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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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]

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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

Are you the next Mr Kipling?

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So the lovely people at RTÉ have asked me to tell you all about their new competition. They’re looking for amateur cooks with a great recipe or signature dish that they think could make it big in the marketplace. The more unique or innovative the idea the better.

So if you’ve invented something fahbilis, then click on http://www.rte.ie/tv/recipeforsuccess/ for more information and an application form. Closing date for applications is 26th September so get cracking! Oh, and if you win, remember your mates, eh?

The Friday Photo: in which Bert models an Aussie original

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So having a leggy blonde model in the house would, you would think, be a bit distracting for Hubby. But this one does have breath-like-dead-people and a nasty habit of sitting up close to you on the sofa whilst spending unfeasibly amounts of time licking his bits. Enough said.

Anyhoo, the gorgeous, wondrous, talented, fabulousness that is Coastal Aussie sent me a pressie. I know! All the way from Austramalalia! The parcel was so gorgeous - all covered in sparkly stars and pretty things - that the postie actually loitered in the doorway until I opened it. And darned jealous he was too.

And so, after a very unseemly bit of ‘handbags’ in which both the children laid claim to my present and tried to wrestle it off me (I won - I’m surprisingly adept at the half nelson) I legged it to my office to try on my prize. And dashed snazzy it is too. I shall be wearing it with pride on future walkies down the boat road, feeling very ‘snowboardy/surfer chick’ kind of thing.

To preserve my anonymity, Bert ‘agreed’ to model the hat and I think you’ll agree, it’s a thing of beauty. The hat, not the dog. Although I suppose he’s not bad either.

Can I just add that our somewhat reluctant model, the beautiful Bert, sulked so dramatically during our photoshoot, that I nearly lost all bladder control. If the photo is a little dodgy it’s because after the fifty seventh attempt to persuade him not to pull the hat off with his paws I was shaking so hard with laughter that I couldn’t keep the camera level. He’s still not talking to me.

Sorry Bert.

Your birthday song

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So this is really cool (thanks, Nats!). What was #1 on the day that you were born? Mine was the sensational Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel, top of the charts in both the UK and the USA on that day. Hubby’s was Sandy Shaw, ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’ but then he’s, like, really old. #1 was Take That ‘Back for Good’ (great track!!!|) and #2 was Run DMC vs Jason Nevins, ‘It’s Like That’.

USA #1 singles

UK #1 singles

If you’re younger or older or from a different country you’ll have to get Googling. Come on, then, what was your Mam listening to in the labour ward?

The ‘oh no, everyone’s watching’ dance.

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So what’s your favourite sloppy one, then? What would you like your Hubby (or bride, natch - we’re not sexist here at English Towers) to whirl you around the dance floor to? Or if you’re already married, what was your ‘first dance’ song? I think I’d probably favour this beautiful one from the Cranberries, or maybe ‘If you’re not the one’ by Daniel Bedingfield.

I know. I’m a romantic sap.

Chocolate Mousse!!!!

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So we ended up having an incredibly late night on Friday round C and K’s (the ones with the boat - keep up), drinking vast amounts of champagne and Chablis and tucking into a takeaway Chinese. I was completely toasted and woke up the next day at midday with a hammerdrill playing havoc with the inside of my head (I know, I know - self to blame). Happily, I saw both C and K down the shop later and they both looked like crap too.

Hubby was back to work yesterday, which meant that the fellas and I got to have pasta - woohoo! We rounded it off with a celebratory chocolate mousse. What? Surely there’s no carbs in chocolate mousse is there?

Here goes, then:

Half a large bar (about 100 - 150g) of dark chocolate, snapped into squares (we used Bournville and it was fab)

4 fl oz double cream

2 eggs, separated

Another 4 fl oz double cream

So put your first 4 fl oz cream in a saucepan and heat it up - it doesn’t matter if it boils but don’t let it reduce at all. Take it off the heat and add your chocolate, stirring to melt it all in. Let it cool down to finger-dipping temp (you know you want to keep testing it). Meanwhile, separate the two eggs and whisk the whites until they’re at the stiff peak stage (cue stupid ‘holding the bowl over someone’s head’ routine). When the cream and chocolate mixture is cool enough not to make scrambled eggs, beat in the two egg yolks, then fold in the egg whites gently.

Put into cups or glasses or something (small portions here, people) and put in the fridge. Finally, if you’re at English Towers, where everyone feels the need to ponce about with a perfectly decent recipe, you need to whisk a second amount of cream until it’s fluffy and spoon it on top of the mousse the add grated chocolate so it looks like a cappuccino. Or even fold it gently through so it looks all marbly (we did this at the table making ooh and aah noises, but we don’t get out much).

This is such a good fun recipe to make with kids. You can slosh a bit of alcohol in the saucepan with the cream and chocolate - dare I suggest Cointreau or Grand Marnier - or a teeny cup of strong espresso. You can even make a second quantity with white chocolate and layer them up in a wine glass, or maybe pipe it onto little shortcake biscuits for a party. Did somebody say party…?

The heady scent of romance

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So our anniversary, then. I knew something was afoot as I told you yesterday when the boys were making vague mutterings about Daddy’s present being so much better than mine. And yes, okay, he won.

For this to make any sense to you, you’ll need a bit of background information. When Hubby and I got together, I’d already been married (a short-lived thing in my teens). My poor parents paid an extortionate amount of money for my first wedding, a fairytale church affair - we’re talking Laura Ashley wedding and bridesmaid dresses (well, it was the 80s - we had white stilettos too har de har!), a fantastic reception, the whole works - only to see it crash and burn in an embarrassingly short amount of time. With this fact still very much in mind, and being a teensy bit aware of the fact that I was already pregnant with #1, Hubby and I decided to just sneak off quietly to the registry office and do the deed. No parents, no friends, no beautiful wedding dress, no cake, no reception, and, frankly, no money. I had a ring, but it cost us £40 and was so thin it wore down to evil sharpness over the years and I’d stopped wearing it.

Over the years we’ve talked about it and really can’t work out why we didn’t at least have a party, and have often thought that we might like to do it all over again, but properly this time. Imagine my surprise, then, when after I’d handed over the obligatory bottle of aftershave, Hubby produced a teeny (the best kind), gold-wrapped box and I unwapped it to discover a brand new, beautifully chunky wedding ring. The conversation goes a little like this (tissues out, people):

Me: Wow! A new wedding ring. Thanks, I love it!

Hubby then takes my hand and grows suspiciously serious. #2, who is STILL not back at school, is suddenly very interested in the conversation:

Me: What?

Hubby: Would you marry me again properly?

Me: Heh.

Hubby: Well? Is that yes or no?

Me: Oh sorry I thought you were joking.

Hubby: Well, no actually. Let’s get married. This time next year, on our fifteenth anniversary. Properly. A blessing, a reception, a party… the works.

Me: Yay! Partay! Oops, I mean, yes of course

[Insert big hug here]

So there you have it. Blimey, we’re getting married.

The Friday Photo: catching up

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So it’s all very well, this technology lark; computers and digital cameras and all that malarkey, but sometimes I long for a bit of old-fashionedness (is that a word?). For example, #1, who is settling very well in his new school, thank you, needed a photo of himself to take in. You know, a photo: one of those glossy bits of carboardy type stuff with a picture on? Well, we don’t have any. I mean, we do, but the last entry in my photo album is #2′s birthday party in 2004. And as I sat having a nostalgic flick through the album (many painstaking hours’ work there, I can tell you), it dawned on me that I’ll be sad not to be able to leaf through pictures of our time here in Cavan: our new house, our garden slowly taking place, Bert being daft…

And so with that, I took myself in hand (steady) and got myself a Snapfish account, spent the whole afternoon uploading all our photos onto it (which is where I found this lovely one of #2 and Bert, taken back in May when the sun briefly shone - although I’ve done something weird to it as its gone all grainy), and then ordered 6 x 4 glossies of all my favourite photos (the whole lot only cost 10 Euro with P&P!). As soon as they come, I’m going to spend a happy evening with a glass of wine (yeah okay, so my new regime lasted until Hubby caved into temptation and opened a nice bottle of red last night), filling in the album with the last four years’ worth of memories.

Talking of memories, it’s our wedding anniversary. I was out shopping earlier in the week and sent him a quick ‘we won’t bother with pressies will we?’ only to receive ‘well I got you something!’. Oh poo. Cue furtive dash for suitable present: that Lancome aftershave that Clive Owen advertises and a rather nice soft grey cashmere (mix!) jumper. And apparently (so my small spies tell me) he’s bought me a better present than I’ve bought him. Well, honestly. I pointed out that when you’re buying someone something with their own money, they’re often grateful if you’re not extravagant. Still, I’ll let you know when I find out.

Gardening news, steaks, potato wedges and rhubarb crumble

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So I’ve had ups and downs with my first year of vegetable patch ownership. For example, the sweet peas went completely mental but didn’t give me a single bloody flower, the pumpkins, coriander and basil all died (too cold? we didn’t really have any sunshine) and the cucumber covered the whole plot in huge leaves and spidery tentrils, but no cucumbers (well how was I to know it was a climber). On the upside, there are two or three courgettes ready to go, the dwarf french beans have given us a sizeable crop; the fennel, parsley, mint and thyme are all huge and the carrots are surviving . In the greenhouse, the tomatoes have been fruiting like wild things, but all the fruit is green and the weather is definitely on the turn here (our morning walk was both rainy AND cold - Bert was not impressed). The aubergine has a tiny fruit but again it might all be too late.

The rhubarb absolutely excelled itself, growing to triffid-like proportions while I scoured local garden centres for one of those terracotta things to ‘force it’. My kitchen gardening guru, Mr Titchmarsh, says that by the end of summer, the rhubarb will be too tough to eat, but ours has been amazing. Sunday, then, saw us tucking into the biggest, juiciest steaks ever, complete with home grown french beans, garlic-roasted butternut squash and some very pleasant home made potato wedges (four or five medium sized potatoes, cut in half, then into four wedges lengthways, blanched in boiling salted water for ten minutes, then tossed in olive oil, sprinkled with salt and pepper and baked in a 200 degree oven until golden brown and crispy), followed by a huge rhubarb crumble with cream.

For the crumble, then:

Four or five big fat stems of rhubarb

Big splosh of apple juice or water (say 100ml?)

Sugar for sprinkling

6 oz plain flour

Generous teaspoon ground ginger

4 oz butter

4 oz sugar

1 oz porridge oats

Handful of sliced almonds

So preheat the oven to 200 degrees. I’ve been poaching my rhubarb first as I’ve been freezing some of it, so weigh out your ingredients, then, and wash the rhubarb, chopping into inch-long chunks. Pop them in a saucepan with your splosh of apple juice and a generous amount of sugar (to taste, but remember it’s sour!). Let the rhubarb poach gently with a lid on until it’s just tender but not mushy. Mine took about ten minutes.

Meanwhile, rub your butter and flour together (not too fine - a lumpy texture is better), then stir in your ginger, sugar and porridge oats. Spoon the rhubarb into an oven-proof dish, cover it with the crumble mixture and finally, sprinkle over the sliced almonds. All you’re doing is cooking the top so it should only take about 15 minutes to come out all golden and bubbling.

There you have it, then: good, fresh food, quickly prepared and happily scoffed. I had the leftovers with yoghurt for breakfast then next day too. Mr Atkins wouldn’t like it but hey, them’s the breaks.

In which I get very cross at The Cross

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So it’s all change here at English Towers, then. September brings that most alien of sounds… the bloody alarm clock, startling me out of bed at 7am whilst simultaneously alerting Bert to the possibility that breakfast-providing people might be conscious. This starts the pacing, the head-butting of our bedroom door and the pathetic whining - more efficient than any alarm clock to stop you returning to your pit. Yes, I know, back to the real world and all that, but when you’ve had nearly three months off it’s a shock, I can tell you. Anyhoo, #1′s new school (the one containing all the bigger boys) is a whopping 27 miles away, and he and his mate, J, (you know, his Dad C’s got the boat upon which we had such a lovely day) need to get down to The Cross (that’s the Dublin Road crossroads to you English people) to catch the Bus Eireann at 8.06am precisely. I know it’s 8.06am as yesterday I got there at 8.05am just as it pulled up:

‘But wait!‘, I cried, ‘C isn’t here with J yet - can you wait two seconds?’ ‘Nope‘, came the self-important reply, even as he was pushing the button to shut the door in my face, ‘my official time is 8.06am and I must depart’.

Oh, I thought, that’s a pisser, especially as the clock in my car only just clicked to 8.06am as I got back in, but then I headed C off at The Cross and he went hurtling after the bus like a Galway version of Jensen Button and managed to catch the bus up and deposit his child. This morning, then, we were all huddled at the bus stop bright and early at 8.00am. No way we were going to let the same thing happen again. at 8.10am we were a bit worried that we might actually have missed him after all, at 8.20am, we were anxiously craning our necks towards Dublin, and at 8.30am, C decided to put the kids in the car and drive them to school himself, lest they didn’t make the journey by 9am.

A bit put out, especially after Mr Jobsworth wouldn’t even wait half a second yesterday, I decided to call the bus station. Now I don’t know if Bus Eireann’s interview questions include: ‘ do you faithfully promise to not give a shit about our customers’, ‘can you answer the phone in a caveman-type manner that sounds a bit like ‘ugh’ and ‘can you do your best to sound half-arsed and completely ignorant’, but if so, this one passed with flying colours:

Bus Eireann Genius: ‘Ugh’

Me: ‘Er, hello? Is that the bus station?’

Genius: ‘Ugh’

Me: ‘I’m calling about the Dublin Bus. It didn’t seem to turn up this morning’

Genius: ‘Hmph traffic… meh nothin’ we can do… ugh out of my hands mumble’

Me: ‘So is this a regular occurrence? In future is there any way we can find out if he left early or is delayed? A phone number maybe?’

Genius: ‘Ugh… sniff… traffic… no guarantee… harumph’

Me: ‘Oh, okay then, thanks so much for your time and for making your position so clear’

Genius: ‘Meh’.

So okay, at least I know where I stand: Bus Eireann don’t give a sod if my child gets to school on time, there appears to be no way to judge whether the driver has arrived half a millisecond early and rocketed off to the next stop before we’ve arrived, or whether he’s been caught in traffic and yet to turn up. Well you know me, I’ve rifled off a strongly worded email, which will no doubt make absolutely no difference and whether my child makes it to school or not will continue to be a total lottery. Ah, rural life eh? And you thought it was all sheep and green pastures…

EM’s Book(ish) Club: Our September Book

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Righto, then. Our book for September: the most votes went to Rebecca’s Tale by Sally Beauman. Available from Play.com used from £2.49/€4.48 with free delivery, on Amazon.co.uk for £5.99 and Amazon.com for $7.99. Easons (reputable Irish bookshop) are stocking it at €11.10. There’s also tons on Ebay if you fancy trying your hand at bidding. Amazon describes it as an ‘ambitious sequel to Daphne du Maurier’s much-loved ‘Rebecca’ with reviews ranging from ‘gripping’ to ‘arrogant’. The original was one of my favourite books, so let’s hope Beauman can do it justice.

As usual, new members are very welcome. We’ll regroup at the end of September to chew the cud, touch base, think outside the box, and other such meaningless statements. Off you trot, then.