I hate the Easter break when the kids are off school. No don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that they are on a break and the funny thing is I am not like a lot of frazzled mammy’s wondering what to do with them for a week. I am at work. But in the case of the Daddy, the mid- term can be a fractious affair in the morning. You see, trying to get out of the house and not wake anyone requires military precision.
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I always hated the idea of a school reunion. I had never been to one but I always imagined it to be lots of “So what are you doing with yourself?” and “You’re looking great!”. Plenty of half effort gushing comments which meant nothing. On top of the fact that the seventeen year old me had no resemblance to the forty something me now. Wanting to be a footballer or looking like Simon Le Bon were not on a par with a mortgage and three kids.
“Just go” she said. “You’ll enjoy it” I looked at her cautiously. The cynicism in me deducting that she just wanted a night in on her own with the Telly and a glass of wine. In the end I went. You know how they say you should always go with your gut instinct? Well I should have. I was bored. Seeing guys you last saw with acne now lauded with beer bellies and no hair was the only eye-opener. When the guy with the nickname skinny was now built like a whale or vice versa when the tubby guy in class was now a fitness instructor, well these were the highlights. In a way it was an insight into the human mind or moreso the male mind. I mean four or five guys huddled in a pack laughing at what the English teacher said when people were slagging his wig. Men acting as if they were still juveniles except this time with beer. The funny part of the evening was a moment I spent in a one on one conversation not with a guy I used pal around with but a guy I hardly knew in school. He was not in my class but rather in the same year. In fairness he was quite affable and approached me smiling. He introduced himself, ( although I knew his name already) and the conversation opened with the usual pleasantries. It was here that things got difficult. We had used up the usual, ‘it’s good to see you’ and ‘isn’t it funny seeing the faces again’ and there were now pregnant pauses until the final nail in the coffin came for me. With inspiration from nowhere he asked: “So what are you doing with yourself?” “I’m in computers.” I replied. “Ah very good...Where?” “In town...just down on the quays.” The pause came again. The awkwardness. I looked over at the Benjamin Button gang with envy. They were still laughing. Someone had obviously thrown a piece of paper at the teacher. I blew out and decided to reciprocate the conversation. “So what about yourself? Are you working?” I asked. Pleased to have overcome my self- consciousness. “I am yeh.” I took a sip from my drink, pleased in the knowledge that this would ensure another question and eat into this already soul destroying evening by another few minutes. With a bit of luck I could catch Vincent Brown at eleven. “Great what do you do?” “I’m a roofer.” I didn’t really know what to say next and wondered how this conversation would go. If he had have said a heart surgeon or a Garda at least we could have opened up on certain cases and opinions. Again I shuffled my feet, him staring at me and me back to him. Then it came to me. I would ask him what he had asked me. Great idea. Show an interest in his job. It was only after I had asked that I blamed myself for the stupid question. “Ah very good. Where?” His reply came in three words. “On the roofs!” I came home to see the empty wine glass on the table... Psst....Are they gone yet? Take a look outside....Is it safe?
Who? The Jan Joggers. You know. The ones who start exercising in January to shift the Christmas lard. The one’s who shout around the office, school yard about how they have lost a quarter pound this week. But fail to mention that the only reason they had moved in November or any month before that was to do the Christmas shopping. The Jan Joggers are great. They have lovely new outfits. Christmas presents no doubt or others are outfits bought in the sales in January. And when they got back home were left in the wardrobe until the next attack of guilt kicked in and they decided to do something about it. The problem with the Jan Joggers though is that they are all usually starting to fail now. A bit like wasps in September. You may see one straggling around the last bar B q and comment on how surprising it is to see one. A wasp I mean. You will have no problem in seeing the Jan Jogger around a Bar B q come the Summer. You see the difference with the Jan Jogger is the season. And now that we are coming into Spring we will see the hardcore joggers coming out to play. The lean, toned jogger. Usually with a contraption on his/her arm monitoring how many blood cells are flowing in a particular artery at a rate per minute. Unlike the Jan Jogger who has a stepper that came free with the Special K box that was bought in bulk three days after New Years as the last of the vol au vents were playing havoc with their equilibrium. The Jan Jogger usually operates at night. You can see them, sometimes a him and her couple. The “she” in the latest sporting gear and may have a head band. The glowing red cheeks matching the velour tracksuit and Nike trainers. Huffing and puffing beside her male Adonis. Bedecked gracefully in his black t shirt, towelling shorts that he bought for Lanzarote seven years ago and black socks that he hasn’t bothered to take off from work. They don’t talk. They can’t. Each of them has thoughts running through their heads. “Are we mad?” “If I give up now, he/she will blame me”. There is a certain inevitability to the failure. The only momentum is the countless weight loss programmes on television and the magazines spouting out endless diets and recipes. “The new you for 2019” they cry. But the Jan Jogger isn’t feeling too new at the minute. Granted the first week was a struggle but there was a certain amount of feel good and achievement at being able to go into the people in work and say they had run three miles last night and it only took under the hour. But as week three and four wore on and the whole chill of February came with no sign of brightness, the novelty and more-so the questioning of the whole reasoning and the “is this actually good for you?” doubts come into play. Then it happens. It can be as simple as a Chinese. A children’s party, an unexpected neighbour calling for a cup of tea or glass of wine. The distraction. The one thing that knocks the Jan Jogger out of sync and suddenly the couch and TV are more appetising than pounding the pavement in the dark. Unbeknown to the Jan Jogger, the fitness fanatic is secretly looking up the Internet for the latest trainers and running gear for the season ahead. They have been keeping in trim over the winter – only doing thirteen mile runs on Saturday with a ‘few five milers’ in between. Thursday nights are a night off. Pilates. And therein lies the difference. The seasoned runner has been doing it all year round. And to expect to shed the Christmas pounds and parade around like Twiggy come March is beyond even the most willing of Jan Joggers realistic goals. Anyhow as we leave February behind and head into March. You may still see a Jan jogger out and about. If you do, parp the horn or wave and give a “well done”. Don’t expect a response though. Those lungs haven’t adapted to speaking and gasping at the same time Today the scots vote for independence. Apart from the obvious political and economic connotations what about the after effects for the average Joe…or Jock as the case may be? It doesn’t only affect Scotland. Think of their beloved friends south of the border. What will happen the Union Jack if the union is broken? Will it be changed to red white and…well red for Wales? ( Wales is not currently part of the union flag yet Ireland is – the good ones do their research!) Think of the trouble it will cause in English restaurants when ordering wine. “Red or white?” Mass brawls will ensue with the Welsh taking offence and will soon be looking for their own independent state.
Will the English still drink Irn Bru? Will there be a separate border set up between the two countries with a toll in the middle and in what currency will it be paid? The Scotto sounds like a good bet for me! The notes could have a picture of Billy Connolly instead of the Queen but Sean Connery would be on the fifties. Post boxes will be changed from red to blue….Dulux are already mixing the royal blue as we speak for the tender. Perhaps the scots will go the whole hog and start up their own language? Scottish! Of course there is Celtic history in their language and there are undertones with Irish from the time of the Vikings. But imagine if they started their own language. Some would say from listening to the likes of Kenny Daglish in the past that they have their own language but imagine if they really took it on? A language that was for their nationals only – the same way as if you go to Spain and are lost when asking for a bottle of milk. We will go into a local newsagent in Glasgow pointing animatedly at a map looking for directions to Edinburgh and the man behind the counter will now be alien to our foreign language. “Keyn yay trinsleet dot pleeze?....Freeze boks ar hon the stind aweey ovur deear.” Or how about if they decide to start driving on the right hand side of the road…just for the hell of it! Coming down into England would cause terrible problems at the border ( the one that they have set up with the new currency on the toll. Two Scotto’s to cross, three if you are English) Imagine the criss cross as you attempted to get to the other side as you entered England. A final insult to the English as the Scottish flag becomes embedded in their roads. Websites will need to be changed from Archiefleming.co.uk to Archiefleming.sc , Pop bands will no longer be eligible for Brit awards or they won’t want to be. Team GB will no longer be part of the Olympics, thanks be to Christ and scotch eggs will no longer need to be determined as such and will just be …..eggs. And what about the chief police agency in England? Scotland Yard…Does this have implications that Scotland looks on England merely as…. well their backyard? The BBC will now have to be called SBC in Scotland only and what about allegiance to the Queen? Will those who are loyalists be loyal to Mary Queen of Scots because technically they can’t be loyal to the queen of another country! Well in fairness the English are loyal to Graham Norton so maybe that argument isn’t as strong as the rest. But one great Scottish answer that has baffled us for years will be answered. No not about Robert Burns and the spider, but the big question of what a Scots man wears under his kilt? Every Scots man will now be provided by the new Scottish parliament for ‘under the kilt wearing’ with a guide book and two Scotto’s…..for when the next stage comes. Crossing the toll for the invasion of England! “It's a braw bricht moon-licht nicht Y're a 'richt ye ken!” Where’s Mel Gibson when you need him? Anyone who has teenagers will know how much of a taxi service you become as a Dad or Mam. To go from being a life saver giving lifts to be being an embarrassing dad is quite a feat and sometimes achieved within minutes. The thing is, there was a noise in the car and giving the kids a lift with their friends was “so embarrassing Dad.”
So last weekend we decided to drive to the Titanic exhibition in Belfast from Dublin. There were no friends coming so it was ok in terms of embarrassment. I could let loose and be embarrassing Dad as much as I liked! So any time we mentioned the Titanic on the way up, funny Dad came out with, “It sinks in the end..” A line that was funny the first time. But even now I can understand how the kids groaned after the fourteenth attempt at humour. In fairness it was a great day, the exhibition is great and gives an insight into the gigantic scale of the tragedy that happened. As we were led from the history of Belfast to the shipyard I could be heard whispering in my little ones ears…”It sinks in the end.” They started to walk away from me at one stage…disowning me and leaving me to do the tour alone. At one point I saw them run in a group around a corner when they saw me. The wife was with them which added to the hurt. So we did the tour and, exhausted, headed for home content in the knowledge that we knew everything from the ship’s inception to it’s unfortunate demise. I suppose I was a bit naive to think that the noise in the car would be alright and that perhaps it would go away of its own accord. As we got closer to Dublin, it got worse, ( As it turned out it was the exhaust). The journey had taken its toll on the car and by the time we reached our little cul-de-sac, the noise was similar to a tractor that had exploded. We looked like the Beverly Hill-Billies on tour. Unfortunately for the two teenagers on board their friends happened to be out as we trundled by. They sank into the background, hands covering their faces. To be honest I was a little embarrassed myself. But just as we arrived at our front door, the car just clapped out. Kaput! Not a kick. It was the final humiliation. I sat there shell shocked, disbelieving that we had actually arrived home in one piece and more to the point that that the car was now out of action. The silence was deafening. My little boy who is nine was the first to break the deafening silence. “It sinks in the end….” PubLife
Isn’t Thursday night grand? It doesn’t qualify as the weekend but is almost in league with Friday and Saturday. The only thing to let it down is work on Friday morning. Well, isn’t that half the excitement of Thursday night? The knowing that you have to be up early. The divilment makes you test your body to the limit. To taunt your weary limbs and over excited emotions to stay out later than they should. Every half hour is a screw being turned into the back of respectability. Another two fingers in the face of the do-gooders asleep since 11’O’clock. Sure what would they know about enjoying themselves? And this is where our two heroes meet every second Thursday…..in a pub near you. You see there comes a time in a mans life (how many times has a story been started with that line) when he knows what he wants. When he knows who he wants to be with and when. He knows what he likes to do and with whom he wants to do it. If he doesn’t want to be at home, he doesn’t want to be at home. This isn’t just the married man may I add. Oh no. This is the modern man. The colossus. The prima male. The lion of the jungle. The leader of the pack. Renaissance man. Except this Thursday, Rome, the jungle and flying to the moon, because he could if he really wanted to, are admonished and instead he is off to the pub with his mate. He is not a Renaissance man tonight, he accepts that. He is not a potential world leader, he knows that. No, tonight he is pint man. Nothing more, nothing less. Tonight nothing else matters only pints. He is dedicated to that one passion and pastime. Downing that pint with the respect it deserves. Nothing will stand in his way only the last call of the barman to say “no more lads” and with that mutual respect Pint man will be on his way to the second part of the evening – the chipper. However pint man does have a weakness. For tonight pint man needs to share himself. He needs someone to bounce his emotions off. After a long hard week at work he needs to release some male energy. Hormones and endorphins are raging. He feels the urge to roar at the world, “I am released” and at the same time to get the comfort and agreement of another. His wife? Oh God no. What would she know? What would she understand about the wants and needs of a modern renaissance figure? What would she know about the hustle and bustle of the city? Or of Drogba’s loss of form for Chelsea. What would a meagre woman understand about James Bond’s nemesis and who the same nemesis was in Diamonds are forever? No tonight is not the night for a wife or girlfriend. Or God forgive me for saying it, but tonight an Irish man doesn’t even need his mother! (Three hail Marys and a Glory B) For tonight, Pint man needs – his best mate. Agreeable man. For pint man needs to sit and see the mirror image of himself nodding at his every whim. He needs to see that face gazing blindly back at him in the stool beside him willing him on. To see that concerned face nodding in agreement at how pint man told his boss exactly what he thought of his latest bonus. Agreeable man has many faces. Agreeable man is a cunning ally to have. For agreeable man can change face from comedy to sympathy in the space of the time it takes to say “another two pints there Seamus.” These quirks are something that Pint mans wife will never be able to offer. Yet by the end of the evening Agreeable man can change. And to bring back our jungle analogy he is not dissimilar to an animal that can change his camouflage to mirror his environment. For by 11 O’clock agreeable man has been a bit too agreeable and is starting to miss the opportunities that could once have been afforded to him. For by this time Agreeable man will shut off from pint mans latest rant about bin charges and start to wonder to himself why he couldn’t have been President by the time he was 45. As he looks over pint mans shoulder (Pint man is now illustrating with gesticulating features about the size of the bin he had to carry back through two cul-de-sacs because the bin men didn’t bother) he notices President Obama on the Television screen giving a speech about the U.S foreign policy. Pint man stops mid sentence and puts his hands down. “What are you at?” he questions agreeable man who is now pouting and holding his shoulders back. “What do you mean what am I at?” replies the would be President elect. “I’m listening to you”. “Whats with all the shapes and showing your teeth?” Continues Pint man. “Can a man not hold certain poise in his local hostelry?” questions Agreeable man. “Jaysus wept” mutters Pint man as he takes hold of his real friend. His real friend that is there in his hand. Cool, sleek, solid, tantalising. There is a coolness now. Both men think. Agreeable man rubs down his would be moustache and eyes up his surroundings. For Thursday night being the night of many colours also has its own quirkiness about it. It is amazing the habitual creatures that come out on a nocturnal adventure only on a Friday’s eve. “I see the detective is in.” Pint man turns around to see the stout, bald headed jumper adorning gent saunter to the far end of the bar and order a late “pint there” before slowly and quietly ambling to the end of the bar to rest upon a barstool. From this perch he can view everyone. Discreetly posed beside a pillar, he has the air of simplicity and calmness, like an eagle on a mount viewing his prey. “He must be a copper” states agreeable man and after months of observation the fact that this creature of habit does the same thing every second Thursday, brandishes him with the unenviable label of “the detective” The detective is not the only habitual “Thursdayer” (try saying it when you are locked). No Thursday night throws up many the character and group no less. For somewhere in this pub not too far away from where you live, groups and clicks form every second Thursday and pint man and his agreeable friend are never one to miss out on any activity that befalls them. For along with the detective there is the click from the football club. This however throws in an unusual addition. For amidst this throng of football mentors is one of their wives. Heaven forbid that such an event should occur but alas one of the click has not yet been made aware of the benefits of the modern Renaissance man. Bringing a wife on a Thursday is akin to having a child out of wedlock in the 50’s. Has the same stigma of bringing a black man home to dinner on a Sunday afternoon to a family farm house in Cavan. To add insult to injury, all Glitter woman ( for that is what we will call her due to her excessive Marks and Spencer post Christmas top) will do is to throw her eye to any passing male as she portrays the boredom that comes with the constant drivel that is spouted out by her husband. As agreeable man turns back to his compadre, his eye catches that of Glitterwoman. She doesn’t smile but gives that look. That knowing look – that look that says nothing but says everything combined. Agreeable man looks to the screen again and sees his inspiration before slurring to himself “Yes we can!” Another two pints there Seamus when you’re ready! Time passes and the pressure on bladders has started. There is a certain unwritten rule for Thursdayers. When your fellow Thursdite is mid conversation it would be unfashionable, uncharitable and most disrespectful to leave and head for the little boys room before the point or story has been concluded. This point however must be addressed accordingly. The story just needs to be finished. For once this courtesy has been observed the toilet break can actually be used as a moment of reflection to revert back to the conversation with some valid points. However this is earned. For there is nothing worse for pint man or Agreeable man than to hesitate in going to powder their respective noses. For once their compatriot is locked in on a story, getting up to relieve oneself is not an affordable option. So with discretion the listening Thursdite will cross a leg tentatively. Will tap on the bar or alternatively purse lips until the story has concluded. Then with an “excuse me for a minute” he can gracefully make his way with head held high and hands held somewhere around his crotch to the waiting comfort of the urinal. At this point, nothing in the world matters. That beautiful moment with his forehead resting against cool wall tiles when he no longer feels like the President of the most powerful nation but more so like a Greek statue in a garden centre, which is the centrepiece of a fountain, he realises all is right with the world. At this point he is ready to return with some interesting comments about the previous conversation and Agreeable man now changes from his early evening stance of diplomacy to…. Disagreeable man. Changes like Bill Bixby to Lou Ferigno. “It was, don’t make me angry Mr. Magee not Mr Magee don’t make me angry” and all of a sudden all bets are off and anything goes. “There will never be a better Wonderwoman” “Send all the foreigners home” “Women should never have been allowed into modern business” and it goes on and on. At this stage everything becomes dreamlike. Glitterwoman is crying or sulking. The detective discreetly looks on but keeps a steady distance. At this point the ticket sellers come into the pub and the rustle of pens is coupled with the searching of change for the monthly draw. Names are scribbled, euros borrowed and pens are dropped and cursed and a certain commotion builds around. As quick as it begins it ends and our heroes return to their drinks. The conversation at this stage can go anywhere. From light-hearted to deep conversations about families and missed opportunities. Backs can be patted or not at all. A manly nod of knowing can be enough to comfort a friend who has opened his heart. A comforting “Say no more” can be enough to solidify a friendship and a trust that is shared. The idea. Ah the idea. What would a night out be without an idea. It usually starts with “Why don’t we …….. Or alternatively, “What do you think about this……. And a plan is hatched. A plan so brilliant it is hard to understand why this hasn’t been thought of before. Smiles and laughs are coupled with head shaking in disbelief that nobody has ever had the brains or gumption to think of this before. As extra points are added with an “and do you know what we could do then”………more head shaking, handshakes and a smug look to Obama – ha! We just did! The triumphalism is paused momentarily as the Presidents wife’s credentials are assessed and graded. The idea however is a type of formal unwritten contract. For even in the cold light of day the following morning it will have to be addressed either to be cancelled swiftly and effectively or to be carried through albeit without the enthusiasm of the night before. Negotiations with wives will need to be discussed. Indeed alternative holiday arrangements may need to be considered and in the worst case scenario the back garden may have to be re-vamped to facilitate the new dog shelter that has been agreed to be opened by messrs Pint and agreeable. For agreeable man is back now. Mellowed from his evening sups. Yes for a while he became that niggling politician – that man who needed to get his point across but he realised that to be honest he didn’t really care either way and now his biggest concern was whether it was raining and was the aforementioned chipper still open. “Last orders there lads” comes from nowhere. A face appears in their faces with all the suddenness of a stranger peering in your kitchen window. A decision is needed. But it’s late. Heads go from left to right, glasses are lifted and shaken. Frowns appear on faces as if each man is being asked shall I save the mother or the baby! “Sure go on” the decision is made. Its Thursday for Christ sake – Worry about Friday on Friday and a laugh and rubbing of hands sets the barman on his way to earn his crust. The loudness of the surroundings now has its own immunity and even now Pint man is finding it hard to know if Agreeable man is …….well agreeable anymore. Then as quickly as it began one says to the other “Are you finishing that or what?” Another realisation. It is time to go home. A befuddled set of questions come into the brain. Walk? jacket?, rain?, chips? They go unanswered and suddenly our heroes are at the door of the pub. Outside – smack! The frosted air hits like a prize fighter. Alertness takes over and jackets are zipped up. Deep breaths, hands in pockets and a step is taken as if a foot is being put on the moon. The surroundings are taken in as if both men have only arrived in town off a train. Then they start their journey – that long journey, just as well they zipped up as they have to make it all the way to ……the chipper,……next door. Jackets are unzipped, hats taken off, wallets extracted. A quick glance at the clock and reality sets in. It is no longer Thursday night. The new day began an hour ago. – Bed…..work…..the mini calculator is dusted down in the mind as pint man tries to work out how many hours sleep he will get. It won’t matter. Because he will still be unfit at teatime tomorrow. As food is ordered he peers over at his friend. His accomplice. His loyal companion, his buddy – his chum and he roars across the chip shop…… “Why are the dogs going in my back garden!!” Thursday night and all is well. God bless the weekend. But hats off to the man who decided it needed a pre-cursor. To Thursday! And all who sail in her! It’s been a while since we travelled on an airplane. In fact we have gone on the boat or holidayed at home for the past few years. So when we decided to take to the sky this year it was pretty exciting to be back. Except...well things have changed around security since the last time I was on a plane. As I stood in the queue to drop our baggage, I smiled gaily to my family..guaranteed that I was now free from stress for two full weeks. I told everyone to relax and enjoy the holiday. There would be no family quarrels and Daddy would be in great form. Then we reached the check in desk.
Okay so I should have checked the weight of the bag before we arrived but to cut a long story short it was over the allowed weight. The girl on the desk said I could pay for the extra weight out and come back to her. So when I went to the back of the queue and started to unpack anything that looked like a kilogram ( we were over by 6!) let’s just say the stress levels went up an octave. The queue started to get bigger and in our panic, we took out toiletries and sun cream etc. Or so I thought. Of course this had to be put somewhere. So as I handed it over to my beloved she put it into our hand luggage which was coming on board. I went back to the desk, checked in our main bags and headed for the boarding gates. It was then that my family put the bags through and walked off to do their duty free shopping, leaving daddy to take the bags. But when I walked through the security gate I noticed a large hand in my face. “Are these your bags?” I looked at the pink bag with the unicorn. “Yes,” I replied clutching it to my chest defensively, “There are liquids in them.” “Oh.” “You will need to take them back out through security and take them out of these bags.” I bundled my way back out with three bags looking frantically for the wife who was laughing with an assistant at the Estee Lauder counter. The queue was now huge. There were at least two hundred people waiting to go through. And as I unzipped the bags to find the offending fluids two hundred sets of eyes perused my holiday luggage. The humiliation as I sifted through my daughters knickers looking for a bottle of god knows what, is beyond description. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. I took out sun cream, shaving foam and felt one last time, as two twenty year old girls tittered in my direction for one last bottle at the bottom of the bag. I lifted it out and it skidded across the tiled floor like a fish on the deck of a ship. A bottle of ketchup. My humiliation was complete. To add insult to injury when I went back through security, everything was thrown into the bin and I bundled my way, now late, to the flight with my unicorn bag under my arm. Oh how I ranted to myself – cursing everyone from Osama Bin Laden for starting this sorry mess to my wife for ....well for the ketchup. My first words to her on meeting her again were “Do they not sell Ketchup in the Canaries???” I was greeted by a hail of laughter from my now relaxed family as I retold the story and how I was all but strip searched. As I sat back on the flight finally bound for our destination, the smell of sausages wafted through the air. I opened my eyes to see my wife smiling as she munched through a sausage roll. “Is it nice?” I asked ( I was doing the lip thing) still aggrieved at my situation. “It’s ok,” came the reply. “No ketchup.” I know I am writing this article and taking my life into my hands. But it has to be spoken about. It can be taboo or the fact that we don’t want to admit it but well...here goes. We need to discuss the women at the school playground. Now why I hear you ask?!
Well as a male, it can be quite enlightening on the odd day that I go to the school to see the different protagonists as they take centre stage on the theatre of the school yard. And perhaps in reading you can see who you recognise from your school yard or perhaps you can see if it is you being identified! More often than not there is a click...a gathering. Like a flock of hens they assemble, like amoeba duplicating and forming as the posse gets larger as the school bell looms near. Now usually in this little group there is the ringleader. The one woman who the rest all flock too. Standing proud eyeing everyone who comes in. The leader of the pack to whom all the rest make their way towards almost rhythmic or zombie like. So used to this daily trawl that their legs automatically head towards her whether their minds want to or not. The Ringleader walks at speed into the yard. Blows a puff of air and throws a strand of hair back. And if she is late she heads straight for the centre and is immediately in charge of the conversation despite what may have been said before her. She will usually let the others know exactly what she said to the butcher in Tesco after he left her two pork chops short when the offer was on since Saturday. The Ringleader soon has the backing of the other mothers who quietly push prams back and forth to shush their babies. A finger will go up to mouths to warn the baby not to be screaming, “Catherine is talking!” Of course the one to miss out on all of this will be the latecomer. You know the bedraggled looking mother who is always dashing into the yard. Probably has another one or two siblings on her arm but this rare bird usually works alone. She fluctuates between a run and a skip and brushes hair with one hand while fixing a tie with another. All the time with a look of concern on her face. So much to remember in the background apart from all of this and then there is ‘the dinner to get on too.’ The latecomer is late at dropping off time in the morning as well, however. So this class of species is consistent in some form. Of course the latecomer is much different to the fitness fanatic. You know the one. Blonde species. She comes in, in her tracksuit, tight leggings and expensive trainers with the cerise stripe on the bottom to match the cord on her tracksuit. She can’t stay too long after dropping the kids. Has to run eighty seven miles before getting back to the house for muesli. The fitness fanatic only has one or two friends. A) because she never hangs around long enough to talk to anyone and b) the other women secretly hate her. Oh they can hate her. But not as much as they hate the other woman. The woman who comes in as if time stands still for her. The glamour woman. The woman who waltzes in alone. Immaculately dressed and made up with perfect hair and makeup even at 8.30 in the morning. The bitch. The pack and the ringleader go silent as she walks past smiling. They return a watery smile but as soon as she walks past the ringleader eyes her up and down with a look of disgust as if she has dragged in dirt to the school yard. The glamour woman doesn’t care though. She just walks on by smiling, confident in herself and probably in the knowledge that she knows any man there is looking at her. And if that isn’t enough to annoy the ringleader then she has to contend with the loudmouth. The loudmouth is the one that is constantly heard either telling about the last holiday she has been on or is laughing so loud that she can be heard at the other side of the school. This species refers to everyone as ‘Hon’ or ‘love.’ The loudmouth is every one’s friend but no-one’s at the same time. This particular breed is both friendly and deadly and can have a certain amount of two facedness and can surprise you about some knowledge of some other woman’s husband. And all of this will go on day after day, week after week until the Summer break and everyone goes off and will not meet again until September. But when September comes there is a refreshment! An eagerness to start again! The pack will all be rushing in, vying for best position before the ringleader arrives. She will arrive sighing and all other stories from everyone will be banished and rings of “Hi Catherine!” will ring out from over zealous mothers trying to be the top dog in the click this term and then the Ringleader tells of the drama that unfolded “when Paddy tried to get the mobile home through customs.” The fitness fanatic jogs in and waves, drops her child and jogs back out. The marathon is coming up and she needs to be ready. The latecomer...well she isn’t here yet. The loudmouth is laughing away as she tells her friends about how she didn’t sit out at all in France, it was too hot, yet they all know she positioned herself like a contortionist on a wire to get the colour on her bingo wings. Unlike the glamour girl who comes in aimlessly, still wearing her Summer dress. Her tan fell naturally and effortlessly on her skin. The ringleader gives a smile and when The glamour girl walks by she dismisses her presence with another tale from her catalogue of Tesco dramas. Oh here comes the latecomer now....wiping a nose and egging the other child to run before the teacher is gone in! See you all Monday! The Boy who hated Football
They thought he was strange But they were the ones in the rain And it was he who was dry Behind his window pane He’d just shake his head Scrunch his face when they’d call For he was the boy who hated football “Come on Charley, we’re short on our team” But Charley just shrugged as if in a dream So despite they being down and short of a man Charley headed for town, for the day, on the tram. He just didn’t get the fuss with the chase And kicking a ball at speed round the place “Why cant they like books and fishing and kites? Or reading a comic in bed with a light? And why put their jumpers on the wet grass? I’d rather watch worms in my magnifying glass. And then there’s the shouting, the fighting, trouble and toil I’d rather find spiders on the double in soil. Then when they tackle, they grimace and harden, I’d rather the fun I have in the garden. “Oh Come on Charley, don’t let us down.” But Charley wouldn’t listen but walk by and frown Then on a Sunday and it warm and hazy, they started to laugh They thought he was crazy. For when they were picking the names for the team Charley announced he was off to the museum. He was not being awkward, it was ‘cos he could. He’d rather see paintings than roll round in the mud. After a while, they neglected to call, and it was a given About Charley and ball. But he didn’t care, he stuck to his guns He was happy he was having more fun. But a year went by and Charley turned eleven, and a new girl moved in An angel from heaven. Well that’s what he thought and she could sing like a lark But really she lived in the house by the park. All Summer they spent catching fish on their hooks, watching for rainbows And reading great books. Charley was in love all soft like a kitten, You could say it quite sure, Charley was smitten. But the girl who he loved, one could say quite truly Was a secretive type, (she was called Julie) For she loved to fish, read and cahort But she also was fit and was mad into sport. “Charley,” she said, “Would you do anything for me?” He said that he would as she sat on his knee. “Well it’s just that I like to play ball with the boys The same as I like to play with you and your toys. Well it’s just that they’re short and need two more to play” Charley was startled not sure what to say. “Would you please do it? This one time for me?” Charley stood up, Julie jumped from his knee. She looked at his face, troubled, alone As he walked away, sad and forlorn. “Where are you going??” She cried out in fear “I’ll be back in a minute...I’m going home for my gear.” And that was the story of Charley + co Who now smacks the ball with his big shiny toe The moral if there is one of Julie and all Is that she changed Charley to the boy who loves ball. Head Chef I can’t cook. There, I said it and already I can see you wincing and tut-tutting at my ineptitude. Or some of you who are of a more callous disposition will say I am just plain lazy! But dear reader, I honestly feel, as this tale will tell, that some men are pre-destined to cook, (as some women are pre-destined to shop) and some men are not My story begins a couple of weeks ago when I was invited to a dinner party with the department of witchcraft and beauty. The hosts, a lovey couple, were offering both a meat dish and a fish option. Imagine. You had a choice. In someone’s kitchen! However let me rewind forty five minutes earlier, as I am walking up the driveway with my good lady and she informs me that “Terry” (that’s not his real name, but I can’t risk libel), the husband was doing all of the cooking. Apparently, he had just completed one of those weekend cookery courses in Ballymacookalot or somewhere. A gift for Christmas from his “I’ve had enough of this kitchen” wife. I gave an indifferent shrug of the shoulders as I pressed the doorbell. When the door opened however, I almost laughed. For there standing before us holding the door open with one hand, the other holding some type of “kitchen instrument thingy” was Terry. However it was what he was wearing that made my ribs tickle. For after his three day course, he was now bedecked in a navy apron from his oxters to his ankles and emblazoned in bright orange letters over his left breast was “TERRY” My point here is, men who cook are great, but don’t they tend to go on about it? To be honest, the food was lovely and a few days later, I began to become engrossed in cookery programmes. ”Only takes about twenty minutes to make…” “You’ll whip this one up while they are having their starter…” The presenters boasted. So, I decided I would take my inaugural steps into the world of culinary delectations. These steps turned out to be as successful as a one legged drunk coming out of a free bar. It all started to go wrong when I went shopping for the ingredients for this “simple dish”. I had downloaded the recipe from the internet and was heading out the door when, the department whizzed past mumbling something to the effect of “Can you bring the kids with you, I’m going to get my hair done” Bereft, I headed out with the orphanage in tow. As this was my maiden shopping trip of its kind, I could find nothing. One of the boys went missing and was located half way through a packet of Jammie Dodgers ten minutes later in aisle three. My great meal involved filo pastry and there was none to be found anywhere. So rather than go through the whole rigmarole again, I bought the ingredients I had and resigned myself to not cooking today. We went home. But I was not to be defeated! On unpacking my wares, I said, “No!” Let’s go elsewhere on the hunt for filo pastry! The kids groaned. I bribed them with promises of comics. When we arrived at supermarket number two, there was no parking and it started to rain. Heavily. We ran, drenched, to the shops to get comics. I had left my wallet beside the half unpacked groceries at home. Rooting frantically, I found a fiver in my pocket which paid for the negotiated magazines, leaving no money for filo pastry. They had shelves of it! So, as I sat with a bowl of tomato soup watching Jamie Oliver disembowel a duck, and turn it into a design similar to a small garden, I reflected that I am just not meant to cook. “And this one is so simple to do”, Jamie’s assured. He looked funny as tomato soup drizzled down his face from the bread |
Conor LynchShort Story writer and freelance article writing. Archives
September 2023
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