. Would I what? This girl was Indian goddess with the head massage and gave me some little cold eye masky yoke for my eyes. I felt like an aging prima donna in the afternoon. I imagined that this was how royalty spend their afternoons. With about ten years of stress rolled off me it was back to the chair.<br />
This was the cutting session.<br />
"Would you like another glass of rose?" The receptionist wanted to know.<br />
"Hmm, maybe a tea, I might get a bit tipsy with another glass." (See, I'm already becoming German).<br />
But then the cutting therapist took over. This session was about learning that in order to relax, you must allow others take over.<br />
"Ah no, she'll have a glass of rose for god's sake." (Never argue with a woman with a scissors in her hand).<br />
I succumbed, hoping that this lady could cut hair as confidently as she could make decisions for weary aul wans getting their hair chopped.<br />
She asked me if I was going out tonight, and I told her just visiting friends.<br />
"Ah, but you'll go out after that, right?"<br />
"Em, I don't know." I was very much looking forward to the night in, which to me was still a night out.<br />
"Ah, you will, you have to."<br />
"Ok, I will." This was the kind of lady who you don't mess with. If she decided that we were going to get up from the roaring fire and leave our 1995 Barolo wine in order to head off to the pub, well then we were going to do just that.<br />
"What about yourself?"<br />
"Nah, I'm not going out tonight, just going to the cinema with a friend."<br />
Well like, hello, is that not going out? She explained to me that it wasn't going 'out out', and whatever 'out out' was for this beautiful dominant lady whose hair was Cleopatra meets Granuaile, I would have definitely left the fire and the wine to be part of her 'out out' night.<br />
I rolled out of the place about a bottle of wine later. My hair was like it always is - short, boring and kind of greyish, but I was richer for the experience. The whole thing was cheaper than a session with a shrink, and I already had some great tips and ideas on how to change my life for the better.<br />
One of them was rose wine, and as for the flex styler and rugged fix, can you only apply that stuff to your hair?<br />
I'd grown up with tales from the house of the rising sun being the ruin of many a young man, but now I had experienced the house of colour, and as I walked up the quays, the all too familiar grey clouds that had come out just held off the rain for a short while and started to wink at me...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-16833453126809194882012-11-22T13:23:00.000-08:002012-11-22T13:31:18.313-08:00The Definition of Insanity<br />
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
I used to deliver training with a colleague who liked to kick off the session asking if anybody knew what the definition of insanity was. There would be the odd grunt, but the standard next sentence would be that she would tell them. 'It's doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results.'</div>
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
Then there would be a few more grunts and the odd time somebody might pipe up that they had heard this before, yes, and that it is a quote from Einstein. </div>
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
I've been reading a wonderful biography on Einstein recently, and he definitely did not say that. No, there are a lot of misconceptions about poor old Einstein, and he did say and do a lot of genial things, but the closest I can get to finding this particular piece of misinformation by anybody of note at all, is Rita Mae Brown, and if you think about it, it definitely has a bit more of a Rita Mae ring to it than Einstein. </div>
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
So after a while of hearing this quote once a week, I began to wonder if I might be insane. Being overweight is definitely related to my insanity - I try the same diets again and again and expect different results. I have spent years believing in the good in people, over and over again I have given people the benefit of the doubt. Damn, I should have just stopped being nice after I was stabbed in the back the once. But no, I have always believed that if you treat people with unconditional positive regard, it would be worth it in the end. Turns out I'm insane.</div>
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
But the thing is this, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is not the definition of insanity at all. It's just a catchy sentence from a chick lit novelist. What insanity really is, is the inability to determine right from wrong. It is defined in Law.com as:</div>
<div class="article-content-top" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-top: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<em style="color: #333333; text-decoration: underline;"><a class="ext" href="http://dictionary.law.com/default2.asp?selected=979&bold=||||" style="color: #333333; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">Insanity.</a></em><em>n. mental illness of such a severe nature that a person cannot distinguish fantasy from reality, cannot conduct her/his affairs due to psychosis, or is subject to uncontrollable impulsive behavior.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
Now it still might turn out that I'm insane, but not insane as in being persistent with things and not letting disappointments or bad results stop me from believing in the good in the world. You see, just because I've done tons of diets and never lost weight, does not mean that it would be insane to do another diet. Well, I suppose that's debatable...<br />
I guess we all know what my colleague meant though. That if you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten. And even though that in itself is not strictly true, I do agree that one has to be aware of patterns of behaviour that can be destructive, and ones that work of course. But even if you do have quirky repetitive habits that do not bring the results you desire, it does not mean that you are insane. Stupid maybe, or quaint. It's what makes you your lovely self.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zw1cVEcg9k0/UK6VhnXlyAI/AAAAAAAAAaU/_jTapLWKn8U/s1600/ass+u+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zw1cVEcg9k0/UK6VhnXlyAI/AAAAAAAAAaU/_jTapLWKn8U/s400/ass+u+and+me.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I assumed after two hours waiting that you had stood me up. Silly me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Then of course there is the corny 'To assume makes an ass out of you and me.' Get it? An Ass (A,S,S,) out of U & ME. OH guffaw guffaw, how clever...<br />
Thing is though, we need to navigate the world with assumptions. Assumptions are our findings, or conclusions, as such. I mean, how else can we ever put two and two together without making some sort of assumption. And again, yes, I know, some assumptions are not based properly on facts and we don't dive deep enough, and we see the world as we are, not as it is, but still, do you and I become little Connemara dwarf donkeys because I came to a conclusion that was not, strictly speaking, correct? The answer is, yes, indeed we do. Because to assume makes an ass out of u and me. And don't forget this one - if you point a finger at somebody, you are pointing three fingers at yourself. I wonder was that Einstein, or Jesus maybe?<br />
<br />
I would say that I navigate the world based on assumptions, but that doesn't mean it's the right thing. I would strongly advise never to take my advice about anything. After all, it's coming straight out of the asses mouth, and to top it, I am insane, right?</div>
<div id="inline-content-bottom-left" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; width: 160px;">
<div class="block" id="block-td_search_160" style="display: inline; width: 0px;">
<div class="directory-mini directory-mini-td" style="background-position: -160px 0px; float: left; height: 221px; margin-top: 15px; position: relative; width: 160px;">
<div class="directory-mini-inner" style="padding-left: 15px; padding-right: 15px; padding-top: 20px;">
<div class="verified-logo" style="background-position: -123px -250px; height: 31px; left: 20px; position: absolute; top: 170px; width: 120px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ff8600; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Sans; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ff8600; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Sans; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div id="inline-content-bottom-right" style="float: right; padding-left: 15px; width: 465px;">
<div style="font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-68900783168367229532012-11-20T15:04:00.001-08:002012-11-20T15:04:40.373-08:00A Strange AffairMy mother had an affair with a married man. An affair! A married man! It sounds like the stuff of movies was happening in catholic Auburn Road way back in 1980. But things are only ever as sensational as you want them to be, and the arrival of this man to our house on foot of my father's untimely death, was, well, something happy in the house for a change.<br />
His name was Tom for the first 17 years, but when I named my own son Tom ( yes, a child named after somebody's illicit lover), rather than the usual 'Tom junior' being donned to my child, mother's Tom became known as 'big Tom', and that stuck.<br />
<br />
Big Tom. I can only say what they all say about illicit love affairs: 'It's not like you think'. But really, I swear, it wasn't like that. You see, Big Tom and my mother were an item before either of them ever got married. They went out. She was never the mother to get close to her children and talk facts, so all I know is that he took her to Bray Head and she needed the toilet but was too polite to say. There were other things that I had to read between the lines. I think that she was worried he wasn't good looking enough for her, and despite the fact that he had his own business, he wasn't an academic. And if that might seem incidental to you or I, to an academic snob it was detrimental.<br />
Poor (Big) Tom. I believe that while she was dating him she met and ran away with another dude. He was the dude who became my father, so ironically, without this twist in the affair there would be no blog about it!<br />
And then, and these are things that I picked up as a teenager when she was half twisted and I was still a teetotaler, well then, my mother eloped to the UK with the dude who became my father and married him, and on the way to their honeymoon, apparently at a bus stop, (Big) Tom turns up looking for the mother. But the deed was done and the rest was history. He went back home and got married himself. Apparently unhappily and childless. That's what I was told anyways.<br />
<br />
There are only a million and something people in Dublin and they all know each other, talk about each other and bump into each other on a regular basis. So about a year after my mother was widowed it was no surprise that the two ran into each other seeing somebody off to the ferry, or walking the pier or in a pub or something. And then (Big) Tom was in our living room and I was being a 15 year old and my mother was about to throttle me and he was being lovely to me, but not in a creepy way. He was actually the first adult, I recall, who seemed to find me cool.<br />
The rest is history. This is a (fucking hypocritical hateful) catholic country. The mother never really let him into the family, he was a badly kept secret. She was afraid of it. But to me, he was a grown up who genuinely listened and took me seriously He never tried to impress, he was modest, he lent me books that I never gave back. He was the only person I knew in Dublin, apart from myself, who actually read Plato. He took us out to dinner. My first ever dinner in a restaurant - Chicken Maryland, or something in a basket with chips. It was the most exotic thing I'd ever eaten. All of a sudden I was in the real world!<br />
When my mother, my teachers, my siblings, all came the heavy on me, his comment was merely ' I think we have a blue socks here'. I had to find out what that meant. And then I was gobsmacked that somebody could actually see me. SEE me! Somebody actually thought about what made me tick. Somebody cared.<br />
He was shy. But for a man who was predominantly a listener, when you got him on his own, he could tell stories to beat the band. He had a natural sense for something that I myself later needed to learn and appreciate: <b>Unconditional Positive Regard for all of Mankind.</b> He really did. He loved people<br />
Every Father's Day hurt. I knew that I'd had a father, one who probably loved me, but not one who had really impressed me. I wanted to send Big Tom a Father's Day card, because he was my idea of what I thought a father might be. But I couldn't. And I understood the math, but still...<br />
Years later, big Tom came to Galway. It was a golf outing. At that stage a retired golf outing, but we met up and we sat outside a wine bar in Quay Street. Just two glasses, but looking back, one of the most halcyon days of my Galway time. One of those rare moments in life when two people can express how damn much they regard one another, knowing that there will never be words for it. Just staring out in front of you at the world go by, and knowing you are going by with it.<br />
You see, because the mother never let him properly in, because there was the (semi estranged) wife lingering in the background, because, because, because... it was hard to ever formalize Big Tom's place in my life. But did I need to?<br />
I only know this: the man was inspirational in my life, and it is based on somebody taking an interest in me rather than judging me. Maybe because he was that bit on the outside it made it easier. I always find that the blood relatives can be overly eager to judge.<br />
Big Tom spent his last months in one of those supposedly upmarket, yet pathetic nursing homes.<br />
We went to see him before we left for Germany. Despite the dementia, he was incredibly lucid that day. We chatted about all of the good old days and he told me about the ins and outs of the nursing home. I told him he should keep a diary. He said he was thinking of it. I told him he should write a book, he agreed with me. He said he might. We said we would meet up again for the mother's 80th in four months time.<br />
I knew, I just knew, when I hugged him, that this was going to be it. I knew that it was goodbye, and I knew that neither of us would ever say that.<br />
About six weeks later I was sitting on the terrace of a hotel in Luxembourg. My mother called me to say that big Tom had passed away. I said that I was sorry to hear it.<br />
My new colleagues from my new high flying job asked me if all was ok.<br />
I told them that yeah, all was great, just that a friend of my mother had passed away. Her partner, kinda.<br />
'Was he old', they asked?<br />
'Yeah, 80 something.'<br />
'Ah, good long life.'<br />
'Yeah.'<br />
I ordered another beer and talked about leadership development.<br />
When you're involved in an affair you do your crying in private.<br />
<br />
<br />
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmECnIZcvPY<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-59080846454911356342012-11-11T11:16:00.000-08:002012-11-11T11:16:07.668-08:00Karlsruhe Poetry SlamYou do strange things when you move country. You start eating different food and talking another language. You drive on the wrong side of the road and if it is Germany you have moved to, before long, you start wearing sensible shoes and thinking that it's perfectly normal to hang out naked with strangers in a sauna.<br />
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I found myself coming out of my retirement as a poetry slammer and performing in very bad german to incredibly large audiences who show up to see a bunch of the oddest people in the universe spout about anything at all for seven minutes. In Ireland it's three minutes, but that would be an Irish three minutes so it works out around the same.<br />
<br />
But it's not just the time that's different, it's all a bit German over here. Last night I was invited to participate in a slam that took place in the castle at Karlsruhe. I mean, hello, the actual big huge castle, in a proper posh room with big chandeliers and about 200 people in the audience. A proper audience, with seats and tickets, it was even sold out. Not a room upstairs in a pub with a handful of people who have wandered in off the street because of the rain. And ah yes, rain. It was raining last night so I presumed that nobody would actually turn up. But they did. It was planned, they had tickets, they showed up.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AUsZxHtCM2Y/UJ_112khNaI/AAAAAAAAAZY/MK43IDaQ7jo/s1600/IMG_0877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AUsZxHtCM2Y/UJ_112khNaI/AAAAAAAAAZY/MK43IDaQ7jo/s400/IMG_0877.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I told them not to smile<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was like being a real performer. The 9 slammers were in a back room behind the stage. It was a room that also turned into a bar at the break time and it was full of drink, so the first real culture shock was being in this room with 8 other slammers and none of them ripping into the gargle. And they were young dudes, like all at least young enough to be my children - which made me want to say things to them like 'have you not got a belt, those pants are hanging down your arse' or 'your hair is a disaster. I know you think it's cool, but it's just not working for you, and I know, because I'm your mother.'<br />
But I didn't. I silently reminded myself that I was not their mother, I was their co-slammer, and probably if anyone in that back room with the free drink that nobody wanted (they were laying into the chocolate and pretzels though) needed an overhaul, it was my good self.<br />
<br />
The Slam itself was judged on the loudness of the clapping from the audience, so although they only used it to pick who went into round two and who was the overall winner, I would make a rough estimate that I came about last. Last is good. Last means you are an eccentric nutter. Second or third place is the worst you can get, it means that you almost made it but just didn't have the edge. So lets, for arguments sake, say I came last. Very last. Straggling in last way behind anyone else.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xhBJPxmB_mw/UJ_29Hy0DPI/AAAAAAAAAZo/mzTBuVK4oXI/s1600/IMG_0878.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xhBJPxmB_mw/UJ_29Hy0DPI/AAAAAAAAAZo/mzTBuVK4oXI/s200/IMG_0878.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Afterwards was a bit like being famous though. A few people came up to me asking when I'd be performing again. I felt important. I thought the answer 'I don't know' probably sounded better than 'I guess never.' Afterward I thought it might have looked better had I said 'I need to check dates with my manager.' The biggest culture shock of all though, was when I got paid at the end of the show. Getting paid for slam is a rare occurance. Slammers are not really suited to having money. Let's face it, if I had money, I'd replace the need for recognition from small rooms of people with the need to go around the place in a flashy car. I could go shopping and I could have a therapist. But there it was, with my name on it: Mags Treanor 15 Euro. I had performed for about 7 minutes which works out at 2 euro per minute which is 120 euro per hour. A handsome hourly rate of money for a wandering minstrel you must agree.<br />
Then all of a sudden the room was empty and I had that anti climax feeling that you get after you have gone through the mad nervous adrenalin rush of fear, followed by the buzz of performing and getting a reaction out of the audience. Now they were all gone home. But I had 15 euro, and there was a pub up the road, and my friend Ollie who was only too willing to go there with me.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GBOWC0D4alc/UJ_19Hj84rI/AAAAAAAAAZg/nt6gzw26VuQ/s1600/IMG_0864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GBOWC0D4alc/UJ_19Hj84rI/AAAAAAAAAZg/nt6gzw26VuQ/s200/IMG_0864.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the end you're on your own</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yes, you do strange things when you move to a new country, but cycling home drunk at 3am, I couldn't help thinking that really, the world is the same everywhere. At least my world.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-28063188683080435302012-09-23T13:19:00.002-07:002012-09-23T13:19:51.816-07:00Four Armed Police Officers & A Missing iPhoneWe told her not to have the phone hanging out of her pocket like that, but 'I told you so' is just not the right thing to say to a 13 year old girl in the middle of the castle grounds on a busy Sunday afternoon when she discovers that there might have been a bit of wisdom in what adults say.<br />
And it wasn't a great week for the phone to get stolen, having both sons have their bikes stolen in the space of a week. We came here to get away from all that stuff, but apparently crime also exists outside of Ireland too.<br />
It's just how it's handled that's different. When the young fella had his iPhone stolen in Galway, we went to the cops and showed them where Google Maps could locate it, to a street that I didn't fancy going looking for it on my own, but they told us that the police don't do Google Maps, and anyways, the squad car was out in Connemara somewhere dealing with a domestic stabbing incident.<br />
So when Google Maps showed me that the iPhone was slowly on the move in some residential area about 10k out the road, I only went to the police station as a formality and a gesture to the daughter that I would at least try to recover her phone, because there was no way I'd be buying her a new one.<br />
There were tears. There was disappointment. There was a post mortem. But then all of a sudden there was a police car with two armed policemen asking us to sit in the back, wear our seat belts and please let them have my phone to follow the location where the 'find my iphone' app told us the phone was.<br />
My heart started pounding. Here we were as part of a police operation in a country where the most exciting thing you might normally do on a Sunday is go for a nice piece of Black Forest Gateau in a local Confisserie. But now, we were heading towards a real forest to attempt recovering the phone. The police were armed and had bullet proof vests. But what about us? I could see it all roll out in front of me. There would be a group of Russian bandits hiding out in the forest with the iphone, and once we approached there'd be a shoot out. I'd jump in front of my daughter and save her life, but I would die in the shoot out and she would end up orphaned and with a withered arm or something as a result of a gun injury.<br />
Or worse, we'd be stabbed. Again, I'd end up as victim of the stabbing in order to protect the daughter, and although initially I would bravely walk away with a knife in my heart, I would later die in hospital. My daughter would be left stabbed. I would be forgotten about within a week.<br />
But it was a bit different. We pulled in at the area to be met by another police car. So now there were four armed police officers and two cop cars on the trail of the iphone. I had handed over my own phone at this stage, which had the mapping info. We drove along forest trails and then into this nice residential area where they were able to pin down the phone to. It could only have been one of three houses, so they split up, called to each house simultaneously and at that moment pressed the function that makes the phone make a loud noise.<br />
I could only see the door of one of the houses, being afraid to leave the back seat of the cop car. An elderly couple came out, looking quite bewildered at the gathering of cops in the area. Seems the other houses were similar. We left.<br />
One thing that really struck me was that if I was scared of getting murdered looking for an iphone, I wondered what kind of risk these guys really put themselves into every day. All of a sudden I liked the police, they weren't just nasty people who came to dampen parties or deliver speeding fines. I had been in rotten mood earlier in the day, and the phone going AWOL had been the cherry on the cake. I had been feeling invisible and inadequate, always left to every damn thing on my own. But now, there was somebody actually helping me - four people, all armed!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2z-vUplJExk/UF9leUcvsMI/AAAAAAAAAYI/m6BvrTnp7_8/s1600/cops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2z-vUplJExk/UF9leUcvsMI/AAAAAAAAAYI/m6BvrTnp7_8/s1600/cops.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the back seat of a cop car</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We drove into another estate, then another drive along the forest, and then they decided to give up. I felt a bit guilty, but hey, I was alive - no bullet wounds, no scars. So that was it. The phone was gone.<br />
We had exhausted all channels - texted it a million times, called it a trillion times, traced it with four armed cops and sent a gizillion messages out to the universe to get it back. I couldn't help calling it over and over again, and then, all of a sudden I get an answer!<br />
'Hellooo, ya, I found your phone, it eez in safe hands, ya, I vill brink it you tomorrow.'<br />
So of course, armed cop in the passenger seat takes the phone from me and talks to yer man who has 'found' the phone. Tells him we will drive to his house and pick it up.<br />
So the cops start to chat about collecting the phone from this dude. They say they're going to see what their first impression is of the guy. But I don't need first impressions. It's black and white: guy either steals or finds phone, thinks it's his lucky day,then realises that it's traceable, sees cops scouting around and then answers the phone. Pathetic. And now I'm even happier that the cops are part of all this. Oh and... and and and... we are in a 'plain cops' car, and the blue light thingy is on the floor and I know that once we get closer to the phone thief they are going to ask me to hand across the blue light and I'm going to be just soooo super important...<br />
When we get to the phone thief's house, my heart is in my mouth, feet, lower back and pulsing thru my neck, at this stage I cannot even speak. Suddenly I am Charlie's Angels, Wonderwoman, I am Joan of Arc, Tamar of Georgia. I am Septima Zenobia leading my army on horseback, defeating the Roman legions back to Asia Minor, just that I'm doing it in a middle class terraced housing estate in the outskirts of Karlsruhe. I am the samurai who has let my sword rust whilst my army follow with truncheons and pistols.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G5WncYW0Xgg/UF9q8AfE9rI/AAAAAAAAAYc/Rs5OuwP_Skg/s1600/wonderwoman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G5WncYW0Xgg/UF9q8AfE9rI/AAAAAAAAAYc/Rs5OuwP_Skg/s1600/wonderwoman.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Herr Nettmann Von der Ehrlichkeit (Mr Nice & Honest) is there with the phone, his bicycle and his girlfriend. He's like, twenty something and explains that he found the phone in the park and read the messages we sent to it but couldn't respond as he was cycling back home on his bike, but had sent my daughter a message on facebook to let her know he had it and would take it to her school tomorrow, as she had requested in one of the text messages she had sent to anyone who found it.<br />
I say thanks in one of those squeaky voices that you get when you're mortally ashamed of yourself and your body has seized up from the neck down. I want to explain why we have arrived to pick up the phone in a squad car with two armed cops, and that actually there was a second car out looking for him too but that they are gone home now, but I decide that this will only make things even worse. There's an awkward silence. We leave.<br />
We are dropped home by the police. We all have our phones. We are alive. Under the circumstances I would almost prefer a scar. Just a small scar, a modest seven stitches above the eye as a result of fighting for justice and retrieving the iphone from the bandits in the forest. I want to see concerned faces but assure people that no, honestly, I'm fine. It was nothing. It was for my daughter. But this is the story of my life. A happy ending was never a best seller.<br />
<br />
Next Sunday we plan to go to a nice Confisserie and have some Black Forest Gateau...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1568864009978223531.post-84852970017429225022012-09-01T14:39:00.002-07:002012-09-01T14:40:18.956-07:00German Party RulesAn Irish friend of mine was telling me recently that she had to call the cops because of her neighbour's loud party next door. Well not really, it wasn't so much the noise as the fact that they were out on the street at this stage, mashing broken glass, fists and hurleys into one another. Eventually the cops came, but it took a while as there was probably only one car covering every fight in the west of Ireland.<br />
In Germany, of course, things are a little different. So when my 17 year old angel had a barbecue the other night that ended up with over 20 teenagers making noise on a balcony, the police were immediately banging the door down by midnight. Of course I was the one who got the letter from the rental agency telling me that I had been there, that I was too loud and blah blah, and not to do anything like this again.<br />
But that's what happens when you're Irish in another country. People just assume that you are a reckless partying alcoholic.<br />
For those who don't know me or my origins though, I'm beginning to look like a German. I've reverted to practical flat soled shoes, no make up and a rain coat, and I travel by means of bicycle with a basket on it.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vuyh0J3AkzA/UEKAY6j7prI/AAAAAAAAAX0/s9WCWj6-q1Y/s1600/german+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vuyh0J3AkzA/UEKAY6j7prI/AAAAAAAAAX0/s9WCWj6-q1Y/s1600/german+party.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">German Party Animals Drinking Beer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So even though it wasn't me who got sick out of the hall window on the fourth floor and despite not even knowing enough people to throw even a dinner party, I have now ruined my otherwise flat soled reputation and have to go around the place wearing my glasses and trying to look glum.<br />
But it's not all bad. Good things happen despite bureaucracy. For example, Karlsruhe runs a car sharing system. You join it and then whenever you need a car, be it big or small, you can pick one up for tuppence, and for hours days or weeks, depending upon your need. Now I think that's pretty cool, so I headed over to their office having looked it up online. Being German, the deal is that you have to go there in person and bring your completed application form along with a valid passport, and being a good expat, that's just what I did. Only problem was that because I'm not German they need some other documents, so it'll just have to wait until I have another weekday morning off work, seeing as German retailers et al only open when everyone is at work.<br />
See - I'm starting to give out, which means I must be settling in. And bizarre scenes, such as naked sunbathers, waiting staff hurling abuse at customers and men wearing white socks, shorts and sandals, are all just starting to seem normal. I have even stopped shrugging my shoulders when I hear about people going to bed at 9.30pm.<br />
Which reminds me, it's after 11pm now, and the bakery only opens until 11am on a Sunday, just that time when people are beginning to get out of bed. So I better turn in for the night, early rush for those pretzls in the morning...<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0