So I often get emails asking after Little C and Lou.  D battles cheerfully on, holding down a full time job as well as combining Mum/Dad duties at home.  It’s now, unbelievably, nearly two months since their Mum died and with the added childcare pressures of the summer holidays, it’s a wonder he doesn’t spontaneously combust.

Happily, Little C and Lou are cheerful, muck-in with everybody kind of chaps, so it’s no hardship to have an extra couple of smalls about during the hols.  There are obviously stumbling blocks (I for one feel very weird if I ever have to tell them off), but D also has a lot of support from his wonderful family, so nobody ever feels overwhelmed.  One problem I do have is with food.  Little C, like #2, is not a big eater, and finding something that everyone will eat can sometimes be a struggle.  I’d never be one to force kiddies to eat stuff they don’t like, but I’m not going to let them eat Nutella sandwiches, either.  Happily, with her usual forward planning and attention to detail, C left behind a folder of recipes; everything from how to make mashed potato to how to roast a joint is explained perfectly and, sitting in D’s kitchen the other day flicking through them, I noticed this little beauty.  And do you know what?  It was hoovered up by everyone - even the veg-phobic Little C.

1 tbsp olive oil

2 litres stock

1 onion

1 celery stalk

2 carrots

1/2 swede

1 parsnip

Handful frozen peas

Couple of handfuls red lentils

So heat your olive oil in a large heavy based pan, and chuck in your chopped onion and celery, sprinkle with salt, then fry gently until translucent.  Then add your stock (either defrosted chicken stock, or made with cubes - whatever), and finally chuck in all your chopped vegetables and the lentils.  Bring to the boil and let it bubble away for a good half hour or more until all the veggies are soft.

Whizz in the blender until completely smooth and serve with plenty of warm cheese bread. 

Good ol’ C, eh?

So yesterday, then.  Early in the year, Lubly Auntie Jen had purchased Linkin Park tickets for the RDS in Dublin.  Not exactly enamoured with the idea, but swept away by Madam’s enthusiasm (railroaded, moi?) and wishing to protect our offspring, we naturally had to go with them.  Queue several months of worry, planning and plotting and plenty of ‘ooh, only [insert timescale here] to go’.

Yesterday dawned hideously rainy and windy (sign of things to come, perchance?) and I managed to borrow D-from-next-door’s sat nav (’It’s completely foolproof, honest’ *worrying pause* ‘er…I’m sure you’ll be fine’).  To be honest, I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse, but actually it wasn’t too bad.  There was plenty of girly squealing when we got into the centre of Dublin:

‘Look, Mum, I can see the Liffey!’

‘Don’t talk to me, I’m concentrating!  Arrrrggghhh!’

and Mrs Tomtom-sat-nav-woman was blasting ‘filter left here’ then ‘prepare to turn right here’ instructions at me, but we made it in one piece to the parking area.  Phew.

A rather long queue in the rain followed, but Jen and I rather enjoyed the people watching (’tartan leggings with those thighs?  Uh uh’).  #2 was my biggest worry, seeming rather teeny for an event populated by a scarily large amount of mohicans and piercings, but most were very friendly.  We eventually got in, and after the warm-up acts, one of which, Coheed and Cambria, was quite good, although not really my cup of cha, and one of which, Queens of the Stone Age, the sound seemed very poorly engineered and we could hardly make out what the poor guy was singing.  We could certainly feel the baseline, though, which was a big thump-thump-thump  in our chests.

Anyhoo, finally Linkin Park came on, the crowd went wild, and we actually got into it a little bit.  Jen and I took turns to have #2 on our backs (needing traction this morning, though) and I even recognised a couple of songs.  The second half of their set was by far the best.  By that time we’d moved to a less crowded area to the side (it wasn’t actually that packed), so we could all see the stage and the big screens well, and more recognisable songs came on.  We were even taken by a small, far too ancient urge to dance about a bit.  Shocking.

Gripes: mainly the fact that alcohol is served and several silly arses seem to want to pay extortionate amounts for a ticket, then spend the concert completely incoherent, staggering annoyingly around being a nuisance.  Also that people were allowed to smoke.  Not only is it bloody annoying to be inhaling someone’s icky smoke, but frankly, dancing with a lit cigarette is asking to take someone’s eye out (oh, hark at me, I’m turning into my mother).

Highlights: ‘What I’ve Done’, an awesome track; watching the kids dancing around and singing all the words until they were hoarse.

Biggest bummer: having to drive all the way home and not getting back until 1am as Mrs Tomtom decided to drive us all round County Meath by the scenic route.

Chances of us ever doing it again: slim to zero, but hey, me sprogs deserved a treat.  That’s not to say that if I could choose the concert I wouldn’t go… who would you go and see live??

So last night we all sat down for a nice family meal to celebrate the end of term/prizes/the promise of good reports to come (#2 looked slightly green at the mention of those), etc.  I made little meatballs with my lamb kebab mixture, which I baked in the oven, along with some of #1’s famous tomato sauce.

Hubby, generally a stranger to the kitchen (unless there’s scrambling of eggs or anything to do with chillis) contributed this exceptionally good couscous recipe (well, come on, couscous is hardly cooking, to be fair).

8oz couscous

1/2 pint chicken stock

4 tbs olive oil

1 tbs sultanas (or very finely chopped dried apricots would be good, I think)

Couple of sliced spring onions

1 tbs chopped flat leaf parsley

2 tbs chopped mint

4 tbs good olive oil

2 small finger chillis, deseeded and finely chopped (Hubby used 6 and we’re still breathing fire)

Salt and pepper to season

So once your meatballs (or whatever you’re eating this with) are nearly cooked, put the couscous in a bowl along with the sultanas and pour over the hot stock.  Stir, then cover the bowl with cling film or a plate or somethng and leave for five minutes.  Meanwhile, heat your oil in a pan and bung in your very finely chopped chillis.  Swirl around so that the chillis release their oil, then you can turn it off.  After five minutes, when the couscous has absorbed the stock and the sultanas are all plump and lubly, fork the couscous through to fluff it up and pour over your chilli oil.  Add the chopped herbs and spring onions, season to taste and if you want to go mad, serve with a little sprinkling of chopped pistachios. 

Enjoy.  Oh, and an added bonus is that you get lovely minty burps afterwards.  See, not only do I provide you with lubly recipes, but you get fragrant indigestion into the bargain.

So I think I’ve said before that the school the children attend is a good old fashioned Irish preparatory school.  They have boarders, and Matrons, and get to play in the woods and have proper lunch and cricket and rugby and stuff.  #1 has spent two happy years there and today was his last day.  He was tremendously sad, although this was slightly offset by being allowed to stay over yesterday for the leavers’ party, which seemed to include a day out to some mad place where they did ‘bog jumping’ (yes, really, in a peat bog - he still has it under his nails), an assault course, a proper outdoor barby (’I had a burger…and a hotdog with loads of onions…ooh, and some really nice marinated chicked…ooh, and lemonade…’) and then back to the school for a specially arranged late night swim in the outdoor pool (a lovely detail was that the staff on duty used their car headlights to light the pool for them) and very little sleep afterwards, no doubt.  This was a wonderful, memory-building last night for #1 and his friends, something they’ll no doubt tell their children about.

So it was with a certain melancholy that we took our places in the beautiful hall (I especially love it that one of the paintings shows a magnificent greyhound) for #1’s very last Prizegiving Day.  Well, there were prizes for this and prizes for that, and I have to admit I’d kind of zoned out a bit and then… hang on, was that #1’s name I heard?  Yes!  And I could see him weaving his way up to the front to receive The Senior Music Prize, no less.  I could see #2’s face all smiley and proud as he clapped double hard for his big brother.  And then, shortly after, once again to receive The Latin Prize!!!  Afterwards, breathless and red faced, he came rushing up clutching a distinction certificate for History too.  Not to be outdone, #2 got a certificate for swimming - he is just coming up to his senior three years now, so I can see there’ll be some healthy competition on the prize front in years to come.

So on to senior school, then.  Many new challenges ahead.  And honestly?  This school’s been the making of him (and continues to do a great job with #2).  They arrived, uncertain in a new country and frankly unhappy to be joining a new school, and he leaves a confident, happy, sunny teenager.  He’s still our mad professor, but he’s taller.  And more argumentative.  Happy days.

So he’s mowing the lawn and he rushes into the house and says ‘there’s something wrong with the lawn, you’d better go upstairs and look’. 

‘Hmph’, says D over the fence from next door later.  ‘Should’ve drawn her a hoover’.

…with a camera, we’re not that bad.

So we continue to be pestered to within an inch of our lives by the House Martin Hoodies.  Poor Bert lives in permanent fear of being divebombed mid-pee in the garden, and hanging out washing (the whirly is by the garage door) has become seriously dangerous territory.  Walking past the garage the other day I was attacked so mercilessly and squawkily I nearly fetched me tennis racquet.  Hubby couldn’t resist having a cheeky peek in the nest just to see if there really were babies in there, and yes, teeny fluffy hoodies are being groomed for thuggery right there in our garage.  The final straw, though, the pièce de résistance if you will, was when the lounge window was open at the weekend and one of the little buggers actually flew in through the open window and buzzed me as I sat at my desk.  Being a big cowardly girl I sat and screamed until the boys plus their very brave mate came and rescued the bloody thing and threw it back outside.  And it pooed on my desk too, the little f*cker.

Jeez.  I’m renaming English Towers the Hammer House of House Martin.  Be afraid.

Firstly, can I point out that I have a cold, so my blogging may well be less sparky and intelligent than usual?  Secondly, I want to have a moan.  So when we first moved here, we commented smugly on the price of fuel.  At the time I was driving a petrol car and paying, at one stage, less than a Euro a litre.  Our friends and family used to gape in surprise when we told them how cheap our petrol was.

Now, though, I drive a diesel (better fuel economy, blah blah) and I’m paying €1.45 (diesel prices overtook petrol around Christmas and are now around 10c higher) and this fuel chaos seems likely to get worse instead of better.  I heard on the news yesterday that truckers are threatening to ‘bring the country to its knees’ in protest at rising diesel costs and I for one will be right behind them.  Fishermen also are paying the price, with Wexford fishermen recently giving out free fish (damn and blast) in Dublin to raise awareness of how this will affect their business.  A lot of school transport here is provided by small private services, and some of these are running at a loss, for goodness sake.

So yeah, I know, we could all get bikes - but with a huge amount of rural Ireland travelling a very large distance to school every day (my own school run journey is 1/2 hour each way and #1’s new secondary is a stonking 25 miles away).

So what the bloody blue blazing bejaybers is going on?  How come Britain and Ireland have some of the highest fuel duties anywhere in the world?  And what are we going to do about it?  I mean, I love fish.  And I love truckers (ahem).  And imagine how terrible it would be if the kids couldn’t get to school - they’d have to stay home *gasp*.

Answers on a postcard, then, please (no, not you Dad, nobody would be able to read it anyway).

PS: Oh, and I’ll be interested to hear how much you guys in the US are paying for your fuel.

So you know when you have those conversations with your kids?  Lazy, half-hearted chats on the way home from school, or sun-baked after lunch holiday lounger conversations about ‘what it was like when you were little’, or ‘what’s your earliest memory’ type things?  Well one thing that’s always guaranteed to get my kids going is hearing about their Grandad when I was little.

He wasn’t (and still isn’t) your average, run of the mill Dad, granted; but oh the excitement, the adventure of having the Disreputable One for a Dad made up for the fact that he was rarely there at bedtime and could be absolutely, utterly, counted on not to be there for parent’s evening either.

We used to get scribbled postcards (he needs a new spider) from exotic places like Barbados and Dominica (’why can’t we ever go, Mum?’), and have to sit through interminable slide shows of beautiful beaches and colourful tropical birds when he did finally get home.  When he was around, though, there were long summer days down the Cricket Club, building dens out of hay bales and paddling in the stream while the men baked out on the field.  I remember doing mad things like driving to the Sheraton Hotel at Gatwick Airport and having lunch in a really posh restaurant while planes jetting off to foreign climes whooshed over our heads.  And then there was The Royal Tournament (field gunners…phwoar!!), cash incentives for passing exams, a treasured memory of glimpsing him in the audience when I played the judge in Toad of Toad Hall, late-night car journeys to see the Christmas lights on Oxford Street, or being woken at 4am to get in a taxi to go on holidays to all sorts of exotic (to my 8 year old self) places: Fuengirola, Tunisia, Tenerife…

When he left, I was ‘grown up’ but still we fought and shouted and I hated him for breaking up our family, ruining future Christmases, happy visits to Grandparents for my boys, etc.  But hey, he’s my Dad (you generally only get one) and I kind of suspect he’d agree that my Mum’s happier without him (a Disreputable husband too).  Now it seems the norm that they’re not together and they’ve even talked on the phone (a milestone).

One memory amongst others sums up my Dad.  The night before I got married (for the first time), I sat in tears on their sofa when he came in and sat next to me.  I told him I didn’t want to go through with it and that I was worried I was making a huge mistake.  After spending all that money on invitations, suits, posh Laura Ashley wedding and bridesmaid dresses, a sit down meal for hundreds, did he rant?  Did he tell me I was a nightmare (as usual)?  Nope, he held my hand and said ‘Titch, it’s never too late to change your mind’.  I didn’t change my mind, and it didn’t last long but, hey, I went down the aisle on his arm knowing that he wouldn’t have cared wasting all that money as long as I was happy.

Disreputable?  Yup.  Unreliable?  Surely.  The best Dad in the world?  Absolutely.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

I’m an alien, so I didn’t vote.  But I would have voted no, having a basic suspicion of saying yes (founded upon a very misspent youth) to things that I don’t understand.

Here’s the skinny.

No, I don’t want to watch a Pamela Anderson video.  Nor do I want to watch one with Eva Mendes in it.  Or Paris Hilton, for that matter.  Or Lindsay Lohan.  Oh, and nor do I want to watch cross dressers, men in petticoats (yes, really) or ‘amateur girls’ (and I don’t even want to think about how they differ from ‘professional’ ones).

And no, I don’t want to ‘watch animals mating’.  Nope, I’m not interested in the sex lives of monkeys, dogs, horses, snakes, rabbits or bloody chipmunks for that matter.  And I don’t want to enlarge my p*nis (don’t want Google hits on that little beauty) or ‘get big sexy boobs’.  And no, I don’t want to see pictures of big boobs/bouncy boobs/celebrity boobs/tiny boobs or any other kind of boobs.  No, really.  I don’t.  I’ve got some myself and I can always look down my top if I need a boob moment.

And no, I don’t need insurance, or a house in Florida, or to help some deposed African leader’s widow get her money safely out of the country.  And I don’t need any Viagra.  Or Xanax.  I don’t even know what it is, but I don’t want it.  Honest.

And these are just the ones I could reproduce on a family blog.  God alone knows what hits I’ll get on Google now.  But seriously, what do spammers think they’re going to gain from sending me thousands of these things?  My spam filter has caught 7300 of the bastards so far and no, honestly, I’ve really never been tempted to click on a link to see a ‘Nicole Richie upskirt’.  Really.  I’ve never thought ‘ooh, I’ll log on to my blog today and see if someone’s spammed it with hundreds of invitations to watch videos of people I don’t know doing things that probably aren’t legal.  Yippee!’.  I haven’t.  Ever.

Sigh.