Before I write this, I have to say that my lovely friend B has had the dreadful task of having to take her furry friend to the vet today to be put down. She’s a good few years old (the dog, not the friend) and has been part of the family through thick and thin, being stepped on, having small children yanking out large tufts of hair..you name it..and B, I’m sending you a big hug via this website to say I’m thinking of you and yours.

There I come to the crux of the matter, pets are part of most families, and we feel kind of lost without one (yes, I know we’ve got fourteen million rabbits called Paddy, but they don’t count). So..a family conference ensued, enhanced by the presence of our visitors who joined in with gusto and several bottles of something full bodied and red. Needless to say, we had a huge great row about what sort of dog we should get. #1 (strange child) fancied something fluffy - be it Pomeranian (too small) or Husky (worst shedder of the canine community apparently so that’s out). #2 (backed up by guests) fancied a German Shepherd (too aggressive - we’ll hopefully be having small guests to stay, we can’t have something that could eat them when we’re distracted), or failing that, favoured a commando raid complete with balaclavas back to the UK to steal his grandma’s dog under cover of moonlight and ship her back here to live with us.

In his favour, I have to say that my Mum’s dog is one in a million. Yes, she’s stupid (dog, not Mum), greedy (she once ate my Nephew’s birthday cake - foil, cardboard, the lot) and ridiculously enthusiastic about patently unexciting things (ooh! you bought your handbag! let me look! let me look!!!’), but she’s also beautiful, cuddly and as with all labradors, unconditionally in love with all of us no matter what we do. One of my Mum’s old lodgers has a cracking mobile phone video of her drinking Baileys out of my Grandma’s glass, her eyes flicking quickly between my Grandma to check she wasn’t looking, to the holder of the camera, then back to Grandma. It’s hilarious, and very Homer Simpson-like (’mmm, Baileys - uh oh, video camera - mmm Baileys…) Minor downside is that she belongs to my Mum though, who also loves her and is more prepared to put up with her eccentricities and very expensive Baileys habit than I. Also, hair makes me gag and labradors are very hairy creatures. Hmmm..back to the drawing board.

Then hubby remembered a trip to a friend’s house in Dublin who was the proud owner of two ex-racing greyhounds. It’s a rather big sport in this country, and they certainly have a glut of slightly over-the-hill, or also-ran greyhounds looking for homes. There have been some rather repugnant, if, I have to say somewhat reluctantly, creative ideas for getting rid of unwanted racers splattered (sometimes literally) across the newspapers here recently, so, the absence of loud dissent and very few flying cushions bringing our family conference to an end, we decided to check it out.

I’ll report back with our progress. The rabbits, who no doubt heard the whole thing, must be quaking in their boots.

I do worry that I constantly waffle on about everyday rubbish when I’m supposed to be telling you about our new life in Ireland, so I’m going to concentrate hard and try to write something serious:

As you now know, I’m a very keen cook. Those of you who know me (and I hope someone else reads this apart from my Mum - hello Mum!) know that I’m also an incredibly messy and disorganised cook, but I like to think this is in a good, Nigella-esque, sultry finger-licking kind of way.

I must first explain that I love Nigella. I have all her books, am addicted to the reruns of her programmes on UKTV Food (thank the lord for Sky TV) and actually have an autographed photograph which says ‘love, Nigella’ on it. I love it. I also have a small whisk thing from her collection and I love that too. Hubby, on the other hand, is not a fan at all. He thinks she’s over-indulgent and basically just takes ordinary recipes then personalises them by slinging in loads of butter and cream. He thinks she looks a bit unsavoury (no pun intended) and that you’d probably get her hair all in your dinner. Physically, I have to say, he prefers small, delicate and Kylie-like (we met in a very dark nightclub) so she was never going to be his type, but I think she’s fab. And it’s my kitchen and, let’s face it, they’ll eat what I cook or they’ll starve (#2’s current choice).

I find cooking very therapeutic: I love all the chopping and stirring and slicing; the sweet, comforting smells emanating from the kitchen; the satisfaction from seeing a lovely, golden cake cooling on the rack made by my own fair hand. I do also have my fair share of disasters but I think this comes from being experimental (the mango and coconut muffins spring to mind - biting into a cold, slimy piece of mango was a definite no no). I also have the biggest, shiniest stainless steel beast of a food processor that my Mum bought me. This in itself is proof (or should be) of what a magnificent queen of the kitchen I am.

Anyway, my point, when I finally get round to making it, is that ingredients here are absolutely fantastic. There is a proper butcher in the nearest town, and he sells the most wonderful free range chickens (they’re not poncey about organic stuff here, it just tends to be that way) and huge slabs of meltingly tender Irish beef. And yes, before you say it, I know you can get that stuff at home, but here, it’s just no big deal. The two massive half-a-cow sized pieces of beef I bought the other day were 6 euro, that’s about four quid! And while that might not be hugely cheaper than the UK, it’s fantastic quality and so far removed from the limp, gristly pieces encased in plastic that I used to buy in my local super that I’m tempted to go back every day!

Being so close to the sea has its advantages too. The fish is very fresh and the Dublin Bay prawns (huge langoustine-like creatures) even inspire me, a confirmed crustaceanophobe (I know, made-up word again) to slinging them on the griddle with lime and chilli butter. Easy and yummy. (Cue over-acting and fake gagging from #2 reading over my shoulder).

My latest food hero (sorry, went all Rick Stein there for a minute) is Rachel Allen. Now this one’s more hubby’s type - not only is she slim, blonde and not a bit trendy, she also has a rather attractive soft Irish accent (guaranteed to entice any man to eat a coconut and mango muffin). She’s based at the awesomely fantastic cookery school, Ballymaloe in Cork. My dream, one of these days when I’m not hooveriing, wiping runny noses or stuck in goal, is to go there and have Rach teach me how to cook properly. In the meantime, she has a new series coming up on RTE1 (that’s kind of like BBC1 in your language) in September and I’ll be glued. The lovely lilting accent and simple, easy to copy food is a total winner. Track her books down, I promise they’re worth it.

So..anyone for scrambled egg and beans?

Now I know that I’ve already ranted about them shedding their clothes all over the lawn and verbally (and sometimes physically) beating each other to a pulp, but #1 and #2 are good kids and I love them to bits. They can be very entertaining, enormously good company and sometimes a downright laugh. For example, in the car today #1 asked what BYOB means. I suggested that it was Bring Your Own Bottle, the kind of thing that people put in invitations. This got us thinking what else it could mean, and then it got totally out of hand:

Bring Your Own Budgie
Bring Your Orange Banana
Bring Your Obnoxious Brother
Bake Your Own Brownie (#1, still with a straight face)
Bake Your Own Bottom (#2 slightly giggling)
Bring Your Orange Bosom (couple of sniggers by now)
Bring Your Obese Buttocks (that’s it, we’re all in hysterics)
Bring Your Outrageous Burp
Boil Your Own Bacon (#1 - straight out of left field!)
Bend Your Own Boob (#1 again)
Break Your Own Back

..well, you get the picture. Further suggestions on a postcard please…

I’ve fallen out with #2. As usual it was about food. I made a really nice dinner tonight. I love cooking and I’d had loads of fun making a horrible mess: chopping garlic, grating ginger, slicing peppers, etc, and the end result was a very presentable sweet and sour chicken stir-fry with rice noodles, which I placed lovingly - and not a bit proudly - in front of #2. Cue the sound of needle being ripped off record…’urgh, what’s that?’.

I have to explain that #1 son will eat absolutely anything. On holiday in France he merrily tucked away vast bowls of Moules Marinieres while I politely tried to look the other way and swallow hard. He ate prawns and oysters and snails and even if some of these were a mistake (he looked distinctly green after the oyster went down), he’ll always have a go. He loves curry, chilli, Chinese, Thai..you name it. And yes, before you say it, I know it’s not fair to compare your kids. Every child is different and as their mother I embrace their own little quirks and diversities, but this child will not eat anything.

You know those adverts currently showing wholesome little children wolfing down Weetabix decorated with pieces of apple and strawberry to look like a smiley face? Well, I nearly choked on my Cabernet Sauvignon (no, I’m not an alcoholic, it was well after nine and I’d had a particularly bad day, alright?). I’m sorry, but half a strawberry and a bit of apple is not going to entice my children to force down a big mouthful of sawdust and I don’t care what any smarmy TV mummy says (do you think they’re real?). #2 will not entertain anything remotely vegetable or fruit-like anywhere near his person. He won’t eat grapes, strawberries, raspberries or any pureed, frozen or blended version of them either. I know, I’ve tried. I’ve also tried hiding grated apple in his porridge (sussed instantly) and have tried mixing tiny pieces of chopped carrot into his shepherd’s pie. This just resulted in cold shepherd’s pie, and a big pile of tiny carrot pieces on the side of his plate. On the plus side he will just about force down raw carrots, frozen peas, the occasional slice of apple and, if he’s really desperate for something expensive, the stalk off the broccoli.

Eating out with him is a nightmare. There’s a fabulous restaurant in a lovely marina town on the coast (no, I’m not going to tell you - it’s my restaurant and you can’t have it), but every time we go he’ll only have steak and chips (which they lovingly pile on top of each other into a little chip-tower, and present a tiny side dish with baked beans in - bless). I’m just convinced if he’d only try more food he’d come to really enjoy it. So I continue to flog the dead horse which is placing my lovingly created dishes in front of him, then embarking on our usual bartering technique which starts ‘okay, eat four pieces of chicken, four pieces of pepper, a piece of pineapple and half the noodles, then you can have pudding’, which is deftly countered with ‘what if I eat five pieces of chicken, three pieces of pepper, skip the pineapple, but eat all the noodles’. It’s wearing me down. How the child does not have scurvy or rickets or whatever it is that children get when they live on Cheerios and scrambled egg and beans is beyond me. Maybe it’s the calcium in his toothpaste that keeps him going…

Had a minor panic this morning when I was washing up and realised we’ve not got enough plates for the amount of visitors we have due on Sunday. Unfased, we set out on yet another trip to the unfeasibly large shopping centre. It crossed my mind that there’s only about four houses round here and several cows (oh and the rabbits but they don’t go shopping - actually, neither do the cows, thinking about it - see how my mind just wanders?) so where do all the people come from that are always jammed into every unfeasibly large crevice? My mind was turning over this conundrum when all of a sudden, there it was - Primark! It’s not called Primark here, it’s called Penney’s but it’s exactly the same thing and my heart leapt with joy! I’d resigned myself to never again being able to pop into Primark with a tenner clutched in my sweaty palm (sorry, not sweaty - don’t know where that came from) and leaving exhilarated with two skirts, a pair of shorts, four tops and a pair of sparkly flipflops - and change! Okay, I know you have to wrestle with all the teenage mums pushing babies eating packs of Wotsits, their faces strangely orange (have you noticed that, or is it just me?) and trailing their snotty nosed older siblings (‘come on, Keanu!’) and be prepared to rummage through shelves of polyester twin-sets and four-packs of great big granny knickers that my Dad used to call ‘harvest festivals’ (all is safely gathered in, geddit?) to find the treasure, but boy, it’s worth it.

The offspring, who had started whinging as soon as they were forced into the car, prevented me from having a jolly good dig around, but wait until term’s started..woohoo!

Oh, and I got some more plates, but that’s not remotely as interesting.

I’m the first to admit that I’m wrong (okay, sometimes I’m second), so I’ll confess to a very unseemly and undignified bout of shouting. Not content with having to wait fifteen minutes for my email to load (we’re in the sticks and only have dial-up), #1 slinks in to inform me that he thinks he may have left his very new, very expensive glasses in the pizza-place-that-doesn’t-do-pizza. Aaarrrgghhh! Well, my face went very red and I launched into a spectacular ‘what the hell is your father going to say! have you any idea how much they cost? and how do you think we’re going to get new glasses here? do you see any bl**dy rabbits sporting accessories from Specsavers??’ kind of thing. Very undignified. Just as I’m calming down, he walks into the bathroom and cheerily says ‘oh, here they are!’. Grrrrr…

Well today we decided on a road trip. We picked Kells (actually, we didn’t pick Kells, we picked somewhere else, but #2 son was map reading and that’s where we ended up). It was a really nice drive even if we did get lost. The sun decided to grace us with its presence and the roads were lovely, windy (I mean windy as in twisty, not windy as in flatulent) country roads with plenty of things to look at (living things this time - makes a change). There I go digressing again - anyway, round a particularly twisty bend we suddenly came across a sheep who was doing a very odd looking bottom-wiggling thing which I suppose could have been quite stylish if he was strutting his stuff at the local nightspot, but looked remarkably odd performed in the middle of the road. And that’s when it struck us that its head was stuck in the fence and the wiggling was a desperate life and death struggle for freedom, and not some sheepy-lambada-sort-of-thing. We decided quickly on a mercy mission (well, the two of us did, #1 son was asleep in the back of the car) and quickly turned the car around only to find SHOCK HORROR! (sorry) a very large lorry was heading straight toward the sheep and wouldn’t possibly have room in the tiny country lane to steer round the aforementioned backside. Well (you’re hooked now aren’t you, I can tell) we covered our eyes, flashed and gesticulated but the lorry driver looked at us like we were mad and just thundered past. When we finally steeled ourselves to look, we found a very bewildered looking sheep standing next to the fence in one piece and - miraculously- freed! Albeit still on the wrong side, but hey, a survivor is a survivor, no matter which side of the fence you’re on.

So, disaster averted, and deciding we’d have to leave him in the road because there was no farm nearby and neither of us could possibly lift a sheep over a fence ( I have a very bad back actually and son #2 is about 3ft tall with his hair spiked up), we carried on our journey. Round the next bend there was a confused looking lorry driver checking over his lorry (some mad woman must have gesticulated at him tsk tsk). Anyway, we made it to Kells, which was very nice, had a quick look round and lunch in a pizza place that didn’t serve pizza (another day, I promise) and home in time for a G&T in the sunshine. Who knew country life could be so exciting eh?

So…we went to the biggest shopping centre I’ve ever seen in my life yesterday. It’s strange - you drive down a country road then all of a sudden… woah, it’s a huge shopping centre! Not only does it have your normal common or garden indoor bit with shops, the ubiquitous Kentucky Fried Pigeon, conveyor belts for the children to get their shoe laces stuck in and odd plinky plonky music, but it’s got lots of big individual superstores too. Anyway, on the way back we got stuck at some roadworks, and with no squashed animals nearby to keep us occupied, the following list started to form. I can’t actually keep it to ten as I keep remembering other ones I liked. Think this might continue to be a work in progress:

Top Ten (ish) Best Movies (Mum’s List)

1. Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest (’Oh bugger!’)
2. I, Robot
3. Gladiator
4. Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl
5. What Women Want
6. Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events (Soda, soda, banana!)
7. Bruce Almighty (’b..e..a..utiful!’)
8. Pretty Woman
9. American Pie
10. The Life of Brian (’Stwike him, Centuwion, stwike him vewy wuffly!’)
11. Blade Runner
12. Cocktail

And I’m still going…

Look, I love my children as much as the next man (er..woman), but does this mean that I have to enjoy every second of the two whole months Ireland bestows on us for their summer holidays? As I was telling B (poor, long suffering B) all we had when we were kids was the BBC and our bikes, and we seemed to manage okay. Whatever happened to entertaining yourself? Okay, my Mum will probably say that I did my fair share of ‘Mum, I’m bored’, but these children have Playstations, Gamecubes, PSPs, Gameboys, Computers..you name it. Maybe its because they’re so ridiculously over stimulated and yes, spoilt, that they have lost the ability to make their own fun. Listen to me..what was that thing about trying so hard not to turn into your Dad that you inadvertently turn into your Mum? It’s happened (Sorry Mum, sorry Dad).

And another thing: why do they have to be so horrible to each other? It wasn’t enough that when T the lodger bought his adorable daughter D down for a few days I had to send mine to their rooms for fighting on the trampoline (#2 son actually knocked #1 son completely off his feet with one punch - and no, I’m not in the least impressed, but maybe he has a career in boxing ahead of him), therefore making my children look even more like evil goblins, and D even more angelic. Every withering put-down, every sarcastic comment, every shrill cry of ‘right that’s it, you’re a cheat..I’m not playing’ that shatters our domestic bliss on a regular basis actually makes me quite sad. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told them that they’re brothers, hence they have a family duty to love, cherish and protect each other and ‘Daddy and I would never dream of treating each other like that’ (not when you two are within earshot anyway) , it all falls on deaf ears (soon to be cauliflower ears no doubt)

And one more other thing, then I promise I’ll stop: why do they change their clothes so often. At this very moment there is a huge pile of clothes on the lawn that were shed earlier, no doubt during a spot of tag-wrestling. Do they go and pick them up? Noooo, they just go and put on clean stuff, which needless to say still ends up in the dirty laundry at the end of the day (unless it’s #2’s Brazil kit that is, which I have to crawl, stealth like, into his bedroom after he’s asleep to take. I mean, what am I, the laundry fairy (or should that be Fairy Non-Bio - sorry, that’s not even funny)?

God. Roll on September.

Well, I found a dentist, and went along for my appointment this morning, having threatened Monty and Tiger with death, and - worse- that I’d Ebay their PSPs if they didn’t behave. In actual fact, they were angels and sat plugged in to said PSPs for the entire time without barely a blink. #1 even adjusted his position to slightly less sprawled to let another patient sit down. Was I proud?

The dentist was not the ‘Butcher of Balbriggan’ that I fretted to my Dad about the day before, in fact he was neither a butcher nor from Balbriggan. He was a very nice chap (can you see a pattern emerging here?) and I thought it was a bit forward to ask where he was from. He was very sympathetic and we discussed several possible reasons for my toothache. Anyhoo, I won’t bore you with the details but we decided that it was best to ‘dive in’ as it were and have a look. Now I wasn’t expecting him to start waving needles about on our first date, but I’m a game girl…

I had to have two lots of anaesthetic as the first didn’t kick in at exactly the right spot, but I’m not a needlephobe and we were chatting away by that stage anyway (although i was beginning to sound like I’d been on the Guinness and the dribbling was a bit unsightly I must admit). Once he’d taken the old filling out, he made sure the tooth wasn’t cracked by leaning very hard on the edges to see if they’d break (this was very weird..’okay, take your foot off my chest now’). Luckily everything held, so I now have a very strange clove-tasting ‘dressing’ in my tooth which I’ve got to keep in for three weeks to see if the pain goes away. If it does, then I’ll get a normal filling put back in and all is fine and dandy. If not - well, I forgot to ask that.

I was a bit worried about the cost, having heard that Irish dental treatment can be expensive, but no, this whole hour of treatment was less than half the cost of my last trip to the dentist in the UK which was, including the x-rays, a staggering £117!. All in all a good day. Now, how long does it take before I stop feeling like half my face is twice its normal size?