Disappointing airport reunion Part 2 and why self-gifting saves marriages...

Whoever wrote that a reunion is a little bit of heaven, didn't see the T-Shirt that DH was wearing when he came through arrivals last week. It was a polo shirt -- something I hate at the best of times -- but with a stripe; the sort you'd get in the grandfather's section in M&S. It was the wrong size, colour, shape, and made him look like he'd just wandered out of the milking shed after the morning shift.

And so what was supposed to be a wonderful event -- a reunion after two months, the start of a new life beckoning, the one-year old who was now walking -- was slightly tarnished. By an ugly top.....

By the time we reached the car I had to insist that he took it off, which he did after some harrumphing, and changed into something slightly better.  We have a tacit agreement in our marriage that I choose all his clothing, right down to shoes. He truly can't survive without me, at least sartorially.

Or indeed in the whole present-buying arena. Which is why I employ the marriage-preserving technique of self-gifting.

Even as a child -- spending my saved-up pocket money on Christmas gifts for my friends and family -- I found it extremely challenging to arrive home from my shopping trip without at least one gift for myself among my many bags.  Often I would buy something for a particular family member, only to get it home and realise that I simply couldn't survive unless that 'Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady' was mine (I was an odd teenager), and so I would simply keep the coveted item for myself and buy the unfortunate would-be recipient something less desirable (at least to me) instead.

As I got older, I was seduced by the whole 'buy two get one for me free' phenomenon, which ensured that my portion of the trio of gifts was basically free of charge (falling neatly into Boots or M&S's dastardly marketing ploy), resulting in a nice little hoard of gifts for myself by the time I reached Christmas morning...sometimes I even wrapped them up for myself and put them under the tree 'from Santa'.


Well I do like nice things.....


Now that I'm married, self-gifting has become less indulgence and more total necessity; something which couldn't have been more obvious last Sunday -- or Christmas day -- when DH handed me a little box, nicely wrapped, with the words 'Oh it's nothing much', something which he always says, even when it's actually quite good (rare).

Let's bear in mind that earlier I had handed him a small wrapped box containing a wedding ring (he lost his ages ago), so something equally meaningful (a wedding ring too perhaps, I had also lost mine -- the curse of the 'April Fools Day wedding' perhaps?) would have been a nice gesture considering we'd spent a total of five, yes FIVE, months apart this year, giving us loads of time to pretend and believe that we're both far nicer and deserving than we really are.

Pulling off the wrapping with caution, I was left with a box containing.....oh it's depressing just typing the words....A Satellite Navigation Thingie (actual technical term) ....yes, that's right, a SAT NAV!  A Sat Nav for the women with the direction sense of a homing pigeon (debatable), and who hates, HATES advice on how to get somewhere.

But wait no, it's not the device itself: Had he brought it home one random Friday evening from work saying 'here's a little gift I picked up for you today -- might be helpful', I might have been touched at his thoughtfulness (and this has happened in the past, but only if you consider a T-shirt from a scaffolding company or a cap from a concrete provider a gift).

But for Christmas day-- after two months apart? Really DH, what were you thinking?

Every girls dream....

Having quickly asserted that he had gained nul points for this years effort, he hastily attempted to reclaim some brownie points by scrolling through the accursed gadget and triumphantly pointing out 'look, you can translate bra sizes! See!'


Oh well why didn't you mention it? That has thrown the entire thing into a new light...now I'll know what sized bra to buy in Australia....thank's DH, you've made my Christmas...!


And so dear reader, I think I've made a convincing case as to why I felt it necessary to return to Coast in Kildare Village -- where I bought a gorgeous black dress for my birthday only two weeks ago -- and buy the taupe version of the same dress, to be wrapped and placed under the tree for Christmas morning.

Oh and some green Mary Jane's. And tan ones too. And a DVD of the Downton Abbey Christmas Special. And a pair of sunglasses. Oh and another dress which we pretended my daughter bought for me (it was from Laura Ashley and was an absolute steal), naughty, I know.

But if I didn't do these things -- which do evoke a small sense of guilt I must admit -- I would spend all Christmas day seething at DH's thoughtlessness.  The combination of satisfaction that I did in fact get what I wanted albeit self-bought, and the guilt from this selfish self-gifting, neutralises into my merely patting DH on the arm and saying 'it's all fine darling husband, I'm happy with what I've got anyway!'

Everyone's a winner!*

*Except for DH, who until reading this didn't know the Laura Ashley dress was indeed self-bought....

Life and parenting lessons from one who knows...

I've learned a couple of things this week.  The first is that should you lose your passport, check both your handbags, even if you think the pink one hasn't been used since long before the passport went missing -- because it is sure to be in there.  This can at the very least save on the cost of phoning the British embassy, Irish department of foreign affairs, The foreign and commonwealth office, all the garda stations in Galway, the local cinema, your favourite coffee shop and finally, your sister, who then in turn spends an hour tearing her study apart looking for your grandfather's birth certificate (needed if neither you nor your parents were born in Ireland).

It also stops  you looking like an idiot when you have to phone everyone you know (to whom you have subjected to tearful phone calls all day long with tragic updates) to tell them, 'ha ha, it's ok, my life isn't over, I will be emigrating along with my family after all, it was in my bag all along, phew!'

That's the first thing; as for the second thing, well it's parenting advice, so I've decided that while I'm at it, I'll compile my top five 'Don't's'  -- gathered over ten years of intensive research -- for all those parents out there who have nothing better to do than read the advice of a woman who wakes up every morning, looks at her sleeping angels and thinks 'my god, they're still here...when do I get my life back?'

1) Don't -  Leave your sleeping baby on the sofa while you pop up the road to collect your three-year-old from playschool, particularly if it's a day when the district nurse might just decide to call in to do a quick developmental check on the baby.  Should you do this, you will be faced with the two dismal options of either a) emerge from your car and rushing into the house carrying a bundle of coats in your arms, as a sort of baby mock-up, or b) admit to her that you left you child alone and unattended for ten minutes. Neither choices are particularly attractive and if, like me, you are a most unconvincing liar, you may well find that you have no choice at all but to admit to the latter. This in turn may well result in more visits from said nurse.

2) Don't - make a baby's bottle out of a bottle of still Ballygowan and a jar of baby milk formula at the table in a bar,  because you don't want to miss any of the fun, particularly if relatives are around.  You may believe you're being resourceful, they won't.

3) Don't - Pretend to your children that you are getting a divorce, just to see their reaction. This is a very bad idea, and reasoning that your own mother played the same trick on you and you turned out OK, is no justification, you didn't turn out OK - there are therapy bills to prove it.

They won't sleep for months..

4) Don't - allow your children to watch 'Child's Play 2' followed by 'The Exorcist' on Halloween night just because you've had almost the entire bottle of Casillero del Diablo and they have begged you to stay up.  If common sense doesn't dictate that they shouldn't watch these movies, then the age classification should do it for you.  A classification of 18 means your six-year-old definitely shouldn't be watching it.  Should you ignore this advice, be prepared to deal with the fall out for the next 18 months or so.

And finally, and this brings me neatly to the second thing I learned this week -
5) Don't - EVER tweet your daughters male teacher at 2 a.m. with the words 'hey let's tweet' because you're drunk and bored; it is wildly inappropriate and the follow up will be excruciating for all involved. Not even if you have spent twenty minutes with him in the week -- ostensibly discussing your daughter's progress -- thinking 'I wonder if he fancies me' (he's not unattractive himself). You were there to talk about your daughter, not to flirt, and just because you don't see a man in the flesh from one end of the week to the other (and Mathew from Downton is only 2D sadly), doesn't mean that any poor devil who speaks to you is deserving of the special mummy-flirty-treatment. And when the bodywarmer-wearing man in the Londis supermarket starts to look good -- even if he does give you free carrier bags -- it probably means it's time for DH to hurry up and come home.

Even Andrew is starting to look dreamy

So there's my advice, take it or leave it, but these lessons are hard learned and hey, I like to give back every now and then. 

Men, car trouble and a suicidal one-year-old....

I overheard four-year-old and seven-year-old boy's discussing me in the bath the other day. 'Mummy needs a man' said the seven-year-old wisely as he poured a cup of water over his head. The four-year-old solemnly nodded in agreement, 'yeth' he lisped,'cos daddy's gone'.

They have a point.  This point was never more explicit than last week as my car glided to a halt at the side of the road, just off a junction, due to an electronic failure which I had been studiously ignoring for some days, despite the big red light on my dashboard flashing 'THE END IS NIGH!'.

It was, as the poet says, pissing down from the heavens and for a moment I sat there, thinking, 'how can I solve this without getting out of the car?'  Had I been more attentive in the custodial duties of my mobile phone, I may have been able to solve it by phoning my mechanic, but sadly I hadn't laid eyes on it in days and it was no doubt languishing at the bottom of a toy box somewhere. So there I sat, with a car full of bickering children, in the middle of the countryside and some miles from my house, thinking 'this is why I got married -- to avoid this very thing'. Laying my head against the steering wheel I wailed 'I need a man...this here is MAN work....!'

The children sat silently until someone bravely whimpered  'mum, you're frightening us'.

Pulling myself together I instructed ten-year-old girl 'don't let anyone get out of the car, I'm going to get help!' 


Giving the hand break an extra hard tug, I pushed the car door open against the pelting rain outside - 'I won't be long' I cried, as I slammed the door and started running towards a house which looked to be about 200 yards up the road.  Within seconds I realised my mistake, which was a) getting out of the car b) thinking that I could run (I haven't run since circa 1978 when I came last in the cross-country run around the school field, after which I wrote all athletic activities off as the work of the devil)

I stopped in my tracks and turned and started running in the opposite direction, across the junction and up the drive of a bungalow, which appeared to be closer. I rang the bell and stood panting and waiting.  And waiting. No one in.  Looking back at my stranded car, containing ten years of reproduction, blood, sweat and tears, and terrified that a truck might round the corner and plough into them, I soldiered on.  At the next house I could immediately see an elderly woman snoozing in the armchair.  Forget it.  I ran on to the next house where I fell upon a couple who were in the process of leaving and asked to use their phone.

Twenty minutes later my mechanic arrived and thankfully saved the day, but the experience made me realise that a) I definitely, as seven-year-old put it, need a man, and b) buying an eleven-year-old car was a mistake -- no matter how short a time I needed it for -- particularly since DH isn't around to lift the bonnet and do 'man things' to it occasionally.

Having said that, there are some compensations to this man-less state, one of which is the ability to watch whatever I like on the television.  This means no sport whatsoever; nothing involving gun-toting women in very tight outfits, something which I'm usually forced to watch through gritted teeth so as not appear bitter and envious; and as much costume drama as I can humanly digest, which is quite a lot actually, with 'Downton Abbey' being my current feast.

It also means eating crackers and cheese for dinner and not shaving my legs for, oh months at this stage, leaving me currently resembling something which has wandered out of Dublin zoo, at least from the knees down....

Diary of a one year old...

Well one-year-old has finally graduated to walking and now fills his days fitfully clambering up onto the dining table -- sending the entire family dashing to his aid as he repeatedly plonks himself precariously onto the edge -- while busily and methodically clearing everything off of it and onto the floor. Either that or toddling out to the bathroom to put one of the remote controls down the toilet, something which he is inexplicably compelled to do whenever the opportunity arises.

One-year-olds are a roller-coaster ride of pink-cheeked, candy-coated charm and utter, edge-of-your seat, white-knuckle fear as they seem hell bent on committing as many acts of kamikaze as they can fit into their day, slotted neatly in between watching the Teletubbies and afternoon naps, and the entire family are in a permanent state of emergency as not a minute goes by without someone shrieking  'Look, the baby's just put a coin in his mouth!' or 'mum, he's climbing into the washing machine!'.


This is surely Darwinism at its best -- were it not for their heart-melting cuteness, we'd surely just leave them on the steps of the nearest church or convent, concluding that they were far more trouble than they're worth.

Survival of the cutest?

Today I review a book: 'How to be a Woman', by Caitlin Moran

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I've just finished reading Caitlin Moran's brilliant new rant 'How to be a woman', which claims to be 'The Female Eunuch', written from a bar stool.  It is absolutely hilarious, and addresses all the issues that modern women have to contend with, from periods, high-heels, abortion, childbirth, Brazilian waxes and what to call your vagina --  to the bigger questions of modern feminism (or lack thereof) and why it's fallen off the radar of late.

In an age where more little girls want to grow up to be the glamour model Jordan  -- whom Moran describes as 'Vichy France, with tits' --  than a schoolteacher or doctor, we have to ask ourselves what happened to feminism; where did it all go wrong?

In a brilliantly simple excercise to ascertain whether you are indeed a feminist or not, she advises -

"Put your hands in your pants.
a) do you have a vagina? and
b) do you want to be in charge of it?

If you said 'Yes' to both, then congratulations, you're a feminist!"

She's been criticised in some quarters for being overly simplistic on the question of feminism --  of dumbing down the argument -- but that's precisely what's so good about this book.  Unlike Dworkin, Greer or Paglia, each of whom's radical, academic works would be beyond the reach or indeed interest of your average woman going about her every day life, Moran's treatise is accessible to those of us who may well be questioning what it is to be a women these days: who question the need to sport a vagina which resembles a nine-year-old's, who want to wear comfy pants instead of knickers which are so tiny they actually disappear after a couple of hours of wearing them. Woman who are -- without realising it -- as Moran says -- 'coming over all feminist'.

This book is to feminism what Dawkins' 'The God Delusion' is to atheism, in other words, she's stating what is only staring at us in the face, but we've stopped asking questions.

I especially like her chapter on weddings, about which she writes: 'weddings are our own fault, ladies. Every aspect of their pantechnicon of awfulness happened on our watch.  And you know what? Not only have we let humanity down, but we've let ourselves down, too'.

I couldn't agree more, nothing does the cause more damage than the spoiled bride-to-be, howling 'but it's my special day' while insisting everyone wears something they wouldn't normally be seen dead in. And don't get me started on the costs involved these days.

As an aside from the book for a second, if the ultimate bridezilla is a foot-stamping, tantrum-throwing, selfish-brat, then I was unintentionally and unwillingly the ultimate anti-bridezilla (DH, please take note):

-I wanted a low-key affair, no more than say 50 people. DH, being from Achill, knows about 8 million people personally and was obliged to invite all of them.  And their friends. And their cousins. And their second and third cousins (and don't get me started on the fact that he was obliged to drive most of them home at 6am since they were so drunk they refused to take a taxi..)

-I wanted the reception to take place in an old-world, shabby-chic hotel in the wilds of Connemarra. DH's people couldn't be expected to travel that far so I was forced to compromise on a local hotel which was so accustomed to the traditional serving of the wedding 'dinner' they steadfastly refused to grasp the finer details of the wedding buffet, resulting in a lot of people simply queuing for their dinner, rather than having it served to the table...

Saved from potential fashion disaster?

-I wanted a Christmas wedding, with mulled wine, holly and carols, with me, centre stage, a vision in red velvet and white fur, a la 'White Christmas' (I now accept that this line of thinking was entirely flawed).  However, my sisters -- both of whom had young children at the time -- couldn't spare the term time, so after much to-ing and fro-ing with the calendar, it emerged that the only day that suited everyone was Easter Monday.  Or to put it another way, April 1st. Yeah that's right, I got married on APRIL FOOL'S DAY! (I'm over it, honestly)




Anyway, this isn't about me....back to the book...

The book isn't all laughs; as someone permanently scarred by memories of giving birth, Moran's chapter on childbirth really struck a chord with me, and I found myself chewing on my knuckles as I relived the horrors of labour, about which she concludes:

'For the next year, every Monday at 7.48am, I would look up at the clock and remember the birth, and tremble and give thanks it was all over, and marvel that we both survived. Lizzie was born at 8.32am -- but 7.48am was when they gave me the anaesthetic, and the pain, finally, stopped.'

In the chapter where she writes about the abortion she had after she'd had her two children, she argues that there is no voice for those women who are absolutely certain that having an abortion is the right thing to do.  Those who don't go on to feel --  as they're told they will -- that it was the biggest mistake of their lives, but a blessed relief. It is a brave stance to take, in a world where - 'mothers must pretend that they are loving and protective of all life, however nascent or putative it might be.  They should -- we still quietly believe, deep down inside -- be prepared to give and give and give, until they simply wear out.'

My only criticism of the book, if it can be construed as such, is the part of the book where the author catapults from being an awkward, overweight, home-schooled teenager, to being a sixteen-year-old journalist at Melody Maker in London -- in just one chapter -- with no explanation as to how she got there.  If the book is supposed to be an inspiration to those teenagers who are struggling with the questions that Caitlin struggled with  -- who they are and how they're going to get to where they want to be -- then they may well be asking 'well how on earth did she manage to swing that then?'; it's not quite your average first job stacking shelves in Tesco, is it?* That for me is the only alienating part of a book to which otherwise I can relate 100%. 

I don't usually do book reviews on this blog, but this one stirred me up with it's mix of downright common sense, refreshing honesty and absolute laugh out loud hilarity (and since I have three other articles pending, this is an act of supreme procrastination on my part) and is a must-read for all women, and indeed men, and I advise you all go out and buy it for yourself or your sisters and friends for Christmas.

* This mystery is solved in her follow up book, 'Moranthology' (also highly recommend). Clearly she is an avid reader of this blog and was keen to address the omission and put me out of my misery. 

Alone again, naturally going mad....

Since DH and myself are once again separated  by oceans, continents and time-zones (we will join him after Christmas), and without the all encompassing sorrow of hovel-house, nightmare neighbours or fears over DH's liberty, I find myself now free to focus 100% on being a demoralised single-parent.

They don't!

As I write, I am sitting in the cafe in Eason's bookstore, nursing a cappuccino, facing the self-help section, which given my current state of mind, seems appropriate. From where I sit, Louise L. Hay assures me that I can heal my life; Paul McKenna promises that he will make me sleep (not without wine he won't) and Sherry Argov explains why men marry bitches (apart from Brad Pitt, generally they don't: Men are uncomplicated creatures and prefer women of a similar persuasion --insofar as is possible, what with them being women and all -- and want to marry a woman who will make his dinner, give him a cuddle and occasionally go down on him.  And if she is better looking than his mates wives, well that's a definite bonus.)

When I say 'having a cappuccino' I omit to mention the 13-month-old-boy-child who is busily tipping his smoothie all  over his head and mashing a wet biscuit into his face and clothing. Every so often he will struggle forward in his highchair and violently grab anything within reach from the table, flinging it forcefully onto the floor. His high-chair is surrounded by debris and by the time we leave the cafe we've left what appears to be a mini food-fight behind us.  And despite the rather dolorous-looking waitress, I leave a couple of euro's on the table out of guilt.

Babies of this age, whilst for the most part adorable, have a cold, hard quality at times.  Leaning close to request a kiss 'kiss mama, baby, kiss mama?' he will grab my hair violently and tug it until my eyes water.  Proffering a warm, lovingly-made bottle -- with a little dash of honey -- he will lean forward, snatch the bottle, and fling it as far away from himself as he can -- his gaze not once leaving mine -- with all the warmth of a serial killer.  All my babies did this, and it never ceased to amuse and disturb me.  And just as you start to think you're hot-housing a mini Charles Manson, they will suddenly snuggle up close, place a soft, pudgy hand on your face, and land a hot wet smacker on your cheek 'wahhh....mama...'!


These moments make the lone-parent experience more bearable.


Without the bolstering solace of a partner returning in the evening to help chase the kids up to bed, respond to the inevitable text -- 'milk bread nappies WINE!!!' -- on his way home from work, or to just sit and sneer at the egomaniacs on 'Come dine with me' over a glass of wine; being a single parent is a silent and lonely existence where contact with your partner is hindered by phone rates and typing ability (DH's) not to mention a drastic time difference. I drift from task to task, room to room, alone with my thoughts, wondering what my new life will hold for me, what will it look like, what will it FEEL like? Do I want to go? Do I have a choice? No.

This rather cerebral way of living eventually induces a state of semi-madness. My life seems to have  become a series of lost items 'where are the keys/my bag/the hairdryer/the brush?' as my daughter drags a fork through her hair before school.

I'm standing in Tesco pondering the dishwasher tabs.  I make a selection and start to move on before a large American man beside me advises-

- 'these are better value,  you get twice the amount'.

-'Oh, do you?' (WHO CARES? I am truly not very interested in spending any longer than twenty seconds on dishwasher tabs).

-'Yeah, these are like, eight dollars' he continues, staring hard at the box'.

-'Well, one must shop around I suppose' I offer, slowly edging away from what just might be the dullest conversation ever.

The man steps back to reveal his wife -- to whom he had been speaking the whole time -- who is also engaged in examining the many boxes on display.

'I'm going mad' I ponder as I quietly move on, face burning: 'what must they think of me, a mad woman talking to strangers in the supermarket'.  To salvage some dignity I talk to the baby, as if it were he that I was talking to all along. About dishwasher tabs.

And finally...

Forgetting something?

The X factor seems to now have descended into farce; even by it's own standards.  Frankie -- who 'sings' rather like a pre-pubescent version of Marlon Brando in the Godfather -- seems immune to the fact that it is supposedly a 'singing' competition, and Kitty, who's make-up artist is clearly used to working on drag-queens, seems to keep forgetting her skirt.

Apart from Janet, the rest are pretty unremarkable, yes Mischa can sing -- in that aggressive, slightly scary Tina Turner sort of way -- but she still bores me senseless, as does the fat one, and the one who's dream it is to actually go into Marks and Spencer rather than just walking past (hey, you gotta dream, right?).  And the girl-band? Really, who cares? No, it's still Gary that keeps me tuning in each week....

DH's insanity, Orville and the X factor....

DH needs to get back to work.  As the visa application for Oz drags on I fear for his sanity.  My first inkling that he was 'losing it' was when I found him sitting alone on a bed in the boys' room furiously assembling a gigantic Transformer toy whilst inexplicably wearing a hand-knitted hat on his head and a bow tie around his neck. So engrossed was he that he didn't notice me for some moments before looking up and asking 'have you seen the other truck for his foot?' On another occasion he disappeared outside for several minutes; wandering outside onto the deck I found him perched on the roof of the garden shed staring out at the cows in the next field as if it were the most normal thing in the world (it is a very  nice view mind you).

Unlike me DH is not designed for idleness, but rather than seeking out things to keep him busy -- and without the cut and thrust of the world of work, not to mention the incentive of pay at the end of the month -- he sinks into a lethargic swamp of self-pity, misery and negativity:  Not unlike Irish radio when you think about it, which has nothing to tell me other than the fact that we are all financially up a certain creek and can't afford a paddle.  And while I'm on that subject, I thought a Troika was some sort of Russian folk dance -- this particular recession charmingly has it's own patois.  Perhaps if we took to the streets dancing to Kalinka it might be more effective than the collective outpouring of doom and gloom which passes for a schedule on RTE radio 1 these days.

Can we 'Troika' our way out of recession?'

Having said all that, I must admit the longer we stay here in Ireland, the more reluctantly do I look towards the move to Oz.  We have settled back into our old lives (well, apart from the fact that I see DH all day every day, something I haven't experienced since the disastrous 'move' to France in 1995 -- when I say 'move' it was more like a month spent camping between Bordeaux and Biarritz, feebly seeking out work, before it dawned on us that we couldn't actually speak French) and I'm finding myself frantically buying lottery tickets -- like a convict on death row praying for a for an eleventh hour reprieval -- in the hope that a huge amount of cash will mean I can stay in my house and my children can stay in the same school for more than six months at a time (they're on their third school this year SO FAR)

Dreaming of Gary....

Last night I dreamt I was waiting in my hotel room for Gary Barlow.  In the dream I was conscious that such a rendez-vous would amount to infidelity and the possible destruction of my entire world, but I didn't care, I was committed to whatever indiscretions were about to take place.  Self-consciously I stood in front of my hotel room mirror, sucking in my stomach and wondering how Gary would feel about the five kids; well that and should I get a boob-lift.  Would Gary be repulsed by my childbirth ravaged body or would my charm and wit keep him captivated?

The dilemma was resolved by the rosy fingers of dawn and a baby bawling for his bottle.

Mark Owen?

I love Gary you see.  I already had a bit of a crush on him as the only fanciable member of Take That, what with Robbie's somewhat simian aspect; Mark's small stature and Orville*-esque falsetto while the other two members -- who's names permanently escape me -- I find hard to distinguish between except to say that one of them looks a bit like a homeless person up close and has a lisp which you would think would exclude him from the singing profession.

No, what started out merely as a 'soft spot' has developed into a full-blown -- I'd-leave-my-family-for-you -- crush, for one reason and one reason only, namely his appearance on X factor.  I had been most dismayed to learn that Simon Cowell -- who's straight-talking both delighted and irritated me at times -- was departing as judge on the new series, and was underwhelmed to learn that Gary was to replace him.

However, it's turned out to be a stroke of casting genius, giving the female viewers something to pash over for once; let's face it, Simon's is so full of botox and hair-dye, no self respecting woman could fancy him were it not for his vast amount of cash, and Louis, well Louis doesn't count. Male viewers have always had a constant stream of totty to stare at (although can I ask, who on earth IS Tulisa?  I thought at first she might be Jo Frost, aka, 'Supernanny' after six months on 'Celebrity The Biggest Loser' and a makeover but it seems she's too young.)

Supernanny?

Tulisa?

But what makes Gary so pash-worthy is the fact that, rather than the nice, cuddly, judge I expected him to be, thrillingly he's a bit of a bastard: straight-talking like Simon, but without the cynical agenda (if you could ever say that about anyone connected to X Factor).  And then there's those low-cut T-shirts.  Have been threatening to buy some for DH although he tells me he won't wear them.  Mind you, give him another month as an idler and I could probably get him to do anything.

Anyway, my money's on the wee Nothern Irish girl with the voice of an angel.

* Orville, a green, ducking puppet from 80's BBC TV show with ventriloquist Keith Harris.  Achieved number 4 in singles charts in 1983 with 'Orville's song'

Being right, lunar cycles, and learning to speak Australian...

There is a general rule in our house:  In almost all circumstances -- whether it’s a choice between the pasta-dish or the 'Catch of the day' on a meal out, or a debate about the virtues of a minor road versus a main road -- should DH go against my advice, he generally turns out to be wrong.  Put simply, I’m always right. 

Triumphantly I will point out to him (or increasingly my ten-year-old daughter aka Exorcist impersonator): 'If only you had listened to me! I am always right. In all circumstances. As in ALWAYS'

Except in one particular circumstance.


Let me give you an example.  The other night, after a couple of glasses of something suitably pungent, I found I was suddenly irritated at the sight of DH; slack-jawed, dispassionate, and staring with a glazed expression at the TV (yes, the eulogising has most certainly worn off at this point) and started flexing my argumentative muscles. 

Not generally truculent, I nonetheless felt pretty aggrieved at my inability, after several fruitless attempts, to get him to engage in a meaningful discussion about our relationship/future/a dress I spotted in Monsoon, preferring instead to watch a movie featurning Jean-Claude Van-Damme.

Never one to be drawn into an argument that doesn't involve hand gestures to another driver (from within the safety of his car) or someone under ten-years-old, DH calmly ignored my probing, slowly sliding to the right in order to get a better look at the television.  This pushed me over the edge: 'You have no feelings! You're an empty shell!' I cried, throwing back another mouthful in what I hoped was a Sue Ellen-esque flourish.

He ignored me, Jean-Claude was making some moves.

I tried another tack ‘You didn’t miss us when you were alone in Abu Dhabi, you LOVED not having us around!’ That should push his buttons (I knew I was being spectacularly unfair).

Still nothing.

-‘Well go back to Abu Dhabi, leave us here, we don’t need you anyway!’ I spat, glugging back another glass.

-'Are you on the blob?' he suddenly enquired, eyes still on Jean-Claude.

-‘What??? How dare…. No I am NOT as you so rudely put it “On The Blob!” I exploded, apoplectic with self-pitying rage.

-‘Well you soon will be’ he calmly replied, not taking his eyes off of the TV.

'How DARE you!' I spat, 'Why do you always justify your bad behaviour by turning it back on me? This has NOTHING to do with me and EVERYTHING to do with your inability to engage in meaningful dialogue or to care about anything other than yourself, Playstation and whether you'll get laid later on!!'


I flounced out of the room.  Then as an afterthought returned with the devastating final blow -

'DON’T DARE COME TO MY BED TONIGHT!’ I declared as I slammed the door on my way out.

Shaking with rage at the unfairness of it all and wondering if those 'do-it -yourself' divorces were any easier than putting together a peice of IKEA furniture (because if they're not I might need a lawyer which I just can't afford), I took myself off to bed where I sobbed in a haze of wine-infused self-pity for some minutes before the alcohol silently but firmly comatosed me into a death-like slumber.

I woke alone -- but for the sprawled baby beside me -- the next morning, hungover and trying to recollect and re-ignite my rage. Ah yes, I recalled, I hate him and I want him to go back to Abu Dhabi and be treated badly by people who think that slave labour is reasonable and where you can be jailed for saying that god doesn't exist. How dare he ignore me like that, to reduce my every feeling to an hysterical over-reaction to the cyclical harmony between the moon and my cervix.  Bastard!

Pottering out to the bathroom it soon became apparent that he was, once more, correct in his assertion: I was, as he so eloquently put it 'on the blob'.  Annoyingly DH is always right on this one and is better aquainted with my cycle than I am, the monthly arrival of mensus always being a complete and utter revelation to me (there is of course a correlation between this monthly shock and my prolific birth-giving: my inability to keep track of anything on either a daily, weekly or monthly basis ruled out the pill and daily papers for me long ago).

Learning Australenglish...

Anyway, after that I decided it was time to rule out my nightly tipple for a while as I plan our escape to Oz. To this end I went out and purchased the Lonely Planet's pocket-sized ‘Australian Language and Culture’ -- a curiously small publication given the size of the country -- and I’ve been busily learning Australian English, a quaint and rather infantile version of the original, the rule of which seems to consist entirely of using a vowel after the stem of every noun in order to make it sound like something from Cbeebies.

For example: a biker -- a leather-clad, knife-wielding menace to society -- suddenly becomes the Kindergarten-friendly ‘bikie’.

Similarly, a lipstick becomes ‘lippie’, an electric blanket becomes ‘leckie’, a mean person becomes ‘meanie’ and an old person becomes -- astonishingly – an ‘oldie’ (I'm not sure that our friends at Lonely Planet aren't having a bit of a joke with us here....wonder if they'll give me a job...)

Will I ever be fluent?

I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of it...

I guess this spectacularly unimaginative take on the English language explains why I can only think of one Australian writer (Peter Carey in case you’re wondering, a writer so engagingly gifted that -- contrary to popular belief that my eldest son was named after Oscar Wilde -- was rather named after the male protagonist in his novel ‘Oscar and Lucinda’ (and I was at one point hoping for my never-to-appear second daughter, Lucinda, to complete the pair).

However, it is the rhymning slang that really caused me to chuckle.  Who would have thought there was a slang word for cancer, or should I say ‘Jimmy Dancer’, which is much more fun I’m sure you’ll agree.

Leafing through the few pages devoted to ‘household names’ I was not surprised to see that I recognised only a handful of names, including Kylie Minogue, Paul Hogan and, comically, Russell Crowe who is in fact from New Zealand, but who cares about the small detail of nationality; certainly it never stopped the English from claiming, among others, our old friend Oscar Wilde, Peirce Brosnan and even U2 at times (actually, they can have that last one).

But I’m not criticising Australia: if anything, I’m charmed at the idea of being on a continent so far removed from the rest of the world that they have their very own cultural reference points to which the rest of us are generally not privvy and where a devastating and terminal illness sounds like a children's TV presenter.  


However, my absolute favourite of all the Lonely Planet's paltry offerings was the 'Local Lingo' page which featured inside the back-cover.  Try, if you will, to decipher this phrase into it's English equivalent - 


Ahem: 'pressies for the kiddies at Chrissie'


Yes, you've guessed correctly: 'presents for the children at Christmas'.  


Yep, it'll be a struggle, but hopefully we'll be speaking fluent Aussie within three and a half minutes of getting off the plane.  


Hooroo!

Ah, now this makes it much clearer....

How I nearly lost my inner Pollyanna for good....

They say what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger; certainly three months of quaffing a bottle of Shiraz each night may well have toughened up my liver in the same way the past three months have tested my Pollyanna-like optimism and belief that things will always turn out OK in the end.

The symbiotic and simultaneous pan-continental misery and despair that has characterised mine and DH's lives during this time -- certainly our run of bad luck seemed to be overextended  -- left us at times wondering if we were the unfortunate recipients of a hex of some sort.

In isolation of course most of these situations could have been rationalised, but when heaped on top of each other they became unmanageable and I spent several weeks bemoaning the turn my life was taking, convinced in my darkest moments that I would never see DH again and was sentenced to a life as a single mother of five.  It of course all started with-

• the house of horrors which was hovel-house; 
• DH not being paid for THREE months; 
• the angry man with the massive dog who moved in next door to hovel-house and who's wife and three children spent the entire day inside the house with the blinds down and who felt obliged to pay me irate visits requesting we keep the noise down (I must admit to allowing my imagination to run away with this one and was convinced his wife spent her days in a cupboard under the stairs, only allowed out occasionally to limp out as far as the gate before disappearing inside again); 
• the ex-con at the end of the street who spent thirty minutes knocking on my front door at 2 in the morning, leaving me to conclude that it was in fact the woman next door knocking from her basement prison -- it wasn't until I ventured downstairs, mobile phone in hand (not much of a weapon) that I realised the knocking was in fact coming from the front door by which time I was so freaked out I phoned the police for the first time in my life although must admit to having to pause for a moment: 'what's the number again? 911?, no goddamnit, too many cop shows, it's 999!!'.
•  DH not being paid for THREE months!!

But things turned out very well in the end: I'm back in my lovely house with the pink front door; DH is back home in the bosom of his family; a generous offer of a job in the southern hemisphere has been issued and more importantly, it's Ramadan and I'm not in a Muslim country. Yay!

I really don't think I could have survived a fourth year of it without being arrested.

DH arrived home last week after a very stressful time at work, a time which culminated in his employers eventually being named and shamed in The National, the most popular English-language newspaper in the UAE (I can't imagine how they got hold of the story, some disgruntled wife no doubt...).

Having spent weeks in anticipation of a visit (impossible until pay day) it was with great excitement that myself and the children headed out from our little village in the West of Ireland, stretching and yawning, early one morning last week to make the journey to Dublin airport. I had spent many moments during those very bleak days mulling over the airport re-union; I was pretty sure it would go something like this:-

Assembled directly in front of the Arrivals exit, DH would spot us immediately as he came through, exhausted and a little demoralised from his ordeal, but overjoyed to see his beautiful and immaculately turned out children as they rushed to him en masse, clambouring and clutching him into a touching group hug.

Stoic as ever, I would stand back and allow him this sentimental kodak-moment with his children, confident that it was I that he craved most during our time apart.

Eventually he would untangle himself from the clutch of the children, his gaze falling hungrily upon me before we collapsed into each others arms, laughing and sobbing simultaneously while furiously whispering promises to never again be apart.

Well, it's always nice to daydream.

I had bought bright white tops for the boys to wear to the airport.  I had also bought Ribena drinks for the journey -- I think it's safe to say these two items are without doubt mutually exclusive -- particularly when children are involved.

We got to the airport with time to spare and the children emerged from the car Ribena-stained and squabbling. Having ascertained that his plane had indeed landed, we quickly found the arrivals hall where the children positioned themselves at the barrier and waited.  And waited. And waited.

There must be a problem. Having witnessed at least three flight arrivals as they proceeded through arrivals exit, I started to panic.'Oh my god, the UAE won't let him leave, they know he has a car fine, they know I blasphemed online, he's rotting in a Dubai jail right now, what will I do? I'm going to spend the rest of my life alone while he is fed nothing but an orange a week while being kicked by cruel and embittered prison guards!'

I tried to phone him, no answer 'No, they would probably take his mobile off of him when they arrested him' I reasoned.

Panicking I rushed to the arrivals screen to check I hadn't misread it.  No, it's definitely landed.  Yep, landed at Terminal 1.  Well, there's only one arrivals hall for the whole airport isn't there??...


Turns out there is a second arrivals hall, the one which we SHOULD have been waiting in. Typical!

Racing from Terminal two to Terminal one, we made it in about ten minutes.  Piling into the lift we panted as it whisked us downwards before spitting us out into the other Arrivals hall.  Dashing out into the throng of people as they breezed through I suddenly spotted DH looking lost and confused:

Is it him? I recognise the T-shirt -- is that REALLY him?  He looks like hell.  And definitely shorter than I remember. I thought DH was taller than that.... 


I suffered the same confusion on our second date: I knew he was the one for me; my future husband, a father for my unborn children, my soul-mate -- problem was I just couldn't remember what he looked like.  Galvanised by a gaggle of friends I showed up to O'Malley's bar in Westport to meet him hoping to hell he'd recognise me.  Looking around nervously, I ordered a drink and waited; he appeared from around a corner within seconds. 'I knew when I saw the barman pour a whiskey that you were here' he told me (our first date had coincided with a whiskey promotion which awarded me several Paddy's T-shirts by the end of the night).

So I didn't trust my instincts as I stared at sad,crumpled, and slightly shorter than I remembered, DH.

I felt shy -- I hadn't seen him in three months and felt suddenly self-conscious.  I could read the same disappointment and confusion in his face as he surveyed me: ten pounds heavier, lank ponytail with grey struggling through, face ashen from stress and weeping, and my nose sporting an attractive and stubborn cold sore.

But he's here now, we've dispensed with the hagiographical fantasies we had created of each other during that time apart and have reaquainted ourselves with each others foibles and peccadillo's.

And we both look older.  Definitely older.

Being back in our house after three years away is a strange experience: it looks smaller, things seem out of place, my much loved belongings seem shabby and faded, and yesterday we pulled down all the boxes we'd shoved into the attic before leaving for Abu Dhabi and with much joy poured over the many photographs, toys, winter clothes and even my wedding dress (yes, it still fits!) that we willingly and thoughtlessly packed up without a care.

It made me realise that next time I move away I will certainly be bringing many of these things with me.  I have friends who have lived in several countries but insist on carting old family heirlooms around with them.  I couldn't understand why they did this at the time, why not travel light and spend your relocation allowance in Ikea?  I've changed my mind about that now.

Being an expat can be a lonely and rootless experience if you don't make an absolute effort to create a sense of permanency and continuity in your home.  Our time in the UAE saw two months in an Abu Dhabi hotel followed by one year in a villa in Al Ain, one year in a townhouse in RAK, and 8 months in a duplex in RAK. By the time we'd moved into that last house I'd all but given up putting up pictures and curtains, leaving them to languish in boxes awaiting the next move.

I can't believe I'm saying this but, I'm ready to settle down somewhere for several years.  This nomadic lifestyle, while initially exciting, ends up feeling pretty empty and more of a box-ticking pretense at real life rather than the actual thing.

Bring on Australia, I'm told you actually get paid over there.

Why driving tests are an unnecessary inconvenience...

I got an email the other day notifying me of a date for my forthcoming driving test.  And despite the fact that I’ve survived three years driving under some of the most hazardous conditions known to man (UAE roads) and lived to tell the tale, I must admit I’m not feeling too confident.

You see, dear reader, let me say it out loud -- I've failed my driving test three times  -- and have a sneaking suspicion I’ll never pass.  Now when I say fail, please understand that none of the failures were actually my fault, but rather the result of petty jealousies, gross injustices and at times pure bad luck (or lack of planning as DH helpfully points out).

The first time I failed I knew I was doomed to failure the second I laid eyes on the tester: a disappointed looking, middle-aged, balding man wearing brown nylon slacks and an anorak; the type who won’t be swayed by a coy smile or a thrust-out bosom (I tried) – someone who’s very demeanor spoke not of deep personal satisfaction and success, but rather of a life of crushing disappointment: the yachts, the women, the champagne; none of it had happened and instead he spent his days making random decisions based on nothing but bitter regret.  I was correct in this assessment and was duly handed my first certificate of failure at the end of the forty minute ordeal.

The second time I failed I must admit that it may have had something to do with the fact that  I showed up without the obligatory 'L' plates on the car, so rather cheekily requested the tester allow me five minutes to pop down to 'Dunne's stores' to buy some. 

Ten minutes later  (having been momentarily distracted by the magazine display) I returned to the scene flustered, all pretense at cool unflappability now impossible. My unfortunate tester was subsequently treated to a distressing ordeal of nine-point turns, kerb-bumps, ‘left’s’ instead of ‘right’s’ as well as an absolute barrage of ‘Oh, sorry’ or ‘whoops’ or ‘ooh can I do that again?’ etc...  Fail number two quickly ensued.

Prior to my third fail I felt confident of success.  It was raining heavily which thankfully meant I got to avoid the part of the test which involved me naming parts of the engine, something which no matter how many times DH took me through it, I just couldn't quite remember (or was unwilling to; the feminist in me draws the line at engaging with, among other things, mechanics, dirt, insects, scart leads or instruction manuals). 

However, as we climbed into the parked car and I prepared to pull out on to the road, I noticed a car approaching from the right.


Prior to the test I had spent an hour with a driving instructor who had, among other criticisms, commented that I waited too long at junctions, and that if there was room, I should pull out.  With these words ringing in my head, I confidently pulled out. The other driver in his wisdom decided to speed up and beep his horn.  The rest of the test went off without incident.


As the tester handed me my 'Fail' certificate at the end, I indignantly blustered 'What? But why?’ to which he replied 'you failed before you began, you didn't see that car as you pulled out'.  

I’m pretty sure that driving testers take the driving tester equivalent of the hyppocratic oath (or something) since at this point he refused to engage in dialogue with me, waving me away from him as if I were some demented psychiatric in-patient stalking her beloved doctor. Drat. Fail number three and now I was going to have to move to the UAE with no driving license.  If I can’t pass a test in my own country, how on earth will I pass it somewhere else?

Quite easily it turns out.

You see, what makes the UAE a maddening place to live, can sometimes work in your favour. Reluctant to go through the whole driving lessons/driving test process, I had opted to cheat my way to a driving license.  Reasoning that the staff in my local traffic office were unlikely to know that a full Irish driving license is pink, while a provisional license is pale green, I employed some rather sophisticated techniques to remove the offending word ‘provisional’ from my already faded license.  To be specific, I simply rubbed it out with a rubber.

In order to get your UAE driving license, you need to go with your own country’s license, (translated into Arabic) to the local traffic department, along with some money, and in return you are quickly furnished with a full UAE license.  It’s a surprisingly efficient process and also involves an eye test, something which took less time to do than to actually pay for --

  
 - 'Read the chart please'

 - ‘Errr…A, O, E, R….’

 - ‘Yeah, that’s fine, ten dirhams please!’

Being a ‘lady’ meant that I was obliged to go the ‘Ladies section’ at the traffic department, an office staffed by a group of disinterested local women wearing hijabs and heavy eye make-up, languishing at their cuddly toy strewn desks.  As I handed over my l paperwork my breath started to come a little shallow (I’m a very, very bad liar and am likely to shout 'I'm a CHEAT!' should the deception last any longer than a few seconds), sweat trickling down my forehead.  The women inspected my paperwork, piece by piece, occasionally chattering in rapid Arabic to each other.

-‘Oh my god, they know I’m lying’ I thought with mounting alarm, ‘I wonder if I just slipped out now, would they ever find me?’.  The Arabic was getting louder --

- ‘She’s a cheating liar, this is not a full license….go and call the police immediately, she needs to be interrogated!. Quick, go before she leaves!’  (is what I felt sure they were saying).

I caught the eye of a severe looking, uniformed man on the other side of the divide and wondered if he could sense my guilt. One of the women sat down and began to input my details into her computer (a preliminary police report?), stopping every now and then to clarify a point, and suddenly I understood how it felt to have a condom full of cocaine in your stomach as you go through customs at Bangkok airport. 

She pointed to a camera above her head and instructed in a thick accent ‘you look at it!’  


- ‘Oh,  right OK, yes of course’ I looked up fearfully and attempted to look honest. Click and it was done.

‘Now you wait’ she told me. 

Fifteen minutes later I had a full license.  It’s the size of a credit card and bears a picture of my fearful face, staring out, waiting to be caught...


Name and shame...


I'm so fed up with DH's employer that I am now going to name and shame them (sort of) -  

"Shame on you Al Rajhi construction, builders of the prestigious project Tameer Towers on Al Reem island, who owe their workers 9 weeks pay with no sign of it coming.  How do you think these people pay their bills or feed their families, not to mention put petrol in their cars and drive to work (or indeed buy a flight home to see their families)? In a country where  you can be imprisoned for an unpaid credit card debt or a bounced cheque I think it is outrageously irresponsible of you to take such a casual attitude to paying your staff.  

What is worse is that you went to the trouble of recruiting many of these people from  abroad, only to hang them out to dry the second things got tough.  And as you sit in your gilded offices in Riyadh, counting your money, I'm pretty sure not one of you are hungry or worried about ending up in prison for an unpaid debt.  No indeed, such worries are for the little men.

Shame on you indeed!"