Expats Blog Awards - In the words of Sally Field, 'You like me, you really like me...'

Well I got the bronze award in the Expats Blog Awards -- so thank you to all my followers who gave me the thumbs up! Luckily I'm not particularly competitive so bronze sounds pretty good to me; I know my limitations. In fact when I came last in a running race when I was seven, it mattered not a jot to me for the simple reason that they gave me a consolation prize for being such a crap runner. I'm easily pleased like that.  In my eyes I WAS the winner!

And although I came second last in a cross-country running competition when I was 12 (I was in front of Fat Tanya, which really didn't count), I didn't feel too bad about that either. We were running laps of the sports field, and as everyone was finishing their third lap, I was still on my first, but I don't think anyone really noticed (and besides, poor Tanya was still only half way around the track). After that I made the brilliant discovery that PE in any form could easily be avoided by hiding in the changing rooms, curled up with a book beside the radiator.

I WON! Three T-shirts and a Wedding!

No, I think it's safe to say when it comes to winning things, I'm best at the 'free-T-shirt-for-every-three-shots-or-glasses-of-something-alcoholic' variety of competition, and in fact this is how I met DH. It was a Jameson Whiskey promotion in the Castlecourt in Westport, and by the time I bumped into him -- sometime close to midnight -- I was already the worthy winner of three such T-shirts and feeling ready for some full-on flirting.

The rest, as they say, is history...

On being 40...

Well it's finally happened. Heralded by a a thousand clicking cicadas outside my window, the ticking clock of my mortality has struck forty.

Forty. I'm saying the word but my brain can't keep up; my planets misaligned. Forty. I don't know what I expected, but to me forty speaks of pension plans, weekly trips to the hairdresser, a clean house, not to mention practical clothing.

None of these things apply; the only financial security I can take cold comfort in is an insurance policy which promises to pay off my mortgage if DH pops his clogs unexpectedly. And apart from the monthly attack on advancing grey hairs, my hair hasn't changed since I was a child, and rather than nicely coiffed and hair-sprayed -- as my mother's was -- is permanently in scruffy-ponytail mode. As for the clean house, my idea of washing the floors is to place one of the baby's wet-wipes under each foot and simulate a skating motion around the kitchen until each one is black. Repeat until clean.

My wardrobe contains a couple of dozen party dresses, with very little else, leaving me in a daily dilemma of whether to wear a strapless Jasper Conran (for Debenham's) dress for the school run, or a pair of bleach spattered tracksuit bottoms I once cleaned the bathroom in. I find it very hard to shop for 'normal' clothes when there is always a beautiful and impractical frock sitting on the very next rack, and my wardrobe is testament to this.

What have I learned in forty years? A lot less than I'd hoped to be honest. I've learned that we humans are creatures of habit, tending to play out the same scenario over and over again in life, foolishly expecting a different result each time. Certainly I do, hence the lack of savings and wardrobe of party dresses.

I've learned that travel -- cliched as it sounds -- broadens the mind. I wish I had lived abroad when I was in my twenties, I might have figured out who I was much earlier. I'm playing catch-up now and am so glad I took the plunge in my thirties, or I might never have had the opportunity -- Thanks Fianna Fail! Living in a different culture teaches you so much about people and life, and makes you appreciate where you come from in a way that only the expat could truly understand.

I've also learned that while menstruating, avoid skirts; otherwise remember to check your calves before leaving the house - particularly if you've just had a shower (trust me, this may be of use to you one day). You don't want to spot that knee-to-ankle red  streak dried to the back of your leg while departing a group of mothers who are sitting on the grass outside the school. Yes, conveniently at eye-level to your leg. This is particularly important if you are new to the area, and struggling to make a good impression. When this happened to me earlier this year, I momentarily considered the possibility of passing it off as a shaving cut, but sadly the four-week-old regrowth told a different story.

I've learned that no job, no matter how desperate you might be at the time, is worth taking if it means spending most of your life separate from your partner. Love is hard enough to find -- and some never find it -- to squander it in this manner. Climbing into an empty bed every night while the person you love climbs into theirs -- several hours north -- in the name of an extra dollar, is to fritter away a life together. Life is short, and there are always other jobs, there won't always be other soul-mates. Ask any grieving widow or widower if you don't believe me.

I've learned that having children is a game changer and floods your world with unselfish love. It is to have your heart beat in five other bodies. They turn up the colour-dial on life to 100%. My children have taught me who I want to be. And as often as I bemoan the daily grind of lost shoes, spilled drinks and arguments over who sits in the front seat, a life without them is unthinkable.

I've learned that if you can afford a cleaner, get one -- even if it's only for two hours a week. It puts order on life and cultivates good domestic habits. I haven't had a cleaner since I left Ras al Khaimah, and I grieve for her every day when I look at the chaos around me. And although legend has it that writer Jilly Cooper arrived home early one day to discover her cleaning lady sitting up in her bed with the electric blanket on, listening to the radio, they're not all like that. I never quite knew what to do with myself while my smiling Filipina cheerily ironed all DH's shirts (bliss) and buffed the floors -- Should I help? Should I hide in the bathroom? -- so I usually escaped to Starbucks for a latte, guilty at my laziness.

Another thing I've learned, from years of experience, is to never cut your own fringe - particularly when drunk. There are two reasons for this - firstly, fringes simply don't suit many people - least of all me. Years of self-hacking have proven this, and just because Taylor Swift looks good with one, it doesn't necessarily follow that you will - you most probably WON'T!

The second reason you shouldn't cut your own fringe is if -- like me -- doing things in the mirror confuses you so you're bound to screw it up. And also because YOU ARE NOT A HAIRDRESSER!!

And finally, always remember the Three Drink Rule. If you are planning an early night, or at least waking up without a hangover, DO NOT have that third drink. Once the third beverage has passed your lips, all judgment beats a hasty departure and you are no longer capable of logic, reason or the good sense to say 'no' to the fourth. Or the fifth. Everything will slide downhill after drink number three, and you will find yourself either making inappropriate tweets to your daughter's (attractive) male teacher at two in the morning, (remember that?) or pouring a bag of Doritos into a bowl, and the remains of that bottle of Dubonnet -- left over from a party three years ago -- into a glass (cos all the wine's gone), and sitting down to watch 'Intervention' (the show where families try to persuade their loved ones to go into rehab - oh the irony!).

At the very least, you might find yourself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors poised, preparing to ruin your own life for the next three months. Either way, stick to two glasses and then go to bed, remember you're forty now....

Meet my neighbour Captain Underpants and why we need to live and let live...

You will no doubt be relieved, dear reader, to learn that I -- after a year of living up in these here hills --  have finally come face to face with my neighbour, although I can't honestly say that my fears regarding any axe-wielding murdering tendencies he might harbour -- real or imaginary -- have been allayed all that much. Axe-wielding murderers aren't always easily spotted, particularly when they're wearing just their underpants.

When I say face to face, what I mean is that the decaying wall which hitherto stood between his house and mine has been knocked down to reveal a building with a large glass window running from floor to ceiling, revealing the inner-workings of his entire life. In all its underpanted glory.

He appears to live in just this one room, and there is a sheet-less double bed in the corner where he sleeps. He has made some efforts to conceal his world from our view, by stringing a couple of blankets across the top of the window, but they aren't very effective.

Every night, as it gets dark, he returns from work, switches on all the lights - thus illuminating his every move -- shrugs out of his regulation work wear, and relaxes on his shabby sofa with a beer or two perched amicably atop his large round stomach. 

Oh yes, the lonely evenings of a FIFO-widow just fly by with this new source of entertainment. Lets just hope those underpants remain in that room, and don't make an unannounced visit to my bedroom one dark, lonely night, looming an axe above my head...

Irish Families in Perth - where's the love man?

Some months back I joined the 'Irish families in Perth' Facebook page, a wonderful resource for those Irish families arriving to Perth's shores in their droves each week. It is the go-to page for every newbie question, from 'which suburb to live in', to 'where to buy bananas' (believe it or not, a big topic of conversation here).

There is a sort of hierarchy here among the Irish in Perth, with those that have been here longest perched right on top. Most of these people are wonderfully helpful to the newly arrived, doling out advice like dollops of comforting syrup, providing solace to those who have recently catapulted across the globe as a result of a succession of feckless governments rather than wanderlust. The veterans of Perth are invaluable to these families as they struggle to gain footing in their new lives.

There are however a small minority of Perth veterans, who seem resentful, even scornful of those who are struggling with what in many cases has been an unwanted and unplanned life-long move, and seek to censor anyone voicing concerns over living costs, the shock of living in an alien culture, or who just miss Penneys, with the age old refrain 'if you don't like it, go back to where you came from'.

This is a pity and is at odds with the ethos of the page, which is to help, advise and support fellow Irish people. But I can't help but wonder why. Did these people miss out on the Celtic Tiger, and feel somehow resentful towards those who not only lived through it, but perhaps benefited from it? Is our emotionally incontinent generation at odds with their own stiff-upper lipped one? Did they too struggle when they first arrived here, but never felt able to express it? Do they resent the many technologies available to us now - such as Facebook, Skype, etc. which make the expat experience so much more bearable than when they exited Ireland back in the 80's?

We humans anger at what we fear, of what feels like a threat to our world-view, and in a way I understand their anger. We do have it much easier in many ways; in other ways these technologies can hold us back, preventing us from fully engaging with our new environment, yanking us backward into a nostalgic swamp with the ping of an instant message.

Of course nobody wants to listen to someone banging on week after week about how much they hate Perth, or how expensive it is. Like anywhere, Perth offers good value if you are willing to hunt it down or lower your standards. But from my experience, and from what I have read on the page, nobody is doing this. Some people just want to have a little rant on their off-days, those days where they may have just said goodbye to their mother at the airport, following her month-long visit, nursing a small doubt about whether they'll ever see her again. Or perhaps on the morning of a much-loved brother's wedding, where their only role in the proceedings will be a phone call home before everyone leaves for the church. Sometimes people just wake up wondering if they will ever be able to call this beautiful, enormous, dog-earned continent home; can it ever replace Ireland for them?

Those friendly long-term Perth residents will tell you it can. For many newbies this is a heartening message, for others it is a worry - will they somehow 'lose' something of themselves if they -- as one long-term Perth resident put it -- 'just give in to it and let go of Ireland'.

We're all just trying to figure out how to live together on this planet, to get through uncertain times with hopefully a laugh along the way. Pages like Irish families in Perth can help with this; can help us laugh at ourselves sometimes, and each other too. So people, let's live and let live, and perhaps start a campaign to get Penneys online?