From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace

Wecome to my home

Grace is asleep. 0921 and the house is silent. I’ve turned off the radio, the TV and the laptop media player. Such a georgous calm…

The wiffe is in England, mixing it with the corporate lads. I’m in my white dressing gown. The office I vowed to tidy is litered with press clippings, receipts, ESB bills, papers for a training course on information management…

In the kitchen the sterilizer is full, four bottles ready for re-assembly (Dr Brown’s bottles).

40 minutes ago, I put Grace in a harness and suspended her from the frame of the living room door. It was time I hanged her. Judging from her reaction, as she twirled round slowly, she enjoyed looking down on the carpet with none of her feet touching the ground.

This reminded me of Jacob (now 23) who used to bounce like a madman up and down, as if he was a Munster forward on a French face.

Grace glided round an arc of a circle looking intently out, surveying the collage of half read Irish Times, Financial Times and Sunday Business Posts. At last a woman who doesn’t nag about cleaning up…

I won’t have this peace for long. I only allow her to sleep for 40 minutes. If I let her asleep any longer I could get addicted to it. I only allow myself short bursts of time for myself.

‘Time for myself’ : this is time which does not include washing, shaving, putting on clothes. I don’t count that time as ‘mine’ - that is society’s time, time needed to present oneself in public. ‘Public’ includes presenting myself in front of the wiffe.

‘Time for myself’ : this includes time for daydreaming, writing, having fantasies about become a writer, imagining myself as a corporate executive coach, a scratch golfer or a mystery shopper for a supermarket.

I can feel the seconds ticking away; can feel the cliches taking the place of thought and expression. Will I ever get to read those books that sit on the shelf:

“Achievers - visionary Irish Leaders who Achieved Their Dreams” edited by Ivor Kenny

“A short history of Myth” by Karen Armstrong

“Eats Shoots & Leaves” by Lynne Truss

“How Babies think” by Alison Gopnik et al

“52 Ways of Looking at a Poem” by Ruth Patel.

And what about the ones beside the bed? Isn’t it typical of a son of a bookshop owner that he should live surrounded by unread books…

I’m going to stop now, before Grace wakes up. I want to be the one to wake her, get her on the back foot and seize the high ground. Like Don Quixote de la Mancha I am given to flights of fancy and don’t even have a Sancho to remind me of the real world.

My wife doesn’t read my blogs.

She doesn’t pay much attention to my writing, whether it be poetry or short stories. When I mentioned recently that I might write a novel some day, she hit the roof. She got all silent. We got it sorted but it was a struggle.

In other words, she gives me no support for my artistic side. She is not interested. So long as it doesn’t interfere with the practicalities of daily life, she has no objection to me ‘amusing myself’. The thought that I might want to do a degree in creative writing caused her huge distress. Even if I flippantly say that I’d like to spend more time writing, she overlooks my flippancy and treats it as if I’d said I was going to abandon all my familial responsibilities.

In other words, I have to sneak in a bit of writing here, another bit there and it is best if she is unaware of the totality of energy I devote to developing my creative side.

I love this woman to bits. Her reactions force me to stay in contact with the need to do gainful employment and housework. She is the greatest asset I have; she continually reminds me that there are other people out there, that they think differently from me, that they have other priorities. She makes me a better writer.

By not supporting my writing, she ensures I don’t get trapped in cloud cuckoo land. If she was different, I would be different and so would my writing.

As Malcolm Bradbury writes: “The truth is that there are many, many kinds of literary marriage… My findings show that there are as many kinds of Writer’s Wife as there are of writer - indeed more, probably, since many writers I know have been sufficiently fond of the species to have had more than one of them…

I’ve begun to read Living with a Writer, edited by Dale Salwak. The contributors include:
John Updike
Nadine Gordimer
Margaret Drabble
Paul Theroux.

Bradbury names several types of literary wives: the “Deferential Wife”, the “Utterly Contemptuous Wives” (The odd thing is the the Utterly Contemptious Wives often manage to last a good deal longer than the Deferential Wives…), the “Sexy Wives”, the “Genteel Wives”, the “Writer’s Widow”.

I have discovered another type: the Challenging Wife.

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Latest opinion polls suggest Fianna Fail is gaining at the expense of Fine Gael.

In case you are reading this in Somalia, Krakov or another part of the world where Ireland is a magnet, I better explain that Fianna Fail is the government and Fine Gael the biggest opposition party.

One observation, based on a couple of months in Ireland from November 2005: the Fine Gael leader is no good.

He has made no impression on me. And I would be a prime target because I am not a Republican, nor a supporter of the party of De Velera and the construction industry. (DeVelera is an in-joke, and so too is the government’s relationship with the construction industry.)

I didn’t know Enda Kenny’s name before I came back to Ireland. I haven’t been following Irish politics. I know his name because of one thing he said: surely it is time to stop making Irish compulsory in Irish schools?

Otherwise, he bores me; he never says anything that captures my interest and I think Fine Gael better get another leader. But I don’t know the names of any Fine Gael politicians.

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How do you get into an Irish golf club?

My advice is to give up. You haven’t a chance if you live in Cork or Limerick.. And that means don’t even think of it if you live in Dublin.

All the clubs are full and you have to wait for people to die or, even less likely, not renew their subscription.

Now I’m experiencing what it’s like if you want to join Glyndebourne. You can go on a waiting list and hang on for about 15 years. Because I joined Glyndebourne in 1976, and waited a full nine months, I have no idea what it feels like to be cut off from the place where they do the best opera in Europe. For years I’ve been able to go to Glyndebourne whenever I wanted, within reason. As a member I had no concern for those locked out. That was their problem; there were lots of other things they could do with their life.

What goes round goes round… I’m locked out of the golf clubs and no one inside gives a damn.

I did get in 9 holes on Saturday. At a club that lets you play if you have the money. It has no members, no competitions, no handicaps but it does at least have 18 holes. Waterrock is its name. Out the road near Middleton (where they distil whiskey), up a road that meanders past even more new houses, I found it.

I played by myself for four holes, got lost, and then joined up with two guys.

It’s 12 years old, the course - very like Cumberwell Park. The greens are good and well kept. The bunkers are thin and economical. The overall design is fine. Because there was not enough light to play on, I missed the back 9 which is said to be the better nine.

Inside the clubhouse was a golf society. A golf “society” is an interesting animal. It is not a club, but has members. It is not open to any Tom Dick or Harry to join. This society was 20 years old and the President had a blazer which said ‘President 2006′ underneath a crest. There was also a Captain’s blazer. I spotted him walking around the prizes. There were wooden boxes of wine on display: all good wine. 250 euros worth. These were for the winners.

I was impressed. I sat watching the large group, looking for an opportunity to butt into someone’s conversation. Eventually that paid dividends. Someone told me they were a member in Youghal, invited me to visit and said he’d propose me for membership.

I didn’t make that up. That’s how you get into a golf club in Ireland.

If you believe in Heaven, there is one person you are sure to meet there.

Of all artists who ever lived in Europe, one stands on a mountain top looking down on all others.

If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably have left London in 1975 and returned to Dublin :

W A M : Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart ((January 27, 1756 – December 5, 1791).

My father, Frank O’Mahony, used to listen to Aida occasionally. But he was a Chopin man (and the Etudes left me cold). The trumpets in the grand parade in Aida excited me but I had no interest in opera in those days (1950-1975).

So I knew nothing of Mozart (except from a Swedish film score) until I went to The Magic Flute at the Colleseum (English National Opera) in June 1975. The Queen of the Night (one of the main characters) knocked me out: I’d never heard anything so risky, so extraordinarily balanced on the edge, so scary that I felt threatened by it.

I remember saying to myself: oh my god, how can this carry on… its too much… how can she possible sing like this…

If you know the aria, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, you’re lucky: you have it ahead of you. There is nothing like the first time.

It was The Magic Flute that hooked me. I dropped my interest in all other types of music and specialised. I listened to nothing but opera for at least ten years. I saw every opera at ENO and Covent Garden from 1975-1985, and many of them I saw three times. While I was a bus conductor, I went to the gods three times a week. I could bore the pants off you with opera stories.

Mozart was so big an influence on me that I think I might have returned to Dublin if I wasn’t so taken by the prospect of seeing world class opera in London. Domingo, Pavarotti & Carreras were on the menu. Wagner, Puccini, Verdi as well as WAM.

He changed the course of my life, gave me a vision and has repaid all the time I’ve invested in him.

Let me mention two recordings: Edda Moser singing the Queen of the Night aria, and Florence Foster Jenkins singing the same at Carneegie Hall, New York. Find both and you can dine out on the contrast.

Wolfgang, you and John Lennon: two beauties. I salute and thank you both.

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If you want a superb haircut, come to Cork.

To be precise, travel to Douglas, to the shopping centre at the west end of the ‘village’. Find the hair salon next to the Stephen Pearce shop, and ask for Eddie.

Yesterday I went in search of a cut. Typical of me, I made no appointment. It was Saturday and the barber who last cut my hair was full. I didn’t even go in. I went to the fancy place, lots of women hairdressers, lots of female clients. But I struck lucky.

At first I thought he was going to wash my hair and then hand me over to a proper hairdresser. I saw he was the only male staff and assumed he was a junior aspiring hairdresser who mainly swept the floor.

He sat me in a very comfortable seat which had a special device that fitted round my neck protecting me and the salon from ‘whiplash’ litigation. He was obviously foreign: his complexion and bone structure suggested he was Italian; his silence suggested he wasn’t.

As he wet my hair, I asked for it to be conditioned. He kinda repeated my words. I wasn’t upset to be facing the prospect of a quiet haircut: some hairdressers love to chat.

Slowly it dawned on me that something different was going on. It was the way he massaged my scalp. I’m one of those people who would willingly go to the hairdressers every week for a hairwash. I love having my hair washed. It’s great to be woken up by vigourous fingers.

He wasn’t massaging me in the usual manner: he was applying pressure slowly, gently, lingeringly. He was taking his time. It was as if he was meditating on the contours of my head. I loved it. I could shut my eyes and it would continue. He was taking his time and I wasn’t in a hurry.

In fact, I wasn’t due on the tee until 1400. This haircut began at 1235.

I’m tempted to write an account of the experience which would be in real time: it would take you as long to read as it did to enjoy. Resisting temptation is the mark of any decent writer.

I found out he was Lithuanian, from Kaunas. He’d been in London for a month and Cork for seven months. He is working in this hairdresser’s because he wants to learn how to cut women’s hair. In Kaunas, he cut men.

He did the whole job on me. He styled me, flamed me and tidied me off. Instead of the unkempt curls, I left with my hair much shorter, falling forward and gelled. I was a new man.

Eddie is simply the best hairdresser I have ever met. (Edwardo is his proper name; his father is Italian.) He spent over an hour on me. It cost 25 euros and I left him a 5 euro tip. He gave me a card with his name written on it.

During that time I embarassed myself by asking if he was from Riga. He was the soul of discretion as he whispered that that was the capital of Latvia. I knew nothing of Lithuania. Eddie knew Londoners were different from Irish people. He likes the Irish.

Three cheers for the foreigners: they can educate us. I am so ignorant, so inclined to think I know things, when all I have is a jumble of impressions and suggestions masquerading as knowledge.

But, if you feel like treating yourself, have your hair cut by Eddie in Douglas. I have acquired a little bit of knowledge.

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I have strong opinions about newspapers.

After living so long in the UK, where there are so many newspapers, I think the Financial Times is the best newspaper in the world. It has a brilliant mixure of news, analysis, opinion and culture.

I’ve tried Le Monde and the New York Times. But, to be fair, I haven’t given them a sustained read.

But I am so pleased with the FT that I judge all others to be, at best, in second place. If I was sent to a desert island, I’d has a daily delivery of the FT as my luxury.

The Irish Times comes next. It is bloody good. If you take the whole week into account, I think there is excellent reading in it.

I have a particular bugbear about the fact that the Irish Times wrote no editorial after the Irish Roman Catholic Church’s recent ‘guidelines’ on child protection. The editor remained silent. In my mind that is cowardice, and she has a lot to do to recover from that charge.

But, the only other criticism I make of the Irish Times is that it does not have a weekly column in Polish. There are more native Polish speakers in Ireland than native Gaelic speakers. I expect and want the Irish Times to enlighten the road ahead, as well as report news.

The Limerick Leader has articles in Polish.

Into a foyer packed with people going in to the performance of “Under Milk Wood” by Dylan Thomas, I rushed.

Looking for the box office at four minutes to eight.

A short woman with a dark well-cut bob stopped me. She was holding a ticket in her hand.

“A tout, a ticket tout…” my brain tried to interpret - echoes of Lansdown Road where I used to see Ireland play rugby against France and others.

Are you looking for a ticket?

Yes, my haltering breathless reply.

Here, you can have this ticket… for nothing… I don’t need it.

What? Pardon… No, no, you must let me pay.

My wallet was out, and I could see a 50 euro note.

You can’t just give me a ticket for nothing. You don’t know me…

I looked at the 25 euro ticket. There were two women of equal size looking at me, each reinforcing the other’s generosity. There body language was fixed: they were not going to take my money.

No, it’s your’s. Take it.

Every second brought us closer to curtain up.

My wallet went limp towards my hip pocket.
That’s the best thing anyone’s done for me since I came back to Ireland. At least let me know your name.

My right hand reached to touch her somehow. She was cold like the breeze. We shook. I gave her my name. I couldn’t take her’s in.

Then they were gone, in front of me. My first time in Cork Opera House and I had a seat eleven rows back in the stalls. The two women avoided eye contact with me. There was an empty seat between us.

The purple neon lights dimmed and we were in Wales.

Remember the curly haired man that I watched in Douglas Public Library?
He was at a Book Club meeting and wasn’t used to the ways of Ireland.

Well I met him again last night. He’s still not used to the ways of Ireland. He got clamped in Galway.

After the Island Theatre Company’s performance of “Under Milk Wood“, I ran into him in a Murphy’s pub outside the Opera House. He had a story of woe to relate.

…I’ve recently come back to Ireland after living in the UK and I’m in two minds about whether there’s a welcome here for me, he started after I’d sat on the bar stool beside him.

Things were going well until I went into Galway city. That’s where my nightmare began. I was staying in a B&B in Oranmore, six or seven miles out from the centre. I did a day’s work there for the local authority, and I’d been warned about the traffic.

This was the man I’d watched with six women in the Library. Up close, he made a different impression on me.

So I waited until after seven before driving in to get a bit of food and sample the streets. Even though I grew up in Limerick, I’d never walked the streets of Galway. I’d been in the Great Southern Hotel once as a child, and that was a grand place. Eyre Square that was on. So that’s where I headed for.

They’re digging up Eyre Square, pedestrianising it. That was the first thing that struck me: it’s a magnificent square. I’d love to see the model they keep in the City Hall. Apparently some builder ran off with 15 million euros of public money and didn’t finish the job and now it’s still undone.

The curley man speech seemed to slip between the tone of nostagia and a gathering agitation. I sensed something dramatic was coming.

I loved the cobbled streets lined with small shops. I was mad about the fact that the big brands weren’t visible or dominating. The place has character.

To cut a long story short, I had a pint and a long conversation with a guy who’d lived in Bath and come back to Cork after ten years away. That’s the great thing about Ireland: you can talk to people, easily, and they like to talk. Even I’ve been able to find people to talk to. In fact it is hard to sit and observe people, like you can do all the time in the UK. Irish people won’t leave you alone.

Oh, almost forgot… I parked the car in a bus lay-by. No obstruction, but I shouldn’t have been there. I knew it but I thought the worse that could happen would be a parking ticket. How fuckin’ wrong I was.

Suddenly I knew he wasn’t used to swearing. You know how people who swear do it all the time; they use “fuckin’” like a pause for breath. This man was angry; that was what his “fuckin’” was about.

His speech would speed up and slow down, as if he was speeding in and out of penalty point zones.

I know it was my own fault, but how was I to know they’d steal my car and not give it back to me until the next day? How could I know that they’d close their phones at 2200 and not take calls until 0800? How could I know that I’d be stranded in Galway at 2205?

This was a man half alive with ire and half dead with despair.

I got back to the car, found it clamped and my mobile phone out of battery. If it hadn’t been for a guy in the Victoria Hotel (tell everyone will you that that’s a great hotel…), I don’t know how I’d have escaped sane. No car, no phone, no directions… and my B&B a long taxi drive away.

I was so upset that I was half way to Oranmore in the taxi when I realised I’d left my suitcase with the laptop, that I needed for work the next day, in the boot of the clamped Saab. That cost me more and by the time I got to bed I’d happily have left the city and never have darkened its door again.

They were shites. They were deliberate shysters, closing down overnight so that they could same a bit of cost and screw the eejit they’s trapped.

Do you know that they close their phones on a Sunday at 1500 and aren’t open on Bank Holidays. This means that you could have your car impounded for 40 hours, and they what would you do about driving home to the UK with your children after a holiday in Ireland!

The man was in full flight. He mouth would not be clamped. But every now and again he’d mutter about it being all his own fault. He should have known. He kept muttering something about “raw” Ireland…

I thought that was the end of it. He got his car after work next day, paid 85 euros (on top of the 30 euros the taxi cost), and left Galway. All the way to Cork he wrote indignant letters to the Council, the local TD (MP), the CEO of the clamping company (probaby wanted to buy shares).

But the returned emigrant hadn’t finished his story. But he needed a pint before he went on.

I slipped in my appreciation of Island Theatre from Limerick. D’Unbelievable production: that’s a play on the fact that one of the two actors was from D’Unbelievables, a fantastically successful comic duo.

I wish I could say that cured me. But I’m ashamed to say that I got clamped in Cork the following day. On my way to get a National Insurance number, I parked without a parking disc, half on a double yellow line, and I had to take another taxi, this time to the pound.

But, in Cork, they really screw you: it cost me 160 euros. The only good thing about it was that the taxidriver told me the system: they give you a ticket, and their machine is linked to the clampers and they whisk you off to the pound. They don’t mess around.

I’m so embarassed about this second time that I daren’t tell the wiffe. I suppose this is a kind of confession I’m making to you. What did you say your name was anyway?

With this he collapsed exhaused, sank his nose into the unstarted pint and caused it to overflow while dripping tears into it. He looked a broken man.

Are you going to stay in Ireland? I asked him.

Are you going to stay in Ireland? He whispered

These fuckers aren’t going to drive me out.

Vicious words: I realised that he was far from broken. It was more that he was planning revenge or something. Maybe I was wrong about that, but he had a look in his blue that I’d seen before in a released convict.

Jesus, he said. What time do they shut the parking lots here?

It was 2325. You’re all right, I assured him.

How do you know they won’t shut early? They might lock me in. Jesus I can’t go home without a car.

With that he was gone. And I still can’t remember if he ever told me his name.

The Irish government has returned. It now means business.

Today the Minister announced 31 offences which would in future be subject to immediate penalty points.

This is a measure which citizens have long been looking forward to. The country is fortunate to have a decisive and rigorous government that will pursue transgressors with all the energy required.

Those who are at risk in Ireland can sleep more easily in their beds tonight.

Here is a list of the most serious offences and their penalty points:

1 Speeding by government ministers (3 points)

2 Remaining at the scene of an identified social need (3 points)

3 Sticking to the question asked by a rigorous journalist (5 points)

4 Following through on any strategic plan without losing momentum (4 points)

5 Failing to appoint a new review group whenever policy is likely to be implemented (2 points)

6 Speeding away from ministerial colleagues by doing a job well (6 points)

The incredible success of Hamas in the Palestinian election reminds Irish people of a similar drama in 1918.

Remember the 1918 elections, when Sinn Fein swept past the Irish Parliamentary Party?

Remember how Sinn Fein went from being a minority element in the Catholic nationalist movement to its dominant party?

Remember how Sinn Fein went from being a ‘terrorist’ faction (even though the ‘T’ word was not used so much then) to being the dominant parliamentary force?

Remember how Fianna Fail was formed? Remember its aim to remove the border from the map? That reminds Irish people of Hamas’s aim to remove Israel from another map.

How many times have we heard the refrain: we won’t negotiate with terrorists… we won’t sit down with people who have an armed wing in the wings… ?

This feels like a coming of age in Palestine. Hamas will show us what they are made of.

The Irish are all theologians today; their bishops and priests are all so sex mad that people are having to invent heresies in order to engage in conversation.

The difference between celebacy and chastity is a major subject for discussion on Today FM today. People are listening for the latest revelation.

The bishops are certainly characters with their own individual styles: if they played for the same team, they’d be relegated.

The sanctity of marriage has gone on a long holiday. While the cat’s away the mice will play.

In the land of the runny poos, the man with the solid turd is king…

Especially if he is the last one standing. This has been one of those days when those you love have been falling down.

Reminds me of “A Confederacy of Dunces”

How I laughted my way through that book. The word “eructations” stuck in my mind ever since then.

The story of how that novel got published would inspire anyone to keep on writing even when every door is shut, especially if you have a mother who believes in you. To find this story you will have to read the introduction to the book.

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The first time I went to the doctor in Cork

was on Thursday. Grace (4.6months) went too. It was her mucosity and throwing up feed that decided me on checking out the doctor.

Better to meet the doctor before a crisis.

I needed a prescription for my anti-depressants, and I wondered what the doctor would be like if I was suffering from depression.

Better to meet the doctor before a crisis.

I rang up the receptionist and was surprised to be offered an appointment two hours later at 1110. In the UK you have to book an appointment at least three days ahead, unless it is a crisis. I had another appointment at 1230 with the woman from the letting agency.

Grace and I went up the hill with her Stokke Stroller and got there in plenty of time for me to feed her before 1110. However, I had to leave the buggy outside because there was a steep flight of stairs up to the waiting room.

I’m used to crowded waiting rooms, at least five doctors seeing patients and nurses seeing patients too. I’m used to having to wait.

There was one soft toy, a purple whale. There were Hello magazines, or the Irish equivalent. There was no changing room. I changed her on the floor, on the back of my jacket. There was one receptionist/secretary and one mother and child.

The mother and child went in shortly after we arrived. They were in for ages. A man arrived with his daughter and a urine sample in a plastic container.

The waiting room was square, a few posters on the wall and a rack of leaflets. Pale, incipid coloured walls looked as if they could do with another coat. Even though I fed and changed Grace, the receptionist said nothing to me and never once caught my eye.

The doctor came out and said goodbye to mother and child and ushered the man and daughter and urine into his office. No reference was made to the fact that I’d been there first and it was now 1125. I swallowed and bit my tongue as I asked the receptionist if the doctor was running late.

Oh, Doctor always gives patients lots of time.

That’s all; she said nothing else.

A pretty blond middle aged woman arrived and made eye contact. We waited. Grace got tired as it made towards 1200, her bedtime. Another couple arrived.

There was a toilet. A tiny slim room, unisex (which didn’t bother me, but I didn’t think Grace’s mum would use it.). But nowhere to put the dirty nappy, so I put it in the bag I’d brought.

The experience of waiting until 1155 was as drawn out as this writing. I hovered on the edge of leaving and we got down to my last five minutes when he finally saw us. By this time I was so pissed off at the decor, the system, the atmosphere that I vowed to make a list of all I detested. But I stayed outwardly calm.

The doctor was lovely: he had a gentle manner, was good with Grace and reassured me that if I got depressed he could look after me. He explained their system to me. He game me good news: there is a limit on how much prescription medicines can cost the family per month.

My medicine, for this month, would cost 130 euros, and the chemist would charge 240 euros approx. I could ring up and speak to the doctor. I could get prescriptions issued for about 25 euros per six months.

In the UK, I paid £14 a month. Now, thanks to my eligibility for a special card, the whole family can pay no more than about 70 euros (£50) per month.

And I had to pay for consulting the doctor: no discount for my appointment being 45 minutes late.

The good thing was that there didn’t seem to be any limit on the length of time I could talk with the doctor. In the UK, I was used to a 5 minute consultation.

It was great that he said Grace was in fine health and that anything he could give her would only make “a healthy child unhealthy”. It was a great relief that I won’t have to pay 240 euros (£190) a month.

But why should you have to wait for something you have to pay for? That’s enough about that. At least there won’t ever be a first time visit to an Irish doctor again. But I think I’ll look for another reception room.

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The best interviewer I’ve come across on Irish radio is Joe Duffy.

He has a regular daily slot on Radio Eireann 1 @ 1345-1445. He draws people out better than anyone I can remember.

Today I tuned in after it started and listened to a succession of stories about how awful the hospitals are.

Accident & Emergency overcrowded.

No beds available.

Unclean wards.

But these ‘fact’ disguise the experience. I heard people ring in with stories which scared me. They made me worry about moving to Dublin. So many of the stories were about Dublin hospitals. They included a woman who got so desperate that she had her arm x-rayed by a vet, and took the x-rays with her to A&E.

The last caller was a consultant at one of the biggest hospitals. Highly respected and well known. (You don’t get those sort of people ringing phone-ins in UK.) He told the story from the point of view of health workers (my term). He also said that he was off work with stress related to work. He intended to go back to work on Monday, to see if he could do any good.

Amazing. You would never get a UK consultant talking like this on UK radio. Joe Duffy drew him out, even though the consultant didn’t want to talk about his own case.

For me, two things stand out:

(1) It is dangerous to be in need of hospital in Dublin.

(2) The power of stories is phonomenal: they make experience shine.

How good are my genes?

It was 4.25pm when I pushed her nibs towards the golf club.

She’d been in Cumberwell Golf Club, near Bath, within the first few weeks of birth. As the Jesuits say: it’s never too soon to join up, or at least put your name down for membership… give me the child and I’ll give you the scratch player.

But it was turning wet and blowing. Grace needed a power nap. Unless she has one for 30 minutes late afternoon, she gets crotchety and quavers. So there was nothing for it but to load her into her Stokke Stroller and push the 500 meters up to Douglas Golf Club.

The course stands above our estate. It looks down on us. You may have come across the joke about the golfer imprisonned in hell: looking out on the world’s most magificent par five, condemned to an eternity of thinking about the bunker he couldn’t get out of. Here I am living within a driver of the 18th fairway, unable to play my favourite game because membership is closed and I don’t know any members.

As I pushed her out into the fine drizzle of wet air, I thought I’d kill two birds: walk her to sleep and go find out how much it cost to play at Douglas.

The entrance to the club is short and steep, up a twisting driveway to a car park. Below me I could see a sign on plaque beside a green which said: chipping practice strictly reserved for members. The green has several holes open, one with a little flagstick.

The was a smattering of parked cars facing down a deserted fairway. The professional’s shop had a handwritten note saying that it was closed from January 9 to January 30 but open on weekends. Inside a large window I could see two men sitting in a dimly lit bar. Their drinks were low in the glass.

I circled the clubhouse looking for an entrance through which I could push the sleeping child. There was a wheelchair access sign painted on a long ramp up to a closed door. Encouraged, I headed for the half-glass door through which I could see women setting tables for a function.

A woman came to the door after I knocked.
Is it possible to have a cup of coffee?
No, I’m sorry, it’s just for members.
Oh, I see. What I really want to find out about is how much it costs to play paying greenfees.? And what does it costs to play with a member?

She was in a black dress with a white pinny. There were two other women who had stopped setting the tables. By this time Grace was indoors in the buggy, still asleep.

Oh, you better go to the office. You can leave the buggy here. It’ll be alright.
She gestured across the room towards a door that led to a stairs which led to suite of offices. One office was marked Toilet. Another Chief Executive. Between them was an unmarked door and sounds of people talking.

I knocked. Waited. Nothing. Knocked again. Then a faint voice said come in. I couldn’t tell whether the voice came from the Chief Executive or the anonymous office.

Grasping a handle, I strood in. It was a bright rectangular shaped office, with three people at desks and piles of envellops. I had obviously caught them in the middle of meeting a deadline. One man, shirt and tie. Two women dressed smart casual. No one said anything. Right, I said to myself, I better make the running…

Hello, I’ve been told this is where I find someone who can tell me about the cost of playing golf. Is this the office?
Yes, that’s right.
I’d like to know what it costs to play please.

Nothing. They were looking at me. I was in black cords, a red waterproof jacket, and black unpolished brogues. There was an awful lot of envellops. The annual membership renewal demands were going out.

I’ve heard you’re not taking on any new members.
That’s right, said the man as he offered me a membership application form.

I’ve got the information here said a 40ish woman with blond well kept hair. She was writing something down.

It’s 40 Euros during the week and 45 at weekends.
And how much with a member please?
I’m writing it all down Joe.
It’s 22 with member.
Oh, that’s good, said I and me not knowing any member.

For a minute I thought I was back in southern England: all that traditional reserve. What happened to the Irish tradition of greeting a stranger with a joke. Something like “ah, you wouldn’t want to be playing here with the kind of fellows they have as members…”

This man had as stiff an upper lip as I’d ever come across in 30 years living with the English.

The blond lady thawed. and not only gave me a post-it note but answered me when I asked if she knew of any golf clubs in Cork that were open for new members?

Monkstown, try Monkstown. Joe, they’re taking members aren’t they?

Joe shrugged. She gave me a name and said to ring that person at Monkstown. I don’t even know where Monkstown is. I got out of Douglas as quick as I could. It was cold enough outside.

When Grace is old enough to swing, I’ll take her back to a golf club. They can’t all be distracted.
As she pulled me down the hill back to the estate, I remembered Cumberwell with its smiles and banter. Perhaps I just had a bit of bad luck and caught Douglas on an off day.

This morning I was listening to Father Darcy…

Actually he might be a bishop. Certainly he was on the radio saying that in his opinion celebacy should be optional, not compulsory, for priests. He said that thousands have left the priesthood and got married. At a time when ‘vocations’ are tumbling, would it be worthwhile abandonning the ban on sexual relations?

What stirred this up today is the news that a 73 year old priest has become a father with his 31 year old ‘partner’. He has stopped practising his ministry and may be pratcising the art of fathering.

I celebrate the man. Congratulations on such a wonderful achievement: many men have stopped reproducing well before that age. (My own father stopped when he reached 67.)

But I have a bit of an uneasy feeling: is it right for a priest to have sex? Surely when you first meet someone who has taken a vow of celebacy, you feel safe that they are not going to pursue you sexually. You let down your guard and open up in a way that you might not do with someone you thought might hit on you. Surely you are more likely to show your vulnerabilities, your unfulfilled desires, your temptations?

If you go to confession and tell your sins to a priest, are you not putting yourself in a special position, unlike any you’d normally put yourself in?

My point is that the priest is in a position of having insider knowledge and is it right that he trade on this?

Of course, if you meet someone in a nightclub and snog them without knowing that they are a priest, that’s a different matter.

But if you build up a trusting relationship and reveal yourself to a priest, isn’t it a bit like a relationship with a psychotherapist? Isn’t the priest abusing that trust if he snogs you?

If you tempt a priest by flirting with him, isn’t he meant to resist? Surely you are within your rights to practise flirting with a priest in order to be better able to flirt with others?

Whatever priests look like, they come with a warning attached : I am not available, except for platonic relationships. No one else comes with such a clear brand image.

So you see why I feel uneasy about congratulating the 73 year old priest. Perhaps I should simply admire him?

What do you think?

_______________________________________________________

Phonecall from Caff

The other day I got a phone call from a man I’ve not seen or spoken to since 1968.

We were at school together. I remember fighting with him when we were in short trousers. He was in and out of our house almost every day for years. I wasn’t allowed out to play on the street, so he had to play at my place. We threw lumps of earth at each other. We made bows & arrows, spears and swords. I suspect he went “rawking” (meaning thieving) apples for our orchard with the others. We shared many sexual encounters, turning out the lights and shifting while we danced to “A whiter shade of pale” and “The green, green grass of home” - but I should clarify that we were each clasping on to different girls.

We went different ways. John Caffrey inherited a farm and went to hotel school. I went to university.

I’d been thinking about him because he met my brother. What I didn’t know is that he’s turned himself into a painter. He has been inspired by James Joyce, and has a website through which he shows and sell his work.

I am astonished: how did he get turned on by Joyce? Was it the “… yes, yes, yes” of Ulysses, that orgasmic ending? Was it the colourful life we led when we were 13?

The road from Liverpool to Wakefield is magnificent.

Festooned with the detritus of an almost completely urban landscape, it leads you down a long winding corridor with junctions and exits on all sides. Your car glides over its solid surface. The potholes that so turned the stomachs of stagecoach riders are gone.

I imagine that the drive is like the experience of a bird transported on warm uplifting air. I feel safe as I command my rented Nissan, convinced I’d have felt the opposite if I’d been driving any Irish road.

Listening to the audio book “The Life of Oscar Wilde” by Hesketh Pearson (read by Simon Russell Beale), I discover that Wilde was born in Enniskillen. I learn much more too, but nothing resounds so strongly.

Enniskillen: the town about which it’s said “half the year the water is in Enniskillen, half the year Enniskillen is in the water”.

I went there in 1995, the year The National Trust celebrated its centenary by “Around the Trust in 80 days” (Laurence Harwood & Quentin Goggs travelled throughout the Trust’s properties, supported by a variety of NT staff, including me). That noble institution of England, Wales & Northern Ireland owns property near Enniskillen. In June ’95, I flew from Manchester to Belfast and passed four of the best days of my life travelling around the North.

Bandit country with Laurence, Quentin, Shane O’Neill and others…

See how easily the mere mention of a place name unlocks memory’s treasures. Add the spice of iconoclast (a peppershake of Wilde) for company, and you have a recipe for a veritable fruitcake.

Today, I began this journey in Cork. But it was John Lennon Airport that excited me.

Imagine…

“On the road” wrote Kerouac. So too did Liverpool write this episode into my life. I glory over her urban trousers and industrial heart while embracing her virtual imagination.

As I left one of those monuments to urbanity, a motorway service station, a poem came to me in the shape of a man I looked at twice:

“I saw a man that reminded me of another.
His grey bristles conjured up a face
that I’d forgotten.

in a single bed over which a portrait
of a saint hung, next to the holy water font
replenished by an unknown agency.”

When you drive your road, I bet miracles happen to you too.

I went down to the Maryborough Hotel on Friday, accompanied by a strong wind

Grace was awake all the way down. Fascinated by overhanging trees and the grinding resonance of a chainsaw, she enjoyed the journey. Half a mile of brown roofs and pebble-dashed walls would be enough to make any girl keen on a visit to the health spa.

I took her in to see the swimming pool. She wanted to be sure that it was safe to begin in a mildly chlorinated environment.

Reception and inspection:
The bald trendy friendly man on reception was from Chester (magnificent walled Roman city). He came to Cork with a girlfriend who got a job as a nanny in Fermoy. He took my email address so that she could brief me on the nanny scene. I doubted I’d ever get that email, but it was good for Grace to see her dad nattering with someone from England. I don’t want her to get a really strong Cork accent.

He showed us through the warm changing room and highlighted the state of the art locks on the lockers: you don’t need to carry a key round with you here. You have your PIN and off you go…

Grace was particularly struck by the jacuzzi. She noticed a woman doing lengths and paid attention when the breast-stroker asked the bald man to let her know when it was a quarter past one.

The fee to join was a snip: 1200 euros a year, plus a 100 euro joining subvention. Payable by direct debit, I calculated how many swimming lessons I’d need to give at 100 a month. Two people at reception said that the public pool in Douglas shut due to lack of demand. When I remember the public baths in Bradford on Avon, and how they sealed the decision to move there from London, I puzzled over the priorities of Corkonians. Perhaps we were mis-informed.

All that gave Grace food for thought, and set her in mind of her elevensens.

Retiring to the hotel where we were shocked:
We retired to the genteel surroundings of the hotel floor. It was just what she wanted: a good kick. I coffeed.

After deciding to position ourselves near one child with women, I noticed another lying over a shoulder. Two women with two tea pots, and only a table between them. Grace and father are always open for loose ends and we struck up an amazing conversation.

It turned out that the baby was twelve weeks old, but eleven weeks premature. Also, Rachel was one of twins. The other one was still in hospital after being born weighing one pound. Yes, one pound only! Now grown to 3.5 lbs, it won’t be let out until 5 lbs.

The mother nearly died a few times during the pregnancy, so it was not a complete surprise that the twins were premature. This was mother’s first outing. Grace felt privileged to be part of the story.

Networking suits Grace:
I’d gone down to the Maryborough because someone told me that parents and children gather there for morning coffee. However, there was no sign of organisation, no group meeting to join. You had to do your own networking. As a fantastic smiler, Grace has all the attributes for full-scale networking.

There are other swimming pools in Cork. On the other side of the city, the north side, there is a brand new one, and you pay about 5 euros a time.

Would you drive across a city rather than walk down to a local hotel where you could meet such people? Would you add to the smog for the sake of some euros?

Grace was happy there. We’ll see whether we ever go swimming there.