Ooh I’m reading such a good book at the moment. I’m supposed to be cleaning the lounge, but I keep getting waylaid and going back for another couple of pages. It’s called Easy Meat by John Harvey. My Mum left it after she stayed here along with another with the same ‘Resnick’ character. It’s a real page-turner, to use a cliché. I love a good crime novel. The first one I ever read was called ‘Beyond Belief: The Moors Murderers’ by Emlyn Williams, one of those true crime kind of books which I pinched off my Dad’s bookshelf and proceeded to scare myself half to death with. It had a big spade on the cover and gave me nightmares for months. Since then, I think I’ve devoured most of James Patterson’s books (I love Alex Cross), which I often swap with my Mum, also Karin Slaughter’s ‘Kisscut’ novels, Kathy Reichs (you can’t beat a good autopsy) and I’m also fond of Mark Billingham, Ian Rankin (if you fancy a bit of gritty Scottish murder) and Harlan Coben. Hubby recently discovered Jeff Abbot, whose book, ‘Panic’, is just about one of the best I’ve ever read.

Having ploughed my way through enough blood and guts thrillers to last me a lifetime whilst slumped on my sunbed at Christmas, I thought I’d have a change and immerse myself in a bit of culture. Well, that’s not strictly true, the lady on the sunbed next to me left ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, so I pinched it. It’s an amazing love story, set in the Caribbean at the beginning of the twentieth century. His writing is a bit complicated and littered with very long words, but is also surprisingly funny and the little hints of life as it was lived then are just fascinating. His description of Florentino becoming drunk on cologne and being found by his mother ‘wallowing in a pool of fragrant vomit’ made me snort on the plane home. Very entertaining. If I’m in that kind of mood, I often turn to Antonia Fraser. Her book on Marie Antoinette had me poring over it for weeks, intent on finishing, but huffing and puffing over the politics, copious characters and the sheer size of the thing. Likewise with ‘The Six Wives of Henry VIII’. Still, you can’t beat that sense of achievement when you turn the last page. ‘Captain Corelli’s Mandolin’ was another of these. I laboured with it right to the end but then felt terribly and irrationally proud of myself.

I’m often prone to keeping books for sentimental reasons. My all-time favourite book is Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. I’m sure I’ve had, and lost, about ten copies at various times, but for some reason if I see a copy I can’t help but buy it and read it again. Also, when I was expecting #1, my Dad sent me a copy of Kathy Lette’s ‘Foetal Attraction’, which I now cherish. In typical Disreputable Dad fashion, it’s inscribed: ‘You may, after reading this, decide that you do not wish to join. Read it anyway, it’s a good laugh. Well, it was for me but I’m not pregnant’.

Whatever I’m reading, it is, of course, always interspersed with the odd dip into the piles of cookery books which, to Hubby’s annoyance, find their way into every room of the house, especially in a big untidy heap next to the bath, but that’s another story…

Well, I’ve been immersing myself in all things Irish today - sort of. Firstly, I’ve still got the cough that #1 generously shared with me, and listening to me hacking away this morning, big J tipped me the wink and said he’d got just the thing. Abandoning his tiling, he made a quick trip home in his van and much chinking and clinking in the kitchen later, I was lovingly presented with a glass of hot, clear liquid with a couple of cloves floating in it that nearly blew the top of my head off when I took a sip.

We were fascinated, and although J wouldn’t divulge his secret recipe, we wouldn’t let him back to his tiling until he told us more about this ‘Potcheen’ stuff that we’d heard so many rumours about. Historically, this clear spirit was brewed in secret at home, I think from barley, over local peat fires to produce a strong, clear ‘Moonshine’. Banned in Ireland since the 1600s, it’s now brewed legally at the Bunratty Winery in County Clare, but I think there’s probably a bit of ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ home brewing still going on in some parts. Obviously, J didn’t know anything about that.

Talking of peat, I’ve also been to the peat bog today. J was on his way past so I asked if I could follow him and have a look. It’s a beautiful, slightly eerie place - flat and green until you get to the seam of black where the peat has been dug. The landscape is dotted with clumps of spiky grass, as well as pine trees and piles of neatly stacked ’sods’; also, sadly, with old bathtubs, rubbish bags and the odd burnt out car. I didn’t stay long as it started to really bucket down, but I made a mental note to come back and have a proper explore when the weather is better and J’s evil concoction has cured my cough.

It’s fiery stuff, though, and I sipped it carefully whilst lying in a hot bath. Not only has it done wonders for my cough, it’s improved my singing voice no end. Woohoo!

Well, our Sunday was a rather lazy one. Hubby worked in the morning and committed the cardinal sin of forgetting to bring the paper on his way back (ten brownie points deducted) and in the morning the smalls and I watched the rugby highlights (I still don’t understand it, but well done, Ireland!!).

#1 and I got busy in the kitchen and had quite an enjoyable time. Feeling like some stodge, I knocked up a toad in the hole; I use Rachel Allen’s recipe - she melts an ounce of butter in the milk before making the batter and it’s always very successful. I did, however, forget that I’d run out of onions so no onion gravy for us. We made do with Bisto granules (sacrilegious I know, but what can a domestic goddess do so far from civilisation??) and served up with a huge dollop of mash and some kid-friendly peas and carrots, not even #2 uttered a word of protest. #1 made a rather fantastic chocolate fudge mousse for dessert which was probably supposed to feed about 8 - we got a rather large coffee cup-full each (#2 ate his in record time and then went round the table sponging from those of us who were struggling).

We then did our customary collapse in front of the telly with the papers and attempted yesterday’s crossword seeing as Hubby had let the side down so badly on the Sunday paper front. We managed all but one, the clue for which was: ‘osculates’ - a word I’ve not even heard of. We also held our collective breath watching the Carling Cup Final when poor John Terry got a massive kick in the side of the head and was out cold before he even hit the ground. The massive argument later in the game left us all shouting ‘boo’ at the telly, and did nothing but confirm my belief that it should be compulsory for every football player to have either their Mum or Grandma on the touchline; surely they’d behave themselves then.

Once we’d had some nice cheese and biscuits, got the smalls to bed (cue extra whingeing because it’s back to school tomorrow and they have to be ready and in their pyjamas before they can watch Top Gear) and finally sat down, a nice glass of wine rounded off the evening - with a toast to surviving yet another half term. Phew.

I’m sorry, but I’m just not sporty. I know that every single other person in the whole of Ireland and England is going to be glued to the rugby this afternoon, but I just can’t muster up any enthusiasm. It’s not just the awkward English/Irish thing either. I just can’t understand what the hell’s going on.

Being married to someone terribly sporty has its problems too. When we were in love’s first blush I spent many an hour freezing my bum off on the touchline pretending to love watching him play football. I was initially quite pleased when he decided that he’d got too old and hung up his boots, but we just have to watch hours of it on telly now instead. Mind you, I don’t mind it on the TV quite as much - at least we can eat chocolate at the same time. I’ve also tried valiantly to understand his love for his running machine - I’ve had a few goes, but five minutes into it and I start feeling faint and dry heaving. It’s just not for me.

This isn’t a recent thing by the way, I was never sporty even at school. I was on the hockey team, but hated it because I always got my ankles whacked, or my already freezing fingers walloped by the ball. And if we did cross country, I was the one sauntering along at the back smoking a fag. I quite liked tennis, but I was rubbish at it, and I like yoga, but it has a habit of generating all sorts of bodily emissions, which I don’t wish to share with a room full of people, frankly.

Luckily, Hubby’s working this afternoon, so I’m going to avoid mentioning it and hopefully #2 (who inherited his father’s sporty genes) and #1 (my side: enthusiastic, but runs like he’s in foot-deep treacle) might forget and we can watch UKTV Food instead. Now where did I put that Fruit and Nut?

I love my girlfriends. I’m a bit addicted to my inbox. It’s just lovely to login and find a perky email there from one of my friends, telling me all their news. It’s the émigrée’s alternative to a cup of tea and a chat - a kind of virtual coffee morning for the geographically challenged (ooh, I like that one).

This week, in no particular order, I’ve heard about R’s new baby niece, Tilly (isn’t that just the sweetest name? Congratulations!!!), and C’s romantic Valentine’s Day, where they got the best table in the house and felt obliged (as you do) to order Champagne to show everyone how romantic they were (oh, and B’s not so romantic Valentine’s Day, but then he rallied late in the day by having flowers delivered so it was all okay in the end). I’ve heard about everybody’s coughs, colds and snotty noses, and they’ve heard about all our ailments in return, and all about the snow in the UK (Hubby’s sister D and her mates competed with the kids by sledging down the biggest hill they could find and crashing into a hedge at the bottom), ooh and a rather spectacularly good piece of salacious gossip which, naturally, I can’t repeat but God it was worth it (thank you - you know who you are!).

It’s been tough leaving them behind, but 8 months down the line they haven’t forgotten me. My inbox is still filled with news and gossip and questions and I still feel like I belong at home just a little bit because they keep me involved. In a weird way I feel like I could still join in the conversation at the school gates or round the dinner table, without feeling like I’d actually missed out on the last 8 months’ worth of conversation. It’s life-by-proxy - they just fill me in on all the good bits.

I’m probably not a very pro-active new friend maker. Let’s face it, I live in the middle of a field and it’s a 20 minute drive to the nearest supermarket. Potential friends don’t present themselves here too readily, but J has been a godsend. Thrown together initially by our love of greyhounds - hers long-standing and mine new and sparkly (we met when we adopted the beautiful, rather dastardly and much-missed B from her), our friendship has developed in that nice, meandering way that friendships do, from polite enquiries about the well-being of our new family member, through shared tears when B died and into long phone chats, texts: (’update your blog, woman!!!’) and the odd shared bottle or two.

So there you are - bit of girl power there. Don’t worry; I’m not going to break into a Spice Girls song. I’ve got a sore throat….

We’ve got a new visitor! Well, actually we’ve got two new visitors but one of them is human: C, J’s son, who has come to play for the day and the transition from 2 little boys in the house to 3 has increased the noise level by about 400%. Still, they’re having fun so it’s all good. They’re currently playing the biggest game of hide and seek in history - spanning all the fields surrounding the house. J mentioned that he’s been dropping hints about a little brother. My own personal theory is that one day with #2 will cure that completely, and he’ll go home happy again with his one-ness.

No, the real new visitor is a huge and rather beautiful hare, which has been hanging around for a good couple of days now. It took Hubby to be here with his super-complicated camera to get some decent pictures of it though. I must say it’s an absolute stunner and did, actually, at one point, seem to be posing for the camera, showing Hubby first one side, then the other! Whether it’s a he or a she is another matter. I’m not much of an expert on that kind of thing. You’d think they’d wear a pink bow or a bow tie to give you a clue, but no. It seems to be a singleton, which is a disappointment - no cute spring babies to look forward to.

This has prompted a whole load of Wallis and Gromit-esque hare jokes: ‘pardon? I’m sorry, I can’t hare you’….’the buck stops here’…’guess he stays fit by doing ‘hareobics” etc. Mind you, it looks like it might not be long before we have another foster greyhound, so that’ll put paid to his fun and games and he’ll soon be packing his furry suitcase…a case of hare today, gone tomorrow you might say …

We had a pretty lazy day again yesterday: dragged the boys round Tesco, ate a lot, sat around, etc, so we decided to round off Mum’s last day with a bit of excitement and drive into Dublin to get a meal before she headed off to the airport.

So, we arranged to meet Hubby at 6pm and set off at around 5pm to get to Dublin. We pulled out of the house, all chatting away quite happily, drove up the lane and then…all of a sudden from nowhere a sheep ran out of a gap in the hedge and straight in front of us! I didn’t really have time to react, other than to shout: ‘SHEEEEEP!’, slam on the anchors and hope for the best, and before we knew it there was a screeching of brakes, a huge bang and then a sickening lurching as we went over it. We came to rest in the grass verge up against the hedge and sat, stunned for a minute, before looking round, expecting the worst. We were surprised, then to see the poor thing stumble up onto the verge and collapse.

Talking about it afterwards, we all agreed that had the sheep kept running, we would have missed it, but right at the last minute it doubled back. There was also a car coming towards us so I had little choice but to slam on the brakes and hope to stop. It was that, or swerve into the path of an oncoming car. Not much choice really. Anyway, the man in the other car stopped (possibly thankful that I chose to hit the sheep and not him) and offered to phone a vet, but I reassured him that I knew the farmer and rang A on my mobile. The conversation went something like this:

Me: ‘Hi A, it’s me. I’m so sorry I’ve killed one of the sheep…the poor thing…it just jumped out in front of my car up the lane. Well, that is, I think it’s dead…its little eyes are closed and it’s lying on the verge just past the back entrance to the farm. I braked really hard but I just couldn’t stop in time I’m so sorry. There was a car coming towards me and I just couldn’t avoid it… we skidded into it and the poor thing…’

A: ‘No bother. Leave it there. I’ll send one of the hands.’

And that, dear reader, is the crux of life in the country. We were shocked and upset. The thought of a living creature in pain, or worse, killed by my own hand (well, jeep) is terrible. Awful. I really was very disturbed by the whole thing. We all were. But to A, well, I suppose at the worst way it meant that he’d lost some money, but to farming folk life and death are everyday occurrences and don’t really warrant a second thought. Mind you, A’s sheep are particularly errant, living wherever they fancy, which is often in our garden. I’ve given up telling him as he doesn’t really worry.

Anyhoo, we drove up to the farm anyway, just to tell one of the farm hands exactly where it was, checked the car out (the insignia fell off but other than that it appeared unscathed) and then continued on our way. I called my friend J to tell her all about it and in the background could hear C laughing his head off. Later I sent him a text and said ’stop! It’s not funny’. And his reply?: ‘I know. I’m sorry. Enjoy your kebabs’.

Okay, here goes with the frittata recipe. I’m not even sure if frittata is the correct term. Maybe it should be Spanish omelette? Whatever, it’s just a big old mixture of eggs and stuff and tastes really nice. If you haven’t got any leftover potatoes, peel a large one before you start, slice it into 1cm slices and boil it in salted water. You can basically bung any old stuff into here. I’ve used finely sliced French beans, peppers, chorizo, tomato, sweetcorn… all manner of things before, and they all work really well. Here’s the old favourite though:

1 tbsp oil
1 knob butter
1 large potato, cooked
1 large onion, sliced thinly
1 pack bacon (streaky is best), snipped into small pieces
Handful of mushrooms, sliced
Handful of frozen peas
Couple of handfuls of grated cheese (a mean 200g)
6 eggs

Bung the olive oil in a large frying pan (remember it’s got to fit under the grill so try it first), add the knob of butter and fry the onions and bacon gently until the onions are cooked and the bacon is starting to crisp up. Add the mushrooms and frozen peas and let them cook while you whisk up the six eggs and stir in the grated cheese. Don’t add any salt - there’s plenty in the bacon and cheese. Add pepper if you like though. Pour the egg and cheese mixture into the frying pan, spreading it over the other ingredients, then place your sliced, cooked potato in an aesthetically pleasing pattern on the top (or if you’re me, just throw it in). When the bottom appears cooked, ie if you can lift up the edges and they hold together and seem to be golden, put it under the grill to cook the top, adding a tiny bit more grated cheese if you like.

Cook until golden and bubbling (and firm - give it a shake and if it wobbles leave it a bit longer - nothing worse than cutting through the cheese to find runny egg underneath). Serve with a crisp white Pinot Grigio, a green salad and maybe some garlic bread. Or if you have my children, with baked beans and a slathering of tomato sauce (best not to let them at the Pinot Grigio). Sneakily omitting to mention that the interior of this golden bubbling wonder contains vegetables is, of course, de rigeur.

Monday again already? Well, our weekend’s been non-stop. A whirlwind of eating, sleeping, reading newspapers, a touch more eating and lots more sleeping. On Saturday we rustled up a huge bacon and mushroom frittata (recipe to follow), then went for a walk in the unseasonable sunshine with next door’s mad outdoor-living dog, Holly, to work it off a bit and introduce my Mum to the cows. One of the adjoining fields is a kind of nursery and there are always the most adorable Mummy and baby cows in there. The mothers are incredibly protective of their babies and huff and puff when we walk past, herding their children as close as possible.

Holly is a completely mental bundle of energy wrapped in white fluff, and not a bit interested in cows, but she’s good fun nevertheless. She’s a bit worrying when you take her for a walk (especially for an ex-greyhound owner) as she charges off at full pelt, then suddenly turns and charges straight towards you, all fluff and lolling pink tongue and flying clumps of mud. No piece of clothing was left unscathed, and we trudged back to the house exhausted and covered in mud.

Holly, who couldn’t believe that her new walking buddies had had enough already, proceeded to rush up and down past the window with a stick as if to say ‘look! I’m still here! Come and play!’ The children went out to whack golf balls about, but Holly stole them all and wouldn’t give them back, then they had a game of football but Holly took that ball too, so they gave up and settled on just charging up and down, with Holly in hot pursuit, until they too arrived puffing and panting back at the house, much to Holly’s disappointment. I must say, though, it’s quite refreshing to have a dog on hand to go walkies, but then not have to worry about all the mud and crap that it picks up. When she’s had enough she trots back to her kennel to wait until someone else wants to play, or indeed until a tractor comes past that she can chase.

Saturday evening, then, we had a massive Chinese takeaway. Sunday, we started off with the newspapers, then moved on to cocktails and finished with a chicken casserole of epic proportions, helped along with a creamy layered potato dish from Rachel Allen and a nice healthy dollop of Ben and Jerry’s to round it off. Not exactly the hip and thigh diet methinks. Oh, and we had pancakes for breakfast this morning; but we did have a fruit salad with them so that makes them healthy, doesn’t it?

Last night we decided to treat Grandma to her first night at the dogs. We’d told the boys that we’d arranged it earlier in the week and they talked about nothing else, so exciting was the prospect not only of seeing all the dogs, but of gambling away their pocket money.

We got up there at 7.30pm and bumped straight into C, J’s lovely, lovely fella. This was rather heart wrenching, especially for Hubby, as it was the first time he’d seen him since J&C dashed down to us after B had been killed. If you recall, C had been fantastic, taking over the terrible task of dealing with poor B, and Hubby will forever hold C in the highest esteem. The boys, too, were delighted, and #1 was so overcome at seeing C (bit of hero worship there) that he threw himself at him and gave him the biggest cuddle ever (which was probably rather embarrassing for poor C seeing as we were all standing in the lobby with everyone going past). I must admit to having a rather small lump in my throat too, not only for the memories that it invoked, but also because on our girl’s night, J and I had had long conversations about our men, and I was struck at the time by just how much C means to her (and I’m a bit of a big old emotional blancmange at the best of times). Also, frankly, he’s just one of those people that you really take to - a fine mixture of friendly, kind, sage and dependable. Someone you’d turn to in a crisis, which indeed we have.

Anyhoo, after our reunion, we headed upstairs to our table where Hubby dished out a huge 10 Euro each to us. We’re not big gamblers, but we absolutely love seeing the dogs and we decided to have a competition to see who could make the most profit out of the initial amount. I already knew that M, the lovely man who had done the ‘manipulation’ on Dizzy had dogs running, so we sent him a text and asked him their names. Okay, this was slightly cheating, but don’t tell the others. The meal, incidentally, was very good. There was a lovely atmosphere; a couple of birthday parties, including a 21st, helping to jolly things up a bit. One highlight was a particular greyhound called Open Door who really didn’t want to go into the traps (poor choice of name, then). We watched as her handler tried to jolly her along, but the little dog slunk along looking like she really didn’t want to play. We congratulated ourselves because we hadn’t bet on her, but when she’d finally been persuaded into the traps she went off like an absolute rocket, won the race, and bounded back to the handler, tail wagging with a big ‘how clever am I?’ smile on her face. Priceless. Greyhounds just really do have the loveliest personalities, and they come through even on the track. We watched the handlers parade the dogs at the start of the races and placed bets on the ones who gave their dogs a quick stroke or a cuddle - unscientific, but good for the soul.

Well, long story short, I was the victor, scooping a massive 55 Euro from my original 10, mostly because of M’s doggies. #1 was the only one who lost money, and sulked all the way home.