tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51324301996923247992023-11-16T07:09:38.437-08:00BlathererA mish-mash of everything, going on in my head.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-18158896577326587332015-07-27T16:23:00.000-07:002015-07-27T16:23:23.164-07:00The Japanese MapleIt was one of those perfect days, like the song. Dad was gone fishing and I suggested to Mum that we go to the Botanic Gardens for the afternoon. I needed to let Eoin burn off the endless energy that three-year-olds seem to have.<br />
<br />
The Botanic Gardens was at it's best. Every plant had it's place and every corner had life bursting out of it. I had just developed a small interest in gardening and suggested that we go to the Japanese garden.<br />
<br />
My son flittered around the little paths and streams in the garden as my mother and I sat on a bench. I noticed a Japanese maple tree and I waxed lyrical about the delicate leaves and how much I would like to buy one.<br />
<br />
"I had a Japanese maple tree once, you know. I went on holidays when you were eighteen and asked you to water it. You were at your 'eye-rolling' stage and it was dead when I got home," Mum declared wryly. <br />
<br />
"Sorry Mum," I chortled. "I've no recollection of that at all." We watched Eoin as he bent his little body over to stare into the stream and put his fist around a stick to investigate the mud. A perfect day.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-19499051816885456042013-12-01T09:28:00.000-08:002013-12-01T09:39:58.624-08:00Christmas PartyWe had a tradition in my school. In fifth year we hosted a party for 'underprivileged children.' We prepared by baking cakes, buying sweets and decorating the old school hall.<br />
<br />
On the allotted day the children, all boys, arrived on a bus. We waited. Well-intentioned seventeen year-olds who hoped to make Christmas special for these children. The boys wandered into the hall nervously. The oldest was about ten and the youngest was five. It took a while but gradually the young boys broke off into groups and we joined them. They were delighted with the sweets and decorations, with festive music added to the mix. <br />
<br />
I went behind the scenes to the ladies toilet behind the stage. In there was Jill. She was Class Captain and had been tasked to dress as Santa. The Santa outfit was old. The beard was threadbare. As I looked at her dressing up, I predicted, "This is going to be a bloodbath. There's no way these kids are going to believe she is Santa."<br />
<br />
Nevertheless we were committed. Santa had been promised. I went back out to the party. As I mixed with my friends I heard them murmur in concern. "This guy hasn't seen his dad since he went into jail last year." There was a five-year old whose mum was 'very sick' and had no-one else to mind him. <br />
<br />
Finally time came for Santa to emerge from behind the old heavy curtains up on the stage. As the curtains were pulled back slowly I saw my friend in an old Santa suit, sitting on a rickety metal chair. <br />
<br />
The oldest boy, turned around slowly to look at the stage. He was about ten. His jaw slowly lowered as he saw Santa appear in all his glory up on the stage. That evening Santa had every child sit on his knee and chat with him. Even though some of the children were as big as him.<br />
<br />
This is one of my happiest Christmas memories. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-76313030651038060952013-09-01T03:15:00.000-07:002013-09-01T04:12:16.504-07:00Letter to the Editor-Regarding 'She's the Business'I read Samantha Kelly's blog last night. (@tweetingsamm @tweetingGoddess) She was on a programme called 'She's the Business' on Tuesday night.<br />
<br />
John Boland reviewed the programme yesterday. I sent this letter to the Editor of the Irish Independent this morning.<br />
<br />
1st September 2013<br />
<br />
Dear Madam,<br />
<br />
I refer to John Boland's review of 'She's the Business' which was shown on RTE on Tuesday 27th August.<br />
<br />
Ms Samantha Kelly's personal life is discussed in the article. 'Samantha had two children, by two different fathers. Neither of whom lived with her.'<br />
<br />
If the programme had been called, 'He's the Business,' would Mr Boland have seen fit to comment on a blended family and who lives with whom? That fact that her daughters have different fathers is not relevant to the programme.<br />
<br />
Ms Kelly is raising two children, one hearing impaired and the other with diabetes and trying to get a business off the ground.<br />
<br />
He describes that women in the programme as 'quirky' because only one of them is married. I suggest Mr Boland gets out more.<br />
<br />
He sums up, 'The ending was certainly decidedly downbeat.' It would be nice to have a programme in which every participant goes on to have a roaring trade. However, again, Mr Boland needs to see a bit more of the real world. It takes courage to be an entrepreneur in this economic climate, especially with dependant children and that is the message I took from the programme.<br />
<br />
Yours faithfully<br />
<br />
Carol Clarke<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-48482419179135036872013-08-18T04:44:00.001-07:002013-08-18T04:44:20.518-07:00Reoccurring DreamI dreamt I was on the moon,<br />
Looking back at the small Earth.<br />
Barren black rocks crunch underneath,<br />
And there's an inexplicable tree stump.<br />
<br />
The Earth is so blue and beautiful.<br />
I desperately want to get back to it<br />
But it doesn't feel like home anymore.<br />
I'm just a jealous onlooker, peering from<br />
too far away.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-36934549940600408532013-07-17T12:54:00.000-07:002013-07-17T16:12:53.665-07:00Dear Sarah CareyI read your article today in The Independent. These are the three main issues I have with your piece.<br />
<br />
You stated that Mary O'Rourke has said that the best way of dealing with sexist behaviour is to 'ignore it and keep doing (their) jobs.' However if a woman has been groped, does that not show the lack of regard the groper has for the woman? The inappropriate behaviour in the Dail this week was shocking to me in another aspect. Nobody saw fit to intervene or admonish the TD, as it happened. How would a lady, in any circumstance, deal with this treatment if people around her act as if it is a non-event?<br />
<br />
You say that you have been groped because you are small, however this makes your treatment even more reprehensible. However thankfully you use 'amnesia' to forget the incidents. Also you claim that you are not quick with retorts and call yourself 'slow.' You really shouldn't be so hard on yourself. I'm glad you have a sense of humour to help you through the difficult times. Using that logic, I have no sense of humour because I don't like being mistreated.<br />
<br />
Finally, you believe that you have psychological power over the person who has groped you, as and when he realises the error of his ways. Surely that is an abuse of a different kind. You see, I like men, some of my best friends are men, and I don't believe that kind of emotional blackmailing is good for you or him. In my opinion, it increases the lack of trust between genders. It takes away a little of your humanity and a little of his.<br />
<br />
The addition of -gate to every piece of scandal trivalises a serious subject.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-103902265960408292013-05-29T10:48:00.001-07:002013-05-29T11:28:23.457-07:00Objectification and being a chattelRecently I sat down to chat with a close friend. She had something on her mind. As I prepared to go she asked me to look at a card that her husband had received from his best friend. <br />
<br />
The card said,' <i>To a lucky bastard, You have it all, nice house, great car, sexy wife.</i>'<br />
<br />
She asked me for my reaction. I had to be careful but I said I felt it was demeaning to her. She sighed, "He says it's flattering but I'm not a thing. I'm a person; not a chattel."<br />
<br />
She is, indeed, a pretty lady but she is also kind, interesting and intelligent. And she's right.<br />
<br />
Treating women and men as objects of desire is nothing new. After the initial rush of finding one another attractive, I would hope that people would attempt to get to know each other. However only seeing them as 'objects' rather than whole human beings is debasing our humanity. <br />
<br />
Marketing people continue to objectify, mainly women, with abandon. However, I also notice that the ads are becoming more offensive, almost parodying themselves as twitter and facebook share them with disgust. I won't name the companies involved because there is no such thing as bad publicity. If you are online you will be aware of them. Personally, I won't be buying their products again.<br />
<br />
The vast array of magazines with entire pages of ; 'Losing baby weight in weeks,' 'Putting on weight after a break-up,' 'Are they too skinny?' 'Diets-to loose weight in weeks,' is an undermining and unrelenting diatribe. The constant negative stream about body image seeps through our consciousness. Men too are becoming subjected to this degradation and it is interesting to note an increase in the numbers of men suffering from eating disorders. <br />
<br />
I've also seen the argument that we should be body conscious as obesity has become such a huge problem. Obesity can be contributed to when people have poor body image and self-esteem, as well as lack of information about healthier food choices. Thank goodness for the likes of Katie Taylor and ladies Irish Rugby team; showing that being <b>healthy </b>should be our aim. And that it's ok to have a few wrinkles, veins, cellulite etc.<br />
<br />
As for my friend, she recently set up a second business and is proving that her beauty is more than skin deep. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-27029103480327064132013-05-07T15:37:00.002-07:002013-05-07T15:37:57.704-07:00Booty Call by Pamela ProudfootThis is a poem written by my friend Pamela Proudfoot about a late night 'Booty Call.' What could possibly go wrong? Find her on twitter @Pammy1982. <br />
<br />
From her boyfriend, poor Lizy had gotten the shove,<br />
And since had been longing and looking for love,<br />
In pubs and clubs, she looked high and low,<br />
But drunken aul bowsies, are all that would show.<br />
<br />
She then tried online, like match.com,<br />
But the weird names appeared in the field labelled 'from,'<br />
The likes of 'Seamore Diddys' and 'Hugh G. Reckshon,'<br />
Provided her only with a blushed complexion.<br />
<br />
This did nothing, but stress poor Lizzy,<br />
Who decided for love, that she was far too busy.<br />
She was tanned and pretty and knew how to flaunt it,<br />
And decided that a 'fumble' was all that she wanted.<br />
<br />
Lizzy seemed doomed, in to love, not to fall,<br />
So decided to try her luck at an aul booty call.<br />
Out came the dangerous book coloured red,<br />
That listed all, who she thought, once bounced in her bed.<br />
<br />
A fast flip through it, had given her a scare,<br />
As leaf after leaf, most pages lay bare.<br />
Now what the heck was she going to do?<br />
How will she find someone to.........smooch!<br />
<br />
At the back of a magazine, she spotted an ad,<br />
At last she thought, she had found her lad.<br />
The title said 'We know what they say about big feet....<br />
But we'll always be professional and very discrete.'<br />
<br />
So she picked up her phone with a glint in her eyes,<br />
Texting her address, requesting a surprise.<br />
As time had passed, she paced the floor,<br />
Until, at last, came a knock on the door.<br />
<br />
Opening it seductively, she posed by it's side.<br />
But down to the floor, her eyes seem to slide.<br />
There lay a box, covered in string, tightly tied,<br />
Waiting for Lizzy to bring it inside.<br />
<br />
Tearing it quickly, to view what was sealed.<br />
Wondering curiously what was to be revealed.<br />
All leather and shiny, they stood in cahoots,<br />
As poor Lizzy realised, she'd just ordered boots.<br />
<br />
She forfeit her mate and erred to choose,<br />
A discrete home delivery of size 22's.<br />
These boots were anything but snug and neat.<br />
She now understood why the ad said 'discrete.'<br />
<br />
As she bundled up the package she had just received,<br />
She looked back at her plan, and felt really relieved,<br />
The pressure had lifted, she was free like a dove,<br />
And decided to try another turn at love.<br />
<br />
She walked to the post office, with package and all,<br />
Chuckling at her boots, and no booty call!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-74171950711547868302013-05-07T14:58:00.000-07:002013-06-04T15:25:02.243-07:00The gates to ParadiseThere is an old estate beside my family home in Templeogue. The Big House was behind a large wall at the end of our cul-de-sac. During the seventies and eighties it was neglected and became a magnet for people, such as delinquent teenagers, drug-addicts and homeless people. In true Dublin fashion, the place was named Paradise by the locals or 'Paro.' Needless to say, as a young children we were barred from going into Paradise. <br />
<br />
This didn't prevent me and my friend Eva from deciding to sneak in, at the age of eight, to play on the old mill. The old mill is a couple of centuries old and quite dangerous but we scrambled over it obliviously. Luckily we didn't come to any harm.<br />
<br />
A week later I was brought to confession. My misdemeanour was playing on my mind. When the priest asked me what I wanted to confess, I blurted,<br />
"I went into Paradise with my friend and my Mam told me never to go in there.'<br />
<br />
The priest, realising the danger of the situation, looked at me sternly. Then, to my horror, he took out a little black notebook from his pocket and a pen.<br />
"I'm writing your name and address in this book and if I ever hear that you went into Paradise I'll call into your parents immediately."<br />
<br />
My blood froze. This was a bad as a confession could go. My name was written in the priest's notebook. I'd be murdered by my parents. <br />
<br />
And that is how going to confession stopped me from going past the gates of Paradise. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-22706607006813471772013-04-30T16:08:00.000-07:002013-04-30T16:09:57.588-07:00Gone for Zzz'sThank you for joining me on the A to Z Challenge.<br />
<br />
I've learnt a lot from this challenge. Mainly that I shouldn't write another word until I've done some sort of creative writing course. The more I learn, the more I realise how little I really know. <br />
<br />
Thank you to:<br />
Trish Nugent @Trish_nugent<br />
John Ivory @johnivory<br />
and AnnMarie Miles @amowriting<br />
for letting me be included with you in this. <br />
I especially appreciate that you kept me in the loop when I fell behind in the middle of the month, due to unforeseen circumstances. I was honoured to be included with such talented people.<br />
<br />
I look forward to reading your blogs and books and seeing your photography, John.<br />
<br />
Also thank you for the support:<br />
@SusanCondon<br />
@derekf03<br />
@am_flynn<br />
@datbeardyman<br />
@cornflakegirl26<br />
@betaburns<br />
@brandalisms<br />
@msfrugalone<br />
@pammy1982<br />
@DeniseProudfoot<br />
@Tim_Brannigan<br />
<br />
I apologise if I left anyone out. <br />
<br />
Also thank you to my parents, who have supported me more than they will ever know. <br />
Happy birthday Pops, by the way.<br />
<br />
I'm going to take a little break, to rest, eat healthily and generally recharge.<br />
<br />
See you on the other side and thank you.<br />
<br />
xx CagsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-69855324365213142352013-04-30T15:27:00.003-07:002013-04-30T15:30:27.664-07:00YellowThis is my last sentimental post. I hope you forgive all my nostalgia.<br />
<br />
In 2003 we went to see Coldplay in The Point on the Quays. They were on the cusp of super-stardom and Chris Martin was enthralling with his confident swagger on the stage, as he sang his ballads.<br />
<br />
I year later I was sitting in the car with my husband and our newborn baby. We were doing the 'newborn crawl.' .i.e. Driving on a main road at thirty miles an hour, in a state of terror. The baby sat obliviously, packed into his little car seat. He was wearing a pristine white hat and a grey fleece but all I could look at were his startling, blue eyes. I felt as if I had been hit by a train and was exhausted, terrified and jubilant, all at the same time.<br />
<br />
Then Coldplay's song, 'Yellow,' came on the radio. It's beautiful lyrics and tune seemed to match the moment exactly. I looked at the radiant Meath countryside as we drove through Slane. It was a bright October evening and the fields were dotted with sheep and huge, graceful, oak trees. Golden light converted the green fields to a regal blanket of yellow. I closed my eyes, enjoyed the moment and thought, 'Ok, I can do this. I can be a parent.' <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-10187754661820349472013-04-27T07:55:00.000-07:002013-04-27T16:23:51.853-07:00WaitingStanding in the ditch, waiting for his rally car to drive past.<br />
The car number 46 passes, then 48 and 49.<br />
Still no sign of the beast, he spent months putting together.<br />
Lovingly adjusting every screw and bolt<br />
and making sure the paintwork is perfect.<br />
Your friends regard you nervously and say soothing things.<br />
But you know the risks he takes when he hurtles down<br />
Those narrow, fecund Irish country roads.<br />
They drive you back to the rally base.<br />
He's there with his head in his big hands.<br />
Devastated that the radiator let him down when he was ahead.<br />
<br />
He's in the delivery suite with you. <br />
Your baby has been born but not easily.<br />
Things hadn't turned out as they tell you in the books.<br />
The dreadful hours forgotten as you see the baby's face.<br />
Then the room spins and you know the wait is not over.<br />
You turn to him and say, 'Go outside, no point seeing his.'<br />
But he won't leave as you begin to see stars.<br />
When you come too, he still there.<br />
He says gently, as the doctors rush about you,<br />
'I thought I'd be left with the baby and that you were dead.'<br />
<br />
Time passes so quickly.<br />
Waiting for the work-load to lessen.<br />
For some days spent together.<br />
The young child is a blessing.<br />
<br />
But waiting's interminable....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-48505808484632546012013-04-25T16:55:00.003-07:002013-04-27T07:23:12.196-07:00Ventry BeachVentry Beach is possible one of the most beautiful places in the world. I spent my childhood summers on the beach. Walking along the wide stretch of sand every year feels like getting out of a decompression chamber. Breathe....<br />
<br />
When I die, in the far away future, I wish to donate any organs that can be taken and have a humanist funeral. 'Moonlight Sonata' and ''Hear Comes the Sun' will be played and then my ashes will be scattered on Ventry Beach. So I suggest you get down there before the beach is sullied by.....me.<br />
<br />
I apologize for the poor quality of the photos. They were taken using an iPod. My Dad and brother Paul are the photographers in the family. <br />
<br />
<br />
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Yes I used instagram filters. I have no shame.</div>
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My Dad on Ventry Beach</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YgTvTvI0yuD6z-d7AaTgl0xo8FX9Um3sQ2Kr845pyoX7G_KCQmR8KMafr-7Ps7YBqC2m685js9wU7TPOFiwb8AcH9Wxd5MPl5KEVfE5SXRC33CacEHA4ZYp8FBZoDugPDZTskH9LyrA/s1600/IMG_0802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YgTvTvI0yuD6z-d7AaTgl0xo8FX9Um3sQ2Kr845pyoX7G_KCQmR8KMafr-7Ps7YBqC2m685js9wU7TPOFiwb8AcH9Wxd5MPl5KEVfE5SXRC33CacEHA4ZYp8FBZoDugPDZTskH9LyrA/s320/IMG_0802.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking up at Ventry Village</td></tr>
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Ventry Bay at evening time. View from the village </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By brother Kieran helping my son to ride the huge waves</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-61533816198693574122013-04-25T16:25:00.000-07:002013-04-25T16:25:44.115-07:00Understanding special needs childrenMy title is vague. ''Special needs children' has become an ambiguous label. However I'd like to make three general points to demonstrate some of the challenges that many of these children have to overcome on a daily basis. This does not apply to all of these children but perhaps it will help people to empathise with their difficulties.<br />
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1. Down Syndrome children often have smaller mouths and higher palates which makes their tongues protrude from their mouth. They can also have narrower airways which can cause respiratory problems and may lead to them breathing through their mouths instead of their noses.<br />
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2. Adults with autism describe the difficulties caused by heightened senses. Imagine not being able to tune out peripheral noises when you are listening to someone in a crowded room. Imagine if strong smells caused to you feel nauseous. Or worse, your arms tingled with a sensation like ants crawling on them. <br />
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3. Children with ADHD can blurt out inappropriate comments before they even realise that they have said them. They are also prone to showing their emotions without restraint which can lead to teasing or bullying.<br />
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Hopefully I have not generalised too much and there is some food for thought in these points. If I am missing anything important, please feel free to post a comment on this page and I will add them to this post. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-58742600958986200192013-04-25T15:21:00.001-07:002013-04-25T15:26:01.957-07:00Tinu - Asylum SeekerTinu is from Nigeria. We met on a course, four years ago; teaching Basic Literacy Skills to Adults. We had to talk for five minutes about why we wanted to be volunteers. She made a very impassioned case, if I remember correctly.<br />
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Asylum seekers sometimes need help learning to read or write English. Our course tutors always looked to Tinu when they talked about 'English not being your first language' and she would nod understandingly. At tea breaks she would talk about the free grinds she gave to primary school children. Some of these children lived with her in Mosney, Co Louth. (Mosney is the centre where asylum seekers were housed.) She explained that she was not allowed to do paid work therefore she volunteered in order to be useful.<br />
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A few weeks after that Tinu, Joanna and I were put together to do a project. Tinu and Joanna had very strong personalities and clashed from the beginning. I suggested that we all write our submissions and I would try to string them together. Tinu's essay was amazing. As we had coffee I asked her if English was her first language. She replied that is was but that she didn't contradict people when they assumed that she didn't speak English well. She was used to it.<br />
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Later that year a few of us had a reunion and a meal out. I asked if anyone had seen Tinu. She had been deported back to Nigeria.<br />
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A few months later I got an email from Tinu asking me to join a social network site that I didn't recognise. I deleted her email without even asking how she was. I regret it now.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-60217574668429979832013-04-23T16:54:00.002-07:002013-04-23T17:02:33.801-07:00Science, social media and seduction.Writing a blog a day has been difficult. When I came to 'S' I was stumped. Science, social media and seduction are the three topic that were suggested to me. So here goes:<br />
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I have belatedly discovered a love of science. Doing biology as a subject for my Leaving Cert was no laughing matter as there was no internet to copy and paste from. Instead I had to learn lists and since my recall memory is atrocious it was painful process, both for me and my teacher.<br />
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Now, however, the choice of information about our world is almost overwhelming. From nano-technology to space, to our bodies and psychology, every day I discover something new and fascinating about our world. <br />
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On facebook I follow, 'I Fucking Love Science.' The enthusiasm might be a bit over-stated but nevertheless, it's always an interesting read. <br />
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You see, social media has become a very efficient way of sharing links to science topics. @spaceporn is an excellent account on twitter. (Sorry about all the strong language, I don't name them, just follow them). And, of course, the wondrous @Cmdr_Hadfield, who tweets from space and reflects our beautiful world back to us. He has done as much in raising NASA's profile in the past few months as the first Astronauts did when they landed on the moon.<br />
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Using my phone I can find any constellation in the sky using an App. Although sometimes it's nice to just sit outside and look at the stars.<br />
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As for seduction, what do I know about that? .............although I've been told a sense of humour goes a long way.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-31331433782385601612013-04-23T16:17:00.000-07:002013-04-23T16:25:18.173-07:00Rage 2This is a continuation of a piece of fiction I wrote on my blog in February 2012......<br />
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The humiliation of her mugging stayed with Anna for several weeks afterwards. The Guards took a statement for insurance reasons. Anna could describe every tiny detail of her attacker's face but she knew it would make no difference. The Guards had enough on their plates without dealing with her trivial case. She missed her iPod and her music and was reluctant to go walking again.<br />
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Mark dealt with the news as she expected her husband to deal with such news, with rage. "If I ever catch that fucker I'll kill him. How dare he even think he could put a hand on you." However, within ten minutes he was back to his usual routine. "You've lost one of my socks. How can I put a pair of socks in the wash and only get one back." "Roll them in together and they won't get lost," was her angry reply. She was tired of this circular argument that continued every evening. <br />
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Her son had thrown a huge temper tantrum in the garage earlier when she was getting petrol. He was used to getting a Bob the Builder comic every Friday but this week they didn't have a copy and he was beside himself with anger. His body contorted as he kicked and screamed on the ground. Three people in the queue had looked at her with contempt as she attempted to control him. But it was impossible. She had to wait it out. She was sure that his problem ran deeper than bad manners. He could understand when she said no to sweets but he hated when a routine was broken. She could feel his pain but didn't know if this was motherly love being subverted. Was she 'too-protective' of Oisin, as Mark had accused her. <br />
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Oisin was watching a Bob the Builder DVD in the playroom while Mark watched rugby in the main room. She decided to lie down for a minute on the bed. She enjoyed the cool air from the open window as it brushed her face. It was a lovely day outside. She'd bring Oisin for a walk in half an hour. She just wanted to clear her head after the stressful day.<br />
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Not long later she heard a car pull into the driveway. Sighing, she gingerly stood up and looked out the window. It was Una, her sister-in-law with her baby twin girls, Regina and Olivia. She stood at the window looking longer than she usually would, reluctant to move. Una got out of the car. She regarded the back garden and the house carefully. Then she walked over to the washing line and took two socks down and put them in her jacket. Anna couldn't take in what she had seen. Why would Una do that? She must have imagined it. <br />
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When Una came into the kitchen with her girls, Oisin was standing on the kitchen table and kicking the spilt salt into the air. "Jesus, Anna, how do you stick that kind of behaviour? That's bold now Oisin. Didn't your Mammy tell ya." Mark walked into the room. "For feck's sake," he muttered. Anna grabbed Oisin angrily from the top of the table and Oisin started to howl. "He'd behave better if you'd take him outside in the fresh air," said Una.<br />
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Anna regarded the scene and then calmly asked, "Why did you take socks from the line, Una?" Una denied all knowledge of what Anna was talking about, looking at her with pity. <br />
"I photographed it on my phone. I was looking at the lovely day and caught you doing it." With that Una smiled and answered, "Just having a bit of a joke with you Anna. Where's your sense of humour gone?"<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-74626831758882363792013-04-21T15:53:00.000-07:002013-04-21T16:01:04.321-07:00QuietudeSpending my day in classrooms means I'm used to a certain noise level. It's not noisy all the time but it can be, especially during art class or playtime. It's a thing you get used to. When I'm on the yard at lunchtime I love the sound of children playing and laughing, it's a beautiful thing. However they also argue and fall and cry.<br />
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In the evenings I bring my son and sometimes a friend home after school. Again there is noise and shouting and that is as it should be. But sometimes I make myself a cup of tea, sit at the kitchen table and look out at the garden in total silence. I can feel the vibrations from the day leave my body. Other times I go for a walk and clear my head. I keep asking my son for 'quiet' but then I feel guilty because he's only doing what little boys do. <br />
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The rest of the day I have the radio or T.V. on and there is noise following me around the house. Living in the country means I've gotten used to quietude. Or so I think, but when I wake up early in the morning I don't like the solitude. The Dawn Chorus has stopped since a motorway was built in front of our house. I miss it. It used to be deafening and I would wonder how anyone could sleep through the cacophony of the birds. However I just turn on Chill FM or Lyric FM and they lull me back to sleep. Perhaps I don't like the Quiet as much as I thought.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-12073631145653182902013-04-20T15:45:00.003-07:002013-04-20T15:55:51.120-07:00Paris and Pacifism I saw a bomb explode in Paris in 1986. It was planted by ETA, the Basque separatist group, it killed 1 person and injured 23. <br />
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My mum and two brothers and I had just passed the building which was near Notre Dame. We had stopped at a corner when I felt the air around me suck away. Then I saw the glass and a few bricks from a building, a block away, explode. Finally I heard the violent bang. And that was it. One life gone and many others ruined.</div>
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We read the papers and listened to the news that evening in our caravan outside Paris. Reunited with my Dad we then travelled down to the South of France where I became friends with teenagers from Germany, Denmark and the Netherlands. The first question I was always asked when I told them I was Irish was, "Do you see a lot of bombs in your country?" I usually explained that the bombing going on in Ireland mainly happened in Northern Ireland which was a long way away from where I lived. </div>
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When I got home I carried on with the teenage tradition of wandering around town on a Saturday afternoon. However a notion took hold of me that the E.B.S. building on D'Olier Street, made with an all glass front, could explode at any time. I never walked past it again.</div>
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The notion that one minute you can be standing peacefully and the next a building is literally tearing you to shreds has disturbed me ever since. As a teenager it made me question humanity. That is why I am a pacifist. Violence can never be the answer. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-21865844510235334792013-04-20T15:42:00.002-07:002013-04-20T15:42:40.617-07:00OverheardFinding a patch of warm sand in the high sand dunes Pat sat down with his book. A soft sky complimented the green, choppy sea. The dunes protected him from the gentle gusts of wind. It didn't take him long to lose himself in the book. <div>
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Suddenly he heard a voice talking animately over the dunes. Pat felt a wave of irritation roll over him. He had been looking forward to this day all week. It was the voice of a teenage boy. </div>
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"We both had drink taken. It's not my fault you tripped. No wonder you fell, you were looking at the Ivan fella half the night. I saw you, I SAW you."</div>
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Pat felt uncomfortable but he was aware that if he moved the boy would know that he had been overheard. The conversation took a turn for the worse with name calling leading to an inevitable break up. </div>
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"I don't know why I even bothered with ya. You're only a tease. You're only good for one thing."</div>
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Pat winced. This lad should shut up before he completely buried the relationship. However it was too late. He heard a rustling and the boy appeared, standing over Pat. He was tall and skinny but he moved gracefully and with the confidence of a young man. </div>
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"Sorry about tha'" </div>
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"Sorry too, I didn't mean to overhear it. I was all comfortable here before I realised you were behind me. Just ignore me or sit down, whatever suits you"</div>
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The boy sat down beside Pat unexpectedly. </div>
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"I just don't know how I keep doing this," he sighed as Pat noticed tears in his eyes. He pulled up his shoulders and it made his whole body shake.</div>
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'I'll give you an unsolicited tip. No matter how badly you feel and how much she has hurt you, don't resort to name-calling and tit-for-tat. Be above it. Also, if a woman doesn't show you some basic respect, get away from her. I'm talking from experience.'</div>
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The boy looked out at the sea. He never turned his head to Pat but he quietly asked, 'How are you the expert? Did you meet the right lady?' </div>
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"I did but she died two years ago. She really was a lady."</div>
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They sat in silence together until Pat finally suggested, 'Fancy a pint up at the pub? What age are you anyway? Old enough for a pint, I'd say. What's your name?'</div>
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"My name's Patrick and I'm seventeen, nearly eighteen."</div>
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"Ha! We've the same name. Come on! I'm buying."</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-89023748165052400432013-04-19T00:07:00.002-07:002013-04-19T00:07:31.157-07:00Nightclub KissThis is my N post for the A to Z Challenge. I'm quite behind but I think my friends understand.<br />
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Lizzy stood in the middle of the nightclub with her flashing tiara and luminous sash. There was no way to hide the fact that it was her birthday and she was thirty. She had been dreading this birthday for about two years now. Her plans for life hadn't worked out as she had hoped- being married to Tom and getting ready to have a litter of babies. When they had split up Lizzy had been devastated. <br />
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But that had been six months ago and her perspective had changed. She finally got the job she wanted, teaching adults basic computer skills. Not a well paying job but a job that made her feel fulfilled. She had great friends and a good social life. Lizzy loved hill-walking and this had led to fun-filled weekends away. Finally she had concluded that she hadn't completely loved Tom but he had been part of her 'plan for life.' Sometimes you can't plan for life.<br />
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She watched her friends in the distance dancing their little hearts out. Over on the balcony she could see one of her learners, Jack. He was working as a bouncer in the nightclub. He was in his forties, with a beard, tattoos and built like a tank. She had walked past him, without acknowledging him at the door. It was the unwritten rule that you didn't have to acknowledge one another in public, if you did her course. In case the learner would have to explain how they knew Lizzy and would be embarrassed. Jack was a particularly reluctant learner who had been sent to her by the Dole Office when he wasn't working. Once he had gotten the job he didn't turn up to all his classes. Lizzy kept instructional sheets for him and took extra time helping him when he did turn up. Everyone deserved a chance.<br />
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In that moment Lizzy took stock. She was completely contented. She wasn't drunk, just tipsy and she was grateful that her 'plan for life' had been diverted.<br />
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Suddenly she felt someone rush up to her very quickly. Jack appeared in a flash beside her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. She felt his beard brush her skin. Then he was gone. It was like a little thank you, just for her. Nobody had even noticed. Lizzy felt delighted. A perfect end to a perfect night. <br />
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As she left the nightclub that night, linked by all her friends, she and Jack made no eye contact but they didn't need to.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-74812979972260151362013-04-18T11:23:00.000-07:002013-04-18T11:25:07.763-07:00Maria Montessori- 3 short factsThis is a very short blog about the educationalist Maria Montessori. (1870-1952) Here are three short facts about her.<br />
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1. She was one of the first female doctors in Italy. Her attendance at medical school caused consternation and her attendance at class, with men, in the presence of naked bodies was deemed inappropriate. Therefore she had to perform her dissections of cadavers alone and after hours. She smoked cigars in order to mask smells, especially of formaldehyde.<br />
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It is rumoured that the only reason she got into medical college was because her name was misread as Mario.<br />
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2. Montessori had a son, Mario, with an unnamed doctor. She didn't want to give up her academic life so they agreed not to divulge his identity and that they would never marry anyone else. He later married someone else. Maria left her son to be fostered but subsequently was reunited with him. He carried on her work with her and after her death in 1952. (I discovered this on Wikipedia today-despite studying her methods of education for five years.)<br />
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3.Montessori developed her method of education mainly through scientific observation of children. Originally she had developed materials and methods that were for the benefit of children with special needs but later they began to be used in 'mainstream schools.' The materials were well made, usually out of wood, attractive and durable. <br />
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She was asked to set up a school for under-privileged children in the San Lorenzo district of Rome in 1907. She called it 'Casa dei Bambini.' The teachers didn't have desks and they were regards more as guides. Allowing the children to choose the materials that they would work with themselves. The 'directress' (all women in those days) would introduce a more difficult exercise to the child when she felt they were ready to move on. The child could use the materials as often and as much as they wanted. <br />
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Montessori also introduced child-sized furniture which may seem obvious now but was not common practice then. Her school was a huge success.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-76769836226254889612013-04-16T15:42:00.000-07:002013-04-16T15:42:19.163-07:00In Love My son and I have some of our best chats when we are driving in the car together.<br />
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Last week he threw one of his random questions at me. 'What's the difference between fancying and loving someone?' Dear Lord, he's only eight but I still need to answer the question.<br />
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I took a deep breath and tried my best to explain.<br />
'Well..... when you fancy someone you like the look of them. <br />
When you love someone, you like what they say and love spending time with them. You want to tell them stuff and listen to them. You also fancy them.'<br />
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I'd love to tell you his reply but I'm sworn to secrecy. It's very cute though. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-74378791521725060802013-04-12T15:19:00.000-07:002013-04-12T15:19:02.374-07:00KitesLorcan drove pensively through the Phoenix Park. The weather was his favourite kind, not too hot, blue skies and a gentle breeze. His dog, Betty, yelped enthusiastically in the back of his car. She wanted a walk and Lorcan felt inclined to agree. <br />
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A few minutes later he heard some mesmerizing chill-out music coming from behind the trees. Betty, understanding him, followed the music as Lorcan followed her. There was a kite festival in a huge field behind the trees. Lorcan loved the way he could walk into the most random of events in Dublin. He was an impulsive person and let his instincts lead him into unusual situations. Sometimes for the good and sometimes not but he seldom regretted 'living in the moment.'<br />
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He sat on the warm grass with Betty leaning against him in the ungainly way that dogs do. The music was hypnotic and there was enough warmth in the day to make him feel contented with life. A group of professional kiters were flying ten kites in unison. The kites moved perfectly together, turning and swaying in the soft wind.<br />
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He looked around him. Couples and families sat in groups on the field. Young children were getting their faces painted in the distance. His contentment evaporated. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a feeling of overwhelming grief covered him like a rain-sodden bedsheet. He was alone. No-one to share this moment with. How many wonderful moments like this had he witnessed? Longing for a partner almost broke his heart. Did these moments really matter if he had no-one else to discuss or remember them with? How he longed for a man to share these times with him. <br />
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With that, he stood up, rubbed the grass from his jeans and headed back to his car.<br />
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<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://img.youtube.com/vi/RyW-GY_YUK0/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/RyW-GY_YUK0&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/RyW-GY_YUK0&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-85963648644356820122013-04-11T00:09:00.003-07:002013-04-11T00:09:54.339-07:00Junior InfantErnest Hemingway was famously challenged to come up a story in six words. His answer: 'For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.' (There is still a debate whether he did actually compose this.)<br />
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If there's one thing that twitter has thought me is the beauty of brevity. I'm a huge fan of @veryshortstory. A story being told within the confines of 140 characters. Every word in important and precious. Painting a picture this way takes skill. Please check it out.<br />
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Some of the most funny, heartbreaking and interesting tweets I've read are when two people that I happen to follow are exchanging tweets. It's like an overheard conversation. But, it's twitter, so nothing is private. Right?<br />
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With this in mind, here's a short tweet I posted one day after school. <br />
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<b>Junior Infant</b><br />
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<b>Tiny, blonde, button-nosed Junior Infant,</b><br />
<b>Wearing a duffel coat and glasses.</b><br />
<b>Worn-out, he sighs,</b><br />
<b>"I can't find my school bag."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>It's on his back.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5132430199692324799.post-6742746121620018412013-04-09T23:57:00.001-07:002013-04-09T23:57:29.788-07:00In IsolationTina, Garreth and Donal got out of the old Toyota and stretched. It's had been a long drive from Dublin. Although thankfully the weather had stayed lovely especially for Easter. <br />
<br />
The camp-site appeared to be empty, most of the caravans were unoccupied even for this breathtakingly beautiful part of Kerry. A few sheep peered over the hedge on the east side of the camp-site and the gentle sea could be heard lapping on the sand over the sand-dunes to the west.<br />
<br />
Garreth and Tina were going out six months now and Donal was his oldest friend. The plan for a weekend in Kerry had been thrown together over a few drinks the week before. Tina's parents had been uneasy about letting her stay with her boyfriend in the mobile home but this was the nineties and perhaps it was time to move with the times. They liked Garreth and he appeared to have a settling affect on Tina. She had been a bit 'hard to control' for the past couple of years.<br />
<br />
Tina had short, soft, spiky black hair and she wore dungarees and a paisley shirt with dock martins. She looked like a little pixie with her tiny frame and streetwise clothes. Garreth played on the first rugby team for a south Dublin private school. Donal was tall and gangly with a bookish appearance albeit with strong shoulders. He also went to the same private school. <br />
<br />
Feeling like a 'gooseberry' Donal offered to go to the local shops to get provisions. Garreth and Tina quickly agreed, longing to have to some time alone. As soon as he was gone they went into the caravan. Tina was reluctant to go to the bedroom in case Donal returned early. They turned on the gas heater, the kettle and snuggled on the sofa. <br />
<br />
When Donal returned Tina suggested the lads have a can of beer while she went for a walk on the beach. They helped themselves to the cans and relaxed in the kitchenette of the mobile van. <br />
"She suits you," ventured Donal. <br />
"Yeah. She's a good one alright. Getting a bit too settled but I'm fond of her." <br />
"Thought it was more serious than that," Donal replied quickly. <br />
"Imagine bringing her back to my old man and saying that I wanted the deposit for a wedding. He'd freak. She's a good girl and all that but seriously, she's not the settling down type. Before you know it, she'll be looking to travel the world, or something like that."<br />
Donal stayed silent for a moment. "Don't mess her around. One minute, she's too settled, the next she's not the settling type. " <br />
"Don't make your crush so obvious, man," Garreth retorted quickly. <br />
<br />
Later as Garreth went for a swim in the freezing cold sea, Donal and Tina sat companionably together on the sand. They had a can of Budweiser each. Donal opened his mouth to speak and then stopped himself. "What?" laughed Tina. Donal thought for a moment and then said carefully, "You know I write poetry, well....I wrote a poem about you." "Oh, show me!" she replied. "Not this weekend, maybe in a few months time." She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. <br />
<br />
She never got to read the poem but she later wondered about it. A whole poem devoted to her.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03808945331094168163noreply@blogger.com3