Proud parenting moments, motorway hysteria and the Poop of Death
And so it came to pass that we were packed and ready for the off. God alone knows why, but we’d decided that I’d take the car on the ferry, accompanied by one of de brevren, while Hubby flew over with the other one. This was a bit complicated, but we’d already booked our flights and then realised we’d need to take a car. Dammit. A quick check of the ferry booking showed that in a spectacularly proud parenting moment I had forgotten to book my allocated child (number 2) onto the ferry and a panicked phone call to Irish Ferries ensued (whilst holding on the line, I imagined him standing on the quayside with his suitcase, sobbing gently as the ferry slipped out of the harbour).
Still, that sorted, we faced our next hurdle: packing a furious Ninja Cat of Death into the cat box. Not as easy as you’d think: crowding round the cat box, we’d get half of her in, then the other half would bite someone and they’d let go of their bit of the door and she’d escape, then everyone would shout at the person, and they’d have to go and get her from under the sofa again. Half an hour later, bleeding and battered but otherwise unscathed, we set off, trying to ignore the yowling and hissing emanating from the box on the back seat.
The child, somewhat hidden behind several bags of absolute necessities (I won the argument about not trusting the shippers to take Larry the Lobster – he’s made of papier mache and is a bit delicate, okay?) was allocated the position of Chief Navigator and did a valiant job of shouting directions over the clank of baking tins (what? they’re precious). We were doing really well until the M40:
Chief Navigator: ‘Urgh, what’s that smell’
Me: ‘Oh, we’re probably just going past a farm or something’
Chief Navigator: ‘Did you take the turn for the M40? Jesus, WHAT is that smell?’
Me: ‘I think the Cat of Death has done a Poop of Death’
We pulled over. NCOD had made her displeasure at being cooped in a cat box squished between two duvets perfectly clear. Gagging and dry heaving, we weighed up our options:
Put up with the smell for another five hours
Risk going in with the seething, spitting emanator of foul smells to clear it up
Leave her on the side of the road and leg it (joke, joke – no, really…)
Sadly, we knew what we had to do. The Chief Navigator held the box still and I got the short straw. Luckily, when I’d moaned about taking the devil cat on the ferry, English Grandma had come up with a brilliant plan: disposable Pampers changing mats, black bags, heavy duty rubber gloves and Dettox wipes. It was pretty easy for the Chief Navigator to fend off the snarling beast with his free hand while I donned the Marigolds and used a cunning ‘pull and roll’ manoevre on the changing mat and its festering cargo.
On the road once more then, the windows wound open to clear the stench and an even more livid NCOD hissing foul and inventive death threats from the back seat, we did really well bar a short moment of hysteria somewhere past the M6 Toll (well, it’s confusing):
Chief Navigator: ‘…get to junction 15 of the M56, signposted Runcorn’
Me: ‘Yup, I’m here, taking the turning now’
Chief Navigator: ‘…keep right’
Me: ‘Bollocks. I took the turn! I took the frigging turn! We’re going to Runcorn! We’re going to miss the ferry and get lost and go round in circles and be stranded somewhere near Runcorn for ever. I’ve never even heard of Runcorn! We’ll starve to death and the police will find our emaciated remains years from now… or the NCOD might escape and live off our flesh, turning into some sort of zombie cat of death…’
Chief Navigator: *sigh* ‘Take the next exit, go round the roundabout, and go back the way you came’
Me: ‘Oh right. We could do that too…’
Arriving at Holyhead just as they were loading the ferry (phew), we grabbed some nice comfy seats and were soon nodding off, coming to just as the twinkly lights of Dublin appeared in the distance. Returning to our vehicle, we checked the cat box and found a pair of glittering black eyes shooting burning death glares in every direction. The Cat of Death had survived the journey.
The Chief Navigator rolled down the window, ignoring the yeowling, which had resumed at even greater volume. ‘Ah, Ireland. It even smells lovely.
Me: ‘You’re right – fresh gorgeous, Irish air
The Chief Navigator: Much better than the Poop of Death at any rate
Me: ‘Amen to that’.
Home.
I never made a secret of the fact that I didn’t want to leave Ireland. In fact, when I wrote this, I was probably the lowest I’d ever been.
So we’ve made a decision. Probably the biggest decision we’ll ever make. And we’re going home. Back to Ireland. Back to lovely English Towers. Back to the Boat Road. Back to fields of cows, home made bramble jelly and finding sheep on your front lawn in the morning.
Back to find out how D-next-door and his fiancée (also D-next-door – that’s going to be confusing) are doing (the brevren can’t wait to see little C and gorgeous Lou). They’ve got a dog called Riley – can’t wait to meet him too). Back to see if Mrs Lovely’s got the kettle on (she has), and chat with Poppy’s Mum. Back to see Olly for a drink at the Pundertakers.
Back to school buses and places shutting for lunch and driving miles to the supermarket, and no Waitrose. Do I care? Not one bit.
I can’t wait. The boys are looking forward to seeing their friends – sad to leave the new ones they’ve made, but we made the decision as a family, and we feel it’s the right one.
I was saying goodbye to my lovely friend Foxy this morning. I said that I wished we’d never left – that it messed the kids about and in my heart, I knew that it was the wrong decision. ’Well maybe it was worth it, just for you to realise exactly where you belong’, she said. And she’s right.
It’s where the heart is. Where you’re happiest.
Home.
The Gallery: Friendship
So my lovely friend Tara has this amazing blog where all sorts of magic happens. Once a week, Tara (or someone else) suggests a theme and people from all over the world and all walks of life enter photos (old or new) that they’ve taken that fit the theme.
This week’s theme is Friendship.
You all know I’m not a photographer. But I am a friend. I just couldn’t let this one go without entering. Here, then, is my take on Tara’s Gallery theme:
It’s a rubbish picture, but I’ve only got this one to remind me of a whole fantastic, hilarious night, so it’s very precious.
This photo was taken on New Year’s Eve (actually, New Year’s Day – 01/01/2008) with our lovely neighbours – and good friends – from next door in lovely ol’ County Cavan, Ireland. From left to right, that’s Little C with Bert (and his laser eyes), above him is my #1 son, then C’s daughter Lou, then C, #2, C’s hubby D, and then my Hubster at the end.
C was a beautiful girl – when she was well, she had long dark curly hair and was a stunning creature. By this stage, you can see she was really quite ill and didn’t want to have her photo taken at all. She had made the effort to walk all the way down her drive and all the way back up ours (we used to hop over the fence, but she was too ill by that stage, her very aggressive HER2 breast cancer having spread to her bones and her brain) and was exhausted. But we had a fab evening – we popped party poppers, drank champagne, talked rubbish, danced… and it’s a memory I’ll treasure. C died in May 2008. I don’t have many photos of her but this is my favourite – happy memories of a precious evening. When C died, my friend Jay summed it up so well when she said Iit doesn’t matter how long we know someone. If they creep into your heart they are yours forever.’
She’s right here in my heart. All the time.
PS: And check out Moon’s Gallery entry – it’s all about yours truly!
A mass of contradictions
I am, dearest reader, dazed and confused. And no, it’s not because I’m sitting in the library, still suffering from broadband-withdrawal, although that’s true too. No, I’m homesick. At home.
I don’t even know if I can explain. You know that feeling you get when you’ve just come back from the most amazing holiday and it’s back-to-work-Monday-morning? Well it’s kind of like that. And it’s kind of like the feeling you used to get at school, that first day back in September, in an uncomfortable collar and squeaky new shoes.
Nothing fits.
My wonderful friends here in chilly Hertfordshire have welcomed me back with open arms: lovely Tums, one of my oldest (and most glamorous) friends, had the most magical, amazing and fittingly glamorous 40th birthday party in a beautiful old country house hotel. We dined in a private room, danced until we had to take our shoes and hobble home, and ate beautiful pink cupcakes for dessert. I loved every minute (and you know I’m not really a party person). Then Mr and Mrs Foxy, more of our long-term friends, threw us a ‘welcome back to England’ dinner party, with lashings of wine, fantastic food, a roaring fire in their beautiful home, and laughter until our sides ached.
My friends have re-opened their social circle and slotted me back in. I’m beyond grateful.
So it’s not that, then.
I miss my dog. Yes, he was growly and unsociable on occasions. He hogged the sofa and hurled himself at guests. And yes, we thought we were doing the right thing by having him rehomed. But now I’m not so sure. I miss tootling down the boat road together and writing my blog with his head resting on my lap, looking at me with his ‘a walk now, please?’ stare. Should I get another one? Hubby says he doesn’t mind. I just don’t know.
And I miss all our Irish friends… The Lovelies, Poppy’s Mum and D-next-door. But I’m glad to be home, have spent lots of time with the wondrous English Grandma and seen my brothers, nephew and my beautiful nieces.
But I’ve argued with my Dad. I never argue with my Dad. I adore him. I don’t, however, adore his partner. It’s all wrong.
My new kitchen is nice. It’s got the same oven as English Towers, but it’s not my oven. We’ve got a garden, it’s not big, but it’s nice, really. Maybe I should get some chickens? Or maybe not. The new occupants of English Towers say that it’s all lit up for Christmas. They’re so happy there and I’m really pleased for them. They keep in touch and tell me not to worry.
So what’s wrong with me? I’m usually all Christmassed-up by this stage in December. I haven’t bought a single present. Although, as I bake in a crisis, I have baked, and consumed, my own body weight in mince pies.
Bleurgh.
To Ireland, with love.
So that’s it, then. Packing has commenced, the chickens have been collected in a trailer and carted off to their new home, and in a very short time we shall land back on terra firma in the good old Kingdom of United.
I have mixed feelings, frankly. When we first moved to Dublin I was miserable. I missed my friends, my family, the familiarity of having lived in a place your whole life; bumping into people you know in Tesco (frankly, being able to even go to Tesco without an hour’s round trip). It was rotten. The children hated their new school (#1 was the only native English speaker in his class), everything was alien, everything shut for lunch, or on a Monday, or on a Wednesday or had to be requested in writing, and I lasted about 6 weeks before I fled home, leaving poor Hubby blinking in a bewildered fashion in a big empty Irish house.
Still, we made it back. And with a new school for the boys, a new dog (the wonderful and much missed Becks), a new friend in Jenny and a new blog to take up my time (EnglishMuminIreland.blogs.ie – where it all began), I started to settle in. The Irish are a wonderful breed: open, friendly, always up for a laugh, never too busy to help… With Hubby’s new job we found ourselves here in Cavan and from the moment we walked over the threshold of English Towers, we felt at home. With the lovely C next door already terminally ill when we arrived, a sad by-product of being able to help in small ways like minding children or fetching medicine from the chemist was that we (selfishly) felt needed and wanted very quickly. We made friends with The Lovelies, the Galway Cs and Poppy’s Mum and her family (if you’re new here, check out ‘All about me’ at the top of the screen for more info), all via D, who was unceasingly generous with both his time and his friends, and have felt happily and contendedly as though we were home for the past two years. D now has a new, lovely lady in his life. The children are delighted and so are we. We wish them all the love and happiness that they so deserve.
But things change. The Recession came and bit us on the bum and it’s time to move on again. I’ll miss the beautiful countryside, the wonderful people and the laid back lifestyle, but the hustle and bustle of town life is calling me back too. Living in this huge house with the dog and the chickens and the lovely garden has been a massive adventure for us all. The children have made lifelong friends, received a fantastic education and enjoyed some amazing life experiences. They have benefitted immeasurably from their time here, as have the Hubby and I. We’ve been lucky enough to share this fantastic place with our friends and family when they came over for our wedding blessing and have even been welcomed into the new community of the church by the kind and gentle Revd Craig - something I never would have imagined in a million years. I know we’ll return so much more open to new experiences, and with a fresh appreciation for all the people and places that we’ve missed over the last four years.
Onwards and upwards, then. Pass the bubble wrap. Goodbye Emerald Isle. It’s been a blast.
Ah, nothing like a bit of child labour…
Get a move on there, slacker...
… to get a job done quicker. And yes, the new lilac/grey/blue/pearly kitchen coming on rather swimmingly, thanks.
Note to self: dogs and empty houses? Uh uh.
Back live! Hope you’ve all missed my inane ramblings. We had a lovely time in England – saw all the family and had a fab trip up to London (details to follow). One thing that was slightly ominous while we were there, though, was a text from D. All his texts had been ‘dog fine, stop asking’, ‘been for a walk, he’s grand’, etc, but then I received one that said : ‘Been trying to ring. Dog fine but couple of toilet accidents and he has damaged window sill in hallway (badly). Wood can be replaced don’t stress’
Stress? Me? Nooooooo. The dog’s just eating my house and I’m in a different country. What else can possibly go wrong? Well, lots apparently. D then locked him in the kitchen thinking he’d contain the damage but oh no. Bert started on the wall next to the back door:
And then the utility room door:
And then my lovely bar stools:
And then the back door itself:
And this was the window ledge – not sure if you can see but he’s actually completely broken the corner off too:
I’m completely dumbfounded to be honest. He’s never so much as chewed a shoe before – yes okay so he’s nicked the odd bar of chocolate we left lying around, but this? Apparently he was absolutely fine for the first four days, then D and the gang started to hear him crying in the house and no matter how much time they spend with him, every time they left him alone he did more damage. And poor Lou – however grown up she is, it’s not fun to have to clear up a big dog poo that Bert generously left her on the landing carpet. He’s never ever messed in the house either. All I can put it down to is stress. It’s my own fault – Hubby decided to join us at the last minute and I thought Jen would have Bert, and then when she couldn’t, it turned out that his innoculations had lapsed and I couldn’t get him into kennels. D, Lou and Little C did me a great favour saying that they’d look after him, come in four or five times a day, take him for long walks, etc, but he just obviously couldn’t cope with the nights on his own.
I’m not cross. Actually I feel really guilty. Poor Bert, he didn’t know what to do when we came home – he was crying with excitement at the same time as shying away from us as he knew he’d done something wrong. I wonder what the hell my house insurer is going to say about this little mess.
In which English Towers suffers a stinky situation
Following on nicely, then, from all our chat about self sufficiency/knitting your own yoghurt/composting toilets, etc, I think I’ve mentioned before that here at English Towers we’re a teeny, tiny bit eco-friendly. Firstly we’ve got those very thick, specially insulated walls that mean you can forget trying to hang a picture, because one tap with the hammer sees you elbow deep in your plasterboard, however it does make it incredibly warm upstairs, which flows nicely downstairs and saves on the costs of the heating system, which, coincidentally, runs separately upstairs to down. Good eh?
Secondly, and yes, I’m getting to the point now, we have one of those ‘bio-flow’ systems for our..er…waste. Here’s the rub, as understood by my peanut-sized brain, and with no technical terms thrown in: the toilets and sinks are linked up to a drainage system which take all our household ick to a big green tank which is buried in the garden. Here, a small constantly running motor injects a supply of air into the ick which bubbles through, aerates the ick and encourages bacteria to break it down to a liquid which is then fed into the garden by a system of tentacles planted all under the lawn, where it harmlessly, odourlessly seeps away. This system doesn’t create any harmful gases (apparently – they haven’t met my children) and leaves a very small amount of ‘sludge’ which collects in the bottom and only needs ‘de-sludging’ (I know, it’s a fantastic phrase) every 5 years. Here it is with the lid off (and yes, I took the photo from inside – it was very bloody smelly):
Trouble is, ours broke. We noticed first of all that weird things were happening: if you flushed a toilet, water bubbled up in the shower. We got worried. And then we looked outside in the drains and we were even more worried:
Hubby: ‘oh look, there’s one of yours’
Me: ‘I think you’ll find that’s not mine’
Hubby: ‘oh right of course not, yours don’t smell, do they’
Me: ‘nope. And mine are pink and sparkly’
Cue several days’ worth of quality poo jokes and lots of worried conversations with the water treatment company. Turns out, when we finally got the bloody lid off, that the air hose had popped off and had been happily aerating half of Cavan instead of our poo for the last goodness knows how long. One look into the main tank and we knew we had one giant, stinky problem. The system had completely broken down and we needed help fast.
Long story short, then, we had to had to be ‘de-sludged’ and have our pipes cleaned before the whole process was ever going to start working again. To add insult to injury it turns out that our gates aren’t wide enough to allow one man, his tractor and his de-sludging equipment through, so we had to do a bit of long-distance desludging, which doesn’t exactly help matters.
The whole thing cost a packet and was extremely stinky. See what happens when you try and go eco-friendly? Next up is a visit from the bio-flow company who are, unfortunately, based in Cork.
And no, sadly, this was no April Fool’s joke. Still, as I pointed out to Hubby, we may be cash poor, but we’re poo rich.
The Friday photo: what a difference a week makes
So I wake up this morning (first one up, don’t you just love half term?) and walk outside with Bert, bracing myself, to be confronted by…sunshine. I’m a little shocked at first. What’s this? The sun on my face? I rush back upstairs and fling open the curtains to show Hubby. ‘Look! You can even see the windfarm through the mist!’
This was the same view less than a week ago:
And here’s a close-up of that skyline. And then I remember exactly why I love living here. Half an hour’s drive to Tesco? Pah. I’ll settle for it, in exchange for this view.
Oh, and the Friday Fridge? It’s over at Aussie’s house.
