ENGLISH MUM

Moon and Mrs M’s Wedding: belly laughs and happy tears

Firstly can I just say that I hate Ryanair?  Hate, hate, hate Ryanair.  I know, I know, it’s dirt cheap and all that, but when you’ve walked miles, queued for hours and then find you can’t sit anywhere near your children in a hot, sweaty cabin and there’s no room in the overheads for your hand luggage?  Grrr, I could kill that feckin’ Michael O’Leary.

Awwww, we had such a lovely time.  We went out for dinner with the Disreputable One when we arrived on the Friday night (after he picked us up from the airport in his swanky new 4×4 – thanks Dad!), then stayed at me Ma’s for the weekend.  Arriving in the pub before the wedding was fantastic, seeing all my friends and family, my much-missed sisters in law, my lubly brothers, my beautiful nieces and big strapping nephew was just amazing.  The church service was surprisingly emotional although I have to say that it was the adults that did the naughty giggling – the kids all stood together and shot us withering glances as we misbehaved – it was Hubby’s fault, he did silly singing, and then some little teeny girl went ‘I WANT A WEE!’ in a really loud voice which set us all off again.  All went swimmingly apart from some rather bizarre parental goings on (note to my parents: I love you both madly but jaysus, go out for a coffee together and sort yourselves out already).

Mrs M looked absolutely stunning in a slinky green silk fishtail dress – I don’t care what anyone says there wasn’t a single pair of eyes that weren’t glued to her fantastically peachy bottom as she walked down the aisle.

 The evening bash was full of fun and laughter.  We had a total riot and the boys had loads of fun with their cousins.  Mad Uncle A behaved himself (almost) – actually, Sensible Uncle I was just as naughty – and Mrs Sensible was challenging Hubby to down shots of Mrs M’s traditional 80% proof fire-water.  Wow, it took your taste buds clean off. 

Moon gave the longest, most boring speech I’ve ever heard (nah, not really – he made me cry twice which is probably a record) and then we all clinked glasses and shouted ‘Nastrovya!’ and downed the traditional Slovakian shot things (wow!) before stuffing our faces at the buffet, then dancing the night away.  The Slovakian contingent held their own admirably in both the drinking and the falling over on the dance floor, but in true English fashion, it was all wrapping up by midnight – in Ireland we’d only just be getting started!

We rounded off a manic but happy weekend with one of my Ma’s epic Sunday lunches and then it was back to the airport with our Disreputable Chauffeur for another wrestle with our hand luggage.  We arrived home, tired but elated, to find an ecstatic Bert who sang us a little whiny song, he was so happy to see us.

Highlights of the weekend, then:

• Stealing me Ma’s car and rushing round to my friend J’s beautiful new house to catch a glimpse of scrumptious little J and her new baby, M, who I’ve never even seen – we both stood and burst into tears, which made us laugh.
• My mate, C, taking the time to pop to the church to wish Moon luck and say a quick hello to me and Hubby (I wanted to cry again – I’m getting old, I think)
• The photographer shouting ‘No! look at her face!’ when Moon’s gaze kept wandering downwards
• My nieces, who have turned from cute little girls into beautiful young ladies.
• Above-mentioned niece, A, being bribed by Sensible Uncle I’s mates to balance sachets of mayonnaise on the head of Moon’s brother-in-law who was asleep in the corner after coming over all ‘tired and emotional’
• Boogying on the dance floor with my boys, me Ma, Mrs M and a gaggle of her Slovakian mates
• The scary amount of people who came up to me and said ‘ooh, I read your blog!’
• Moon, staggering around with a box of Montecristo cigars saying ‘this is the happiest day of my life’ in a somewhat slurry fashion.

So there you have it.  A lovely weekend, a perfect wedding, and a very deserving couple.  Here’s to you, Moon and Mrs M: wishing you a long, happy and very giggly life together.  Mwah!

The Friday Photo: Life’s too short to die from mushroom poisoning

Okay, so I apologise for the really long, tenuously linked title, but you just won’t believe this.  No, you really won’t.  So we’re tootling down the boat road with Bert yesterday and a splash of white on the grass verge catches my eye.  ‘Oh look’, says I, ‘there’s a huge mushroom over there’.  ‘Ooh’, says Hubby, I’m having that for my breakfast tomorrow’. 

Well, dearest reader.  You could have knocked me down with the downdraft from one of those little whirly seed things that fall off trees. 

Me: ‘You’re going to eat something that grows on the same grass verge where Bertie pees?’

Himself: ‘Too right I am – look at it, it’s gorgeous’

Me: ‘Are you even sure it’s an edible mushroom?;

Himself: ‘Meh, course it is, it’s growing in a field isn’t it? It’s a field mushroom, obviously’

Me: ‘You are aware that we’re travelling to the United Kingdom tomorrow in order to attend my cousin’s wedding, and for you to die in between times would be of enormous inconvenience?’

Hubby: *sigh*.  ‘It’s just a bloody mushroom.’

So I gave up.  Hubby picked the mushroom and we walked home with me muttering ominously about food poisoning, weird hallucinatory trips, certain death and other such mushroom-induced phenomenon.

Anyhoo, this morning he cooked and ate the bloody thing.  AND he fed it to the bottomless pit that is our oldest child (he didn’t tell me that bit – I was in the shower).  In my defence, I did forcibly march him to the computer and make him google pictures and descriptions of edible mushrooms, and what to look out for in order to avoid killing oneself with dodgy self-harvested fungi.

And they’re both still alive.  Fancy that, eh?  Oh and don’t worry, I checked our life cover.

Junior Certificate English for blog readers: Haiku

Right, bit of brain exercise today for you, then (yes, I may have been helping a teeny bit with homework – what of it?).  All comments are to be in the form of Haiku:  a form of Japanese poetry.  The simplest Haiku is in three short lines. The first line containing five syllables, the second line seven, and the third line five.  The lines don’t rhyme but must paint a picture in the reader’s mind.  Here’s mine:

Greyhound sleeps on bed

Feet wave, tongue lolls, breathing soft

Chasing dream rabbits

Something meaningful in seventeen syllables, then.  Off you go.

Fun with teenagers

So for some reason #1 has a random day off school.  This is a bugger as I have quite a bit to get done and, not trusting him to stay at home (he could well burn the house down) I decide it’s safer to take him with me.  My first mistake.  On the way there, we have a very in-depth chat about global warming, the methane produced by Ireland’s dairy herds, how Johnny Gatillo is, like, the wickedest greyhound EVER (apart from Bert, obviously), why Razldazl Billy dropped dead, why Eric Clapton’s such a legend, and I explain, yet again, why he doesn’t actually have to drink the wine we’ve laid down for his 18th birthday all on the actual day.

We decide to split up initially, then to regroup an hour later in the game shop.  This is my second mistake.  When I find him, he is standing playing an X-Box game in the corner of the shop:

The Game Shop

Me: Well, have you decided what game you want?

#1: Yes, I want this Star Wars one

Me: It’s a 16.  You’d better phone the boss.

There follows a long, tedious phone call and even longer rambling explanation to his father about what the man behind the counter said about why it’s got a 16 rating and why it’s totally, like, random as it’s only the same amount of violence as the film, y’know, like light sabers and stuff…  While this conversation is going on, I stand imagining the look on Hubby’s face (and those of his colleagues) as he interrupts his meeting in Knock to have a one-sided conflab with a thirteen year old on the amount of violence, fake-blood and flying body parts in a Wii game.

#1: Dad says yes if it’s ok with you

Me: Okay then, let’s get to the till.

#1 (lingering by the PC games): Or there’s this Spore one I quite like…

[Half hour pause while #1, who has obviously befriended the spotty lad behind the till, has a protracted chat with him about the merits of Spore versus the merits of the new Star Wars one]

#1: Nah, I’m deffo going Star Wars.  Erm…. yes.  No.  I definitely am.

Me: Thank Christ.  Quick, pay before you change your mind.

The Guitar Shop

(via McDonalds where he woofs down a Big Mac, large fries, large coke and an extra cheeseburger, burps and stands up to leave before I’ve even touched my lunch).  I have orders to buy four new sets of electric guitar strings and two plectrums:

#1: Ooh they’ve still got that savage French electric guitar in the sale [flutters eyelashes hopefully]

Me: No.

#1: It’s a bargain…

Me: No.

#1: Look how cute I am when I beg.  And you have a credit card… I know you do…

Me: No.

#1: Can I have a plec in the shape of a skull, then?

Me: Yes, if we can go.

#1: Done.  Ooh, and I’ll have this one in the shape of an alien too…

The Shoe Repair Shop

We have to get him a back door key cut in the shoe repair place.  #1′s eyes light up in wonder at the sparks coming off the key.  He fiddles with the plastic key covers on the counter, knocking them everywhere:

#1: Oooooooh, deadly!  Can I have a green plastic thingy on my key?

Me: No

#1: Oh go on

Me: NO!

#1: Plllleeeeeeeease???

Me: NO!!!!!

Man behind the counter when passing over the key, taking pity on me: Here you are, you can have the green thing for nothing.

#1: Serious?  Wow that’s savage! Thanks!

Finally, we’re off to Specsavers where I’ve still failed to choose the new glasses I need.  #1 rushes around sporting an enormous pair of Terry Wogan frames, fetching every ridiculous pink, spotty, stripy and violent green pair he can possibly get his hands on for me to try on, before getting bored and playing with the machine that takes your photo to help you choose glasses to suit you.  I give up trying to find glasses and my last glimpse as we exit the shop is seven different views of my son’s ugly mug gurning out of the photo machine.  On the escalators back up to the car park he has a violent fit of the giggles because the lady in front has a hairnet over her pony tail which apparently makes it look just like a willy.  Everyone turns to stare at us.  On the drive home I am treated to a précis of the combined plot of every one of Garth Nix’s Morrowdays books, an insight into how much he’s going to earn when he’s a fighter pilot, how he’s going to work in the game shop in the holidays to earn extra money, and reminded of the story of how Obi Wan Kenobi first gave Luke a light sabre and how he cut off C3PO’s head with it.

We get home.  He goes off to play his new game.  I go for a lie down.

*sigh*

When enough is just, well, enough.

So yesterday we were invited up to The Lovelies’ house for the evening.  The sun was out and the lads (yes, ours as well – never slow to take up an invitation) were in the hot tub.  One of the things I love about living here is that they have so many mates around, something they’ve never really had before.  We sat around in the kitchen and had a chat over a couple of beers (Mr Lovely and Hubby) and a glass of wine (me – Mrs Lovely is on medication for madness [joke] and wasn’t partaking).  Mrs Lovely was making a lasagne to freeze and I helped by making the white sauce.  I then helped a little bit less by eating a great big wodge of it (it was darned good) when it was cooked.  In my defence, I did bring a sausage of cookie dough round too.  Later, their neighbours popped round and we drank and chatted while the kids played PS2 or Xbox or something, finally getting a lift back round the corner by Mrs Lovely at about midnight.  A thoroughly nice evening was had by all.

This morning though, as I was concocting a dirty great fry of epic proportions, I started to think more about our evening.  Bearing in mind that Mrs Lovely wasn’t drinking, I managed to polish off an entire bottle of wine on my own.  Granted we started about 7pm and didn’t finish til midnight, and I had a couple of glasses of water in between, but still, I was shocked: a whole bottle to myself?  And I didn’t even feel particularly merry?  Jeebus.  I’m an alcofrolic.

The thing is, dearest reader, I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with alcohol.  I love a glass of champers, and adore a nice glass of wine.  A couple of glasses make me happy, but I don’t like the feeling of being drunk (especially in front of other people) and I don’t like being in the company of drunk people.  Generally I’ll stagger (heh) my glasses of wine with a coke or a fizzy water, but my most memorable and miserable evenings have been those when I’ve had too many.  I felt uneasy this morning and started to wonder about my whole motivation for drinking in the first place.  I shared my unease with the Hubby:  ‘calm down’, he said, ‘a bottle over the course of 5 hours is hardly excessive’.  And #1 added: ’if it makes you feel uncomfortable, why do it?’.

And that’s the question, then:  why do we drink?  In particular, why do I drink when I like the taste but not the sensation.  In the future, I’ve vowed to take better care to buy nice wine and to savour the taste in the comfort of my own home.  Then when I’m out, and not really paying attention to what I’m sipping, I’ll stick to the coke.  I feel happier already.

In which I find fashion advice down the boat road

So it’s beautiful today – sunny and warm, and the fields are so green they’re practically glowing. Bert and I tootle down the boat road. The old man that often waves as he passes us in his little car slows down and stops. The conversation goes something like this:

Old man (in a Cavan accent as thick as treacle): Well!

Me: Well. Isn’t it a gorgeous day?

Old man: Sure it’s a grand day now. But where are your pink wellies?

Me: Oh. Er, I’ve completely worn them out!

Old man: Sure that’s a terrible shame. Are you after getting any more?

Me: Oh yes, it won’t stay this nice for long.

Old man: Ah, that’s good news. You’ll be making sure they’re pink ones now? They’re just right for the boat road.

Me: Oh, trust me, they’ll be pink.

Old man: Well, that’s grand so. Good luck!

And with that, he started his little car and drove away.

Who needs Dublin when you have fashion tips right here on your doorstep eh?

Classic Potter Puppets

I know it’s old, but it makes me and the fellas giggle like a bunch of silly buggers.  Dare you not to crack a smile.  Voldemort Voldemort ooh Voldy Voldy Voldy…

The Friday Photo: Pornobert, part deux

Just when you thought it was safe to go back on the sofa…  Last night we were watching some dreadful shoot ‘em up film with Clive Owen [insert Homer Simpson drool noise here] called, unsurprisingly, Shoot ‘Em Up (has head on car crash with baddies, shoots out windscreen mid-flight, lands in back of bad guys’ van and kills them all before they turn round, that sort of thing).  All of a sudden I’m aware of a bit of posing going on over on the opposite sofa. 

Blimey, Bert needs a girlfriend.

In which I get a full service. [insert 'ooer' here]

So Tuesday saw me off to sunny (okay it was a bit drizzly, but use your imagination) Meath to the land of M the Greyhound Trainer and his beeyootiful bride, the lubly Lizzy.  Proceedings had started off a bit embarrassingly when I sent her a text saying ‘in need of a full service?’ which sounded altogether rather forward and frankly, a bit rude.  Of course I hadn’t meant the question mark and the statement was meant to refer to me (Liz, remember, has the fantastic beauty place in the log cabin).

Anyhoo, she was far too polite to comment on my indiscretion, and when we got there I got a chance to ply adorable little K (who was watching telly: dummy in, bum in the air) with Maltesers.  So impressed was the little chap that I even got a kiss on the cheek (who took care to remove his dummy first – plucked out with a very Maggie Simpson ‘pop’ – before being stuffed back in again post-kiss).

Off we went to the cabin, then, and I was treated to a delectable manicure.  We were just having a ‘whose husband is the worst’ competition (Hubby was a serious contender with his habit of putting his fingers in his ears and going ‘JABBER JABBER JABBER’ in a squeaky voice when you’re trying to tell him something) when M came home, announcing his arrival in his best horror movie voice-over man impression, going ’GET OWTTTTTT’ into the baby listening device.  He then insisted on breathing down Liz’s neck when she was trying to apply a French manicure and making helpful comments like ‘oops, you’ve smudged it there’ and ‘oh, that bit’s not very straight’.  The last straw was a conversation on waxing that threatened to get seriously out of hand until he was unceremoniously kicked out to make the tea.

Next came the most amazing facial:

Me: Will you make me look fifteen again?

Liz: You only look sixteen anyway.

Me: Ah, so you’re going to make me look a year older, then?

As usual I had to ruin any relaxing benefits by needing the loo halfway through, then leaping up at 3.30 and going ‘shit! I’ve got to be in Cavan at 4!’ but it was still darned good, evidenced by the fact that I have a large red spot on both my nose and my chin this morning (sign of a thorough cleansing if ever there was one).  The revelation of the day, though, was the eyebrow shape.  Now usually my eyebrows are just sort of there and a bit hairy on my face (think Madonna – no, no, not ‘Lucky Star’, they’re not that bad – more ‘Ray of Light’) but after a bit of nifty tweezerage, they were transformed into beautiful neat arches, which made me wish that I could do that thing where you raise just one in a kind of ironic and slightly mysterious fashion.

Anyhoo, I now have skin as soft as a baby’s bottom, amazingly mysterious eyebrows and rather beautiful white-tipped nails.  AND she wouldn’t let me pay, so in desperation I emptied my bag of my entire chocolate stash and left it on the table.  Better than nothing, I guess.

And Liz, you win.  Your hubby’s far more annoying than mine.  xx

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

Okay, so you’ll like this: naughty old Maxi Cane has set me a little task.  And it’s a good one.  Here beginneth ye rules of engagement:

• Pick 8 people you’d like to invite to dinner, dead or alive or re-animated/resurrected.
• Say why
• Link your answers back to the lovely Lottie
• Give credit to the person who tagged you
• Tag three others

Firstly, and most importantly, the food.  I think I’d go for a Middle Eastern theme: tea lights in Moroccan glasses, that sort of thing.  When everyone first arrived I would serve champagne with a little touch of pomegranate juice in it (for authenticity and pinkness), with a starter of teeny tiny spiced lamb kebabs , served with a yoghurt and mint dressing, followed by slow cooked lamb shanks with tomato and olives  with Hubby’s evil chilli couscous and a refreshing watercress and mint salad dotted with pomegranate, finishing with a deliciously light dessert, maybe an orange and cardamom fool with some delicate honey biscuits, and some mint tea.

So, to the recipients of this little feast:

Hubby: Well, he’s the person I most like to talk shite with, and it wouldn’t be a dinner party without my better half (and let’s face it, I could hardly expect him to go out, could I?).

Rachel Allen: We’d talk motherhood, food, Ballymaloe and the importance of Irish ingredients, plus we’d compare notes on how hard it is to keep one’s blonde hair from looking brassy.

Jennifer Love Hewitt: For serious chats on fashion, some A-list gossip, and how she keeps her fabulous curves (and some eye candy for Hubby).

My brothers:

 - Mad Uncle A: To inject a few fun and frolics into the proceedings, and reminisce about our childhood.

 - Sensible Uncle I: A balancing influence to Mad Uncle A, and a serious business player.  I’d ask him about his business trips to China, what it’s like to dine at the Ivy and press him for information about my twin niece and nephew, the adorable Fleas.

Ching He Huang: Obviously I’d introduce her to Sensible Uncle I and we could talk about Chinese food and TV cooking with Rachel.

Kathy Reichs: I’d admit to being her biggest fan and a total Temperance Brennan nerd.  I’d ask her all about ‘Bones’ and all her amazing books.

Last, but certainly not least, I’d want

Manuel the Waiter: We’d chat about restaurants and I’d wring lots of good recommendations for excellent wines out of him.  Later in the proceedings we’ll twist his arm into recounting a few juicy anecdotes that will have us all howling with laughter.

Bloggy tag-wise I’ll choose Moon, Jay and the lovely Kate (oh and now Baino.  Yes I know that’s four, but she asked so nicely).  So come one, then, who’s gracing your fantasy table?