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Christmas is over and the goose got very fat!

Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy. Did I/we/me and mine have a wonderful, joyous, celebratory Christmas and New Year celebration. Thankful I am. Grateful I am. Stuffed-to-the-gills I am. And oh-so-glad it comes just once a year!!

Truth be told, the month of December is utter madness in our home. Has been ever since my beautiful daughter decided to pop into the world two days before my birthday (Dec 5 – which also happens to be a national, Dutch Christmas Day of sorts as well). 22 years later we’re still trying to work out a way of making the month a little less… manic.

Of course it’s all good fun and there are huge globs of happiness thrown in, with both of us wallowing to our hearts’ content in what we’ve dubbed our ‘birth week’ (steadfastly refusing to acknowledge anything Christmassy until we’ve exhausted ourselves and everyone around us with birthday-making jollities). We decorate tables for early morning delights, hang up themed stringers and balloons, wrap gifts in glistening paper and do everything possible to make the days special. It’s a thrill (and hubby almost faints with relief when it’s over). But by then Christmas is gasping for a look in so I shift gears – fast – to catch up.

Lists I’ve compiled over the years with recipes (traditional, iced Christmas cake: check! Mince meat filling for pies: check!); addresses for REAL cards (I can’t stand e-ones – must get the ones for abroad into the post before 8 Dec!!) and gift ideas are yanked out of boxes covered in dust. Ribbons, gift wrap paper and pretty bows are hauled out of drawers. Candles (red of course!) – lots of them – bought in in BULK. Not to mention a thorough review of the table cloth, Christmas dinner service and glasses to see if anything’s missing or cracked and last year’s wreath for the door…

Geez. I’m even running out of breath writing this! And that’s before I started buying actual gifts – both for my own family and the extended one in Ireland. Plus surprise, small treats for those who’ll join our table over the holidays. A huge bone for the dog – wrapped tightly so he can join the merriment on Christmas Day and have his moment of ‘unwrapping’. Mulled wine and snacks for after Christmas Eve midnight mass (or was it before??!).

And exhale…

This year, because I was hugely thankful to be out of a wheelchair (knee problems a year ago), I kept reminding myself how lucky I was to be able to shop repeatedly in mega-filled streets and over-stuffed stores. Smiled as I hobbled slowly around the stores, mouthing “on my own two legs” to my mirrored reflection when my feet began to shriek in protest. I do believe I may have fooled myself quite well.

But it all came together in the end. The tree went up, glorious and golden. The turkey fitted into the oven, the ham baked divinely. We ate, we drank, we made very merry and revelled in the joy of doing so together.

Roll on next year. Who knows, maybe I’ll have grown wings by then…

Happy New Year, everyone.

image of woman with filled shopping trolley
Bread for the stuffing… where can I find goose fat… oh look the red wine’s on special offer…
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No, Scuba, no! (the finale)

(A wander over to the first part of this soggy tale  is probably a good idea, if you haven’t already been there).

By the time I’d flipper-flopped my way out of the pool, strapped on a weight belt and completed one more backwards-walk into the water, the group had become accustomed to sitting on the bottom. Hubby and I sank down beside them. An odd experience in itself, to be honest. Kneeling on the bottom of a pool beside complete strangers. My mouthpiece jammed securely between my teeth, every breath a loud, rasping sound in my ears.

I tried to orientate myself by focusing on the instructor, whose face was largely covered by her mask. She began making hand signs, pointing first to her mask then to each of us in turn. Suddenly, and to my horror, she lifted it slightly, allowing water to flood in! Given my lifelong fear of water covering my face (even in the shower) I could feel my heartbeat take on a rapid drum beat. As we watched, her mask slowly emptied out again. I then realised she wanted us to follow suit.

Holy crap. How, what… panic raced through me as I watched the guy beside me take a stab at it. Seemed to work for him. Jesus H, I was next! My hands shaking with fear I took in a huge gulp of air and gingerly lifted the edge of my mask a fraction, praying for magical deliverance. Instantly a rush of cold water raced in, blinding my eyes. All rational thought vanished. It felt like I was drowning. I kicked for the surface and wrenched off my mask, treading water furiously.

A minute later she was there beside me, irritation lacing her features. “You are supposed to breathe out through your nose” she barked, “then the air will be pushed back out”. I couldn’t speak. “Come back down, we’ll try again” she urged. Back down I went.

Two minutes later I was again pushing for the surface, and this time the tears came as soon as I tried to speak. “I can’t do it!” I squealed, “I can’t do it!”.

“I think you need extra time with Hans” she sighed, gesturing for a young, blonde, very tall Adonis-like instructor to join us in the water. Relief flooded through me but he wasted no time, “Come, we go stand there” he said, his lithe, tanned body cutting powerfully through the water.

Stand? yeah right. By the time I reached him I was way out of my depth and had to tread water to stay afloat. For the next ten minutes we practised the art of filling my mask and emptying it while my legs cycled frantically underwater. Before long we’d both had enough.

“I’ve had enough” I gurgled up at him, “I want to get out”.

“Ok” said Hans, “why don’t you snorkel back to the shallow end and take a rest?”

Ah, snorkelling… I can do that I thought, popping in my mouthpiece before (tiredly) flopping onto my back! Needless to say with my first breath I slurped in a huge mouthful of water, and began to choke. Hans watched me from afar as I flailed around, spluttering… his face a study in curiosity.

By the time I’d splashed my way to the shallow end and lay gasping on the tiles it was clear to all that scuba diving was not going to be ‘my thing’. Time I stopped trying to be a mermaid and went back to what suited me best – a sport-free life!

scuba diver at poolside
Clearly, scuba diving was never, ever going to be ‘my thing’!
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Scuba, anyone??

Ok, so we’ve already established that basically, I am rubbish at sports. Always was, no doubt always will be. My sad little attempt to master the art of horse-riding many moons ago left no illusions on that score.

But despite the humiliation of that hapless endeavour, I still wasn’t quite ready to give up and just a few months later had persuaded my partner-in-crime (a.k.a. long-suffering-hubby) to join me on one more ‘fun’ sporting adventure. Scuba diving. In the city of Amsterdam.

I know, I know, perhaps a tad unrealistic given my lifelong fear of water smothering my face – but somehow, it seemed vaguely achievable. For a while.

So where to get lessons… well in those days (we’re talking 20 years ago!) it was a case of browsing telephone books and ‘asking around’. No internet, no Google! Someone, somewhere recommended a ‘PADI’ diving course to me. It sounded good. Professional. Manageable. We hopped along to an introduction day, and by the time the woman-in-charge had assured me I could always buddy-up with hubby and would be allowed to go-slow in the early weeks, we’d signed on the dotted line for their 12-week course.

Five weeks later, we headed off to the first session: theory. By now my Dutch was reasonable if not fluent, so I struggled a bit but left feeling quietly confident, this time I would not be bested! Lesson two however, the start of the ‘practicals’ was a different kettle of fish. Entirely.

In the bright lights of the swimming pool’s changing room, I glanced around at the other women, noting the athleticism of their bodies. Hmm. Slightly intimidating. Skinny (then), with muscles that knew best how to drag me out of bed and into a car, I slithered into my bikini with no small amount of trepidation.

Reminding myself that I could start slowly, I headed towards the pool, my newly purchased goggles hanging around my neck, my flippers clutched in a nervous fist, my oxygen tank strapped to my back. The whole group was waiting for me in the water, standing in a circle. No one spoke. I sat down heavily on the edge of a small wall, and tried to put on my flippers.

For some reason, the damn things refused to fit onto my feet. Shoving my toes in got me nowhere and after five failed attempts I was in danger of becoming upended from the tank on my back and my feet seemed to be doubling in size even as I watched them. I heard a shout, ‘wet your flipper, then your foot slides in!’. The group was becoming impatient. Two minutes later I was all flippered up, feeling more frog-like than any woman ever should but – hey – I was on my feet! My rubber feet. God they were huge! how the hell was I to walk into the pool??!

With all eyes on me, I took a step forwards. The flipper swayed, I wobbled precariously, took a step backwards. Fervently wished for the tiled floor to swallow me whole, then tried again. No dice. Suddenly, hubby was beside me, ‘it’s ok, just turn around and walk backwards’ he whispered. Minutes later we were in the water. Glares of irritation floated my way, I ignored them and focused on the instructor,

“we’re all going to float to the bottom now” she said, expertly popping in her mouthpiece and vanishing into the water in one smooth action. The rest followed suit. I popped in my mouthpiece but when I tried to sink to the bottom of the pool, discovered that I couldn’t. My legs kept rising to the surface and my flippers looked like shark fins, floating wildly above the waves.

Hubby was struggling equally. We thrashed around for a full minute, legs going in all directions, and I could feel the giggles rising as a realisation of what we must look like to the waiting would-be divers down below, hit me.

Suddenly, the instructor resurfaced, her eyes flashing furiously, “what’s wrong now?” she gurgled, “did you two not put on your weight belts?”. Damn, no we hadn’t. I caught his eye, and laughter burst forth. It was more than she could take, “I hope you’re going to work very hard here” she barked, making me laugh all the more, “this is a serious sport!”.

Oh Gawd. Now I knew I was in trouble!

Scuba diving lessons
My flippers were floating above the water like shark fins
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“Open wide now!”

Is it the fact that the chair goes completely flat, and you lose perspective on the room? or that huge, glaring light that burns into your eyes? What about those shiny, metal instruments that lie in wait, a mere six inches from your nervous, salivating gums?

I know, of course, that it’s one of those things we have to deal with, every six months. And that when it’s over and done with, the next visit will seem light years away and can be shoved back into the drawer of items-we-don’t-talk-about-for-now. But the minute that small white card plops onto the doormat, we gasp with collective horror for the dreaded half-yearly dental check-up has arrived! Yikes. Here we go again.

The thing is… I just can’t stop being fearful of going to the dentist. Even for a check up. Wish I could. Some people are far less bothered and I’d love to be one of them.

It all started when, as a child, I decided to “pull a fast one” in school and on impulse, told teacher that I too had a check-up which (coincidentally) meant leaving school at 10am to head across with my best friend. Dental check-ups, in those days were rare, you see. There was no such thing as ‘going every few months’, still isn’t really, in Ireland. You went to the dentist only when there was an urgent need to do so and your mother’s whisky-soaked cotton wad had failed to rid you of toothache the night before.

Having watched various school pals take entire mornings off, for ‘the dentist’, I decided I wanted in on the act. And in on the act I got. By the time the hopelessly old-fashioned dentist had shot my gums full of anaesthetic with what looked and felt like a monstrosity of a needle, then left me shivering in a freezing waiting room for half an hour before drilling ferociously into two teeth – I had moved firmly into the camp of dentist-haters. And there I have lived, ever since. Dreading each visit, postponing it if feasible and thankful that I’ve seldom needed much done.

By the time I had children, I was determined not to pass on my fears. Cheerily leading them in, I smiled as best I could, tried not to gag at the medicinal smell and told them they had nothing to worry about. But fools they are not, and although they’re less nervous than I am, it stays a challenge, when all is said and done.

Last week was ‘check-up week’. My son, who frequently needs teeth filled, manned up to ‘going last’. My daughter and I go in together. Strength in numbers. By now we have our own code: if she needs me to kick in with moral support, a well timed interruption or mild objections she’ll move her left foot twice.

As the dentist worked his way around her gums, I stayed alert. With maybe three teeth left to check we heard some of the dreaded words from behind the scary mask, “M3, distal, make a note for next time”. The left foot stayed still but the right one twitched. I held my breath and readied myself for battle, “but I think we’re good for now” he finished.

And exhale. For six more months.

Image of nervous patient in dentist chair
Is it the fact that the chair goes completely flat?
Posted on 13 Comments

Last call for flight EI607…

 

For some reason I tend to view money spent at airports differently to the dosh I hand over on a more normal, spending spree. I still see it as a way of “using up” spare cash, taking clever advantage of the special offers that shine and shimmer at me from sparkly glass cases. As I did years ago when duty free really offered you a bargain.

Logically of course I know that nowadays the whole duty-free lark is far less meaningful than it used to be. The prices aren’t all that great unless you’re travelling long distance, and treating myself to a new foundation/lipstick/perfume or expensive face cream is – at the end of the day – pure (happy) self indulgence and nothing more.

But the thing is… logic doesn’t really come into it! As soon as my feet have carried me past the passport check, a sense of euphoria enters my body and bubbles its way down to my toes. Like a well programmed robot I quicken my step and speedily find my way into the first, brightly lit shop, my boarding pass at the ready. Just for a quick peek you understand.

Yeah right. Quick or not, I know very well that there’ll be no plane boarding for me until I’m armed with a pretty, plastic bag carrying at least one, but more likely three, joyous little items. Including – if it’s a trip to Dublin – a good perfume for my sister. Just one of the little things we do for each other.

You see, I’m a bit of a shopaholic. Maybe even more than a bit. When that film “Confessions of a Shopaholic” came out I sat entranced, loving, appreciating and recognising the joys, twinges of guilt and total addiction that every woman/girl (who enjoys shopping) is familiar with. The satisfaction that comes when you’ve made your final choice and head towards the cash register, your purchase-to-be clutched firmly in one sweaty little hand. The rush of blood that warms you later as carefully you unveil your new item to the oohs and aaahs of those around you (or even just your own – equally good!).

Sigh.

I’m not really sure why airport shopping feels that bit different, or loosens the rules a little more for me. It just does. Perhaps it’s the time pressure – mustn’t miss that flight! Or the perfume-scented, brightly lit atmosphere which this happy little “in-between world” literally oozes. I’m also fairly sure that echoes of the old, pre-Euro need to “use up these left-over liras” still live inside my head because I’ve fed and watered them so well.

Oh well. I will probably always feel less guilty spending money there than anywhere else. So I’m sticking with that for now and off to compile a nice list for my next gallop through Schiphol. We’ll call it… good preparation!

Duty free shopping
If I run a bit I should just make it to the gate!
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So, rugby’s the one with the pointy ball – right?

I try. I do, I do, I do, I do. It’s rugby world cup time these weeks and almost everyone I know is feverishly caught up in it. So I want to be too. Especially for Ireland, who won the (what’s it called again? oh yeah) Six Nations cup last year which qualifies them for undying support from every living, breathing Irish person…

But, the thing is… I’m totally crap at it! I know next to nothing about rugby and no amount of ‘come on Ireland!!’ screeches, thrown eagerly into the room during an Ireland-versus-anyone-else match can change that.

Last weekend, Ireland played France. I’d read here that the French media had been targeting Irish players quite vindictively beforehand, in a bit to psyche them out. This got my gander up. “We better really thrash them!” I spat vehemently to hubby, as we prepared for the showdown. He raised an eyebrow, surprised by my sudden interest.

As the game progressed I gave it my all. “That’s a bad tackle” I yelled, “he should be sent off for doing that!!”. “No love, that’s allowed in rugby” was his response. Five minutes later, “what kind of a ref is that!” I fumed, when France was -correctly – awarded a penalty (in truth, I spotted no reason for penalties throughout, scrums are just one big mash-up to me but I felt right was on my side this time because it was against ‘our lads in green’). As did most of the Irish spectators, methinks. We’re like that, us Irish. Big on the emotion, less on the rationalisation.

At times I was certain things were going too far. “The poor man’s head will be smashed in!” I whined in horror, watching a scrum, “look, look! The other guy’s boot is hovering over his skull!”. And when a second Irish player ended up on a stretcher, my indignation knew no limits, “what the hell… doesn’t anyone try to stop this insanity?”. You get the picture.

But at least I now know how teams can score (try = 5 points; conversion – 2 more). Proud of this new knowledge I totally over-used it, delighting in my expertise, “wow, now they only have to get a conversion and they’ll be 8 points ahead – right? Right?” I yelled. “Yes!” shouted hubby, “same as last time!” (patience finally wearing a wee bit thin).

By the time I’d double-checked that Ireland could only score in the left goal for the second half, and asked the difference between a rugby offside and a football one, he’d moved to the far end of the sofa. My run was finally over. Oh well, there’s still the quarter final to enjoy this weekend, I’m thinking of dragging out the Paddy’s Day stuff, just for the craic. There’s bound to be at least one good green wig somewhere in there…

World cup rugby
“That poor man’s head is going to be crushed!”
Posted on 7 Comments

“You rang, m’lady?”

I’m lying, drowsily, beneath a satin, quilted eiderdown. The room is dimly lit, there’s a log fire crackling in the fireplace, “Lady Mary, your breakfast” … ah yes, that little rope I pulled on… “thank you Anna, no I can butter my toast myself today”….

Sigh. And sigh again.

Seriously – what’s not to LOVE about the BBC series Downton Abbey?! I know what draws me to it, because I’ve thought about it, oftentimes. It’s the sheer beauty of it all. And the power of my over-active imagination. Along with the mega-dose of wonderful escapism each indulgent little episode gives us.

The location, the setting. The calm. The ease. The gossip. The silver tea service. The china. The stylish cars. The kitchen (“have you finished that orange sauce for the duck, Daisy? Then come help me get that kedgeree prepared for tomorrow’s breakfast”). Delight, delight, delight.

The thing is… the minute I hear those soft, musical introductory notes, graciously welcoming me to step back into another era, away I float. Into the Downton Abbey world of grace, wealth, dinner gowns and long satin evening gloves.

For sixty minutes I am there with all the actors. Gliding around my room in a beaded gown, readying myself for the evening meal in full assurance that Carson (the butler) will watch our every move like an eagle searching for prey and the Dowager Countess will fill the spaces between courses with amusing witticisms, “I’m a woman. I’m supposed to be contrary”.

Having readied myself for the dinner gong (with Anna pinning back my curling tresses), I’ve frowned slightly at a spot of dust on the banister and made a mental note to mention it to Mrs. Hughes next morning. Smiling sweetly at the footman I’ve helped myself to Mrs. Patmore’s delicious platters – careful not to take too much but just enough – and chatted quietly with those seated to my left and right, making sure I give them equal attention. For to do otherwise would just be bad manners.

It’s a happy hour. An hour spent mimicking Lady Mary’s astonishing accent and wonderful use of language. Reminding myself to remember certain phrases she casually trots out “I’m not entirely sure that we should bother ourselves with matters of this kind” or “had you asked for my support my darling, then of course I would have gladly given it”. Words that make me want to be far more eloquent than normal life demands but which I can never quite recall the next day.

I’ve even wandered around my own back garden carrying a wooden lantern, half imagining I’m walking that estate. My husband laughs because he knows it’s part of who I am. A dreamer, a story-teller in my own way, a lover of ease, comfort and beauty, both inside and out.

So thank you Julian Fellowes, for the gift that is Downton. For letting us enjoy and revisit a world in which there still is space and freedom for the very privileged to do little more than breathe in and out as they come to terms with the changing world around them. A world that remembers World War I heroes, forever etched in my grateful heart for the huge sacrifices they made.

And of course, there’s still the simple beauty of it all.

Downton Abbey
…into the Downton Abbey world of grace, wealth and long satin evening gloves I float…
Posted on 14 Comments

Spring cleaning but not really

This morning I experienced a few hours of feeling almost ‘normal’ again after weeks of PJ lolling around on the sofa. Decided to celebrate the happy little event with a touch of Spring (erm…Autumn) cleaning. My wardrobe in particular, followed by a brief scrum with the kitchen cupboards (just two, no need to get hysterical about it). But…

The thing is… I’m a bit of a hoarder, you see (a big bit). Especially with clothes. I hold onto them until they’ve not only gone out of fashion, they’re begging to be set free or have begun self-destruction. Each time I give it a try, a little voice in my head pipes up and bids me keep them beyond the sell-by date, as in:

Maybe it’ll fit me next year when I’ve lost a few pounds. Maybe my daughter will decide she loves that jacket after all. Maybe I’ll get a chance to wear this cocktail dress again soon (it cost a fortune!). Maybe my bum will look great in these pants if I stop eating bread. Maybe my son will want this beautiful fabric for a school project…”

On and on it rumbles.

Then there are the emotional attachments I have to certain outfits. The suit I wore to interview when I got that great job, five years ago – sure Goddamn it, ‘t would be bad luck to let that one go! The dress I wore to my daughter’s 18th birthday party – wasn’t that a fun night? Gotta keep that one! The blouse I wore to my mother’s funeral, just one glimpse and I’m right back there, almost hearing her voice. How can I ever get rid of that?!

So I moved to the kitchen. The ice cream bowl set we got as an engagement gift. I was always iffy about them, yet here they still are, taking up a full shelf for 27 years. But they were given with such love! A set of huge plates we bought, what – ten years ago? No! 20, holy crap! – for an extended family dinner. Haven’t used them since, but maybe my son will? Three pepper mills, stuffed into the back of a shelf, because I’m still looking for the ‘perfect one’ and can’t bear to throw out the old ones. Help me Lord. Martha Stewart I am not.

But it’s not just me (is it?). It’s a chore for all of us, right? We start out full of determination, visions of a gleaming, clutter-free house looming before us. We yank things from closets, bravely toss them onto a growing pile for the recycle store, but after a while the doubts creep in and we start picking out a few things that can wait till ‘next time’. Before you know it half the gunk is back in the cupboard/wardrobe and you’re wondering why you ever started in the first place!

Oh well. I’m not completely dissatisfied with the morning’s work and the small heap that’s now lying on the floor, looking up at me, is NOT going to win me over. It’s for the chop and that’s that. Iron Lady, that’s me!

Can’t wait to show hubby. He’ll be relieved I’ve stayed away from his pile of clothes (including the wedding suit he’s still trying to get good use out of). We are a right pair, to be sure.

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A paler shade of pyjamas!

My PJs have long ago decided to mix and match perfectly, for ever!

Since coming home from hospital last month, it’s the funniest thing really but I’ve totally become Queen of the Pyjamas. Every shape and colour I have in the house – with a few new ones thrown in for good measure – they’re all I want to wear right now.

And – slightly to my surprise – I find wearing them, lounging around in them a seriously enjoyable change from my normal routine! Slowly pulling a nice, soft, comfy (loose!!) top from the drawer and sliding it over my head before shrugging on a wide-banded pair of loose pants that won’t bother me in any way is so relaxing!

No fuss, no bothersome mix and match skills required… just one, happy and cosy little collection of pale pink, blue or grey cottons on offer, morning after morning. Fuzzy slippers. Fluffy socks. Maybe a bed jacket? or should I go all out and wrap myself into a bath robe? Decisions, decisions. Easy little ones without a hint of pressure butting in to spoil the mood.

Take today, for instance. I woke up wearing the loose, soft grey oversized T that I wore to bed (no surprises there, aint a lot of action going down these days, thank the lord!). After breakfast and a shower, I quietly and very slowly made my way back up two flights of stairs to ‘change’.

Now, under normal circumstances, i.e. when I’m working (which I’m not right now) and my health is good (which it aint right now), this routine would see me galloping at top speed back upstairs, my morning coffee threatening a reappearance as I raced to get into an outfit suitable for the office to make it out the door by 8am.

Sometimes – it all worked perfectly, because I’d more or less decided what to wear the evening before – and the vibe was good. But there have also been days when Mother Nature played tricks on me and the anticipated warm weather turned into wet, cold, rainy skies. That’s when my careful deliberation raced straight out the window into the damp mist. That’s when a mild panic would kick in. With 12 minutes left I’d be shovelling hangers back and forth, frantically pulling skirts and blouses from the closet in a rush for the bus but also to ‘look the part’.

Not so on the good ole PJ days! Lying quietly in wait for me, my PJs have long ago befriended each other and agreed to mix and match perfectly, for EVER. So the minute I’ve chosen just one piece, the rest of the gang join in like a happy little choir and I’m greeted by a humming, muted array of items, all perfectly amenable to being worn with my first choice.

What more can I say? Happy days. Pleasurable even, which is not what I expected at the start but just what I need right now.

So yay for PJs.

Yay for a calm and relaxed start to each day.

And yay to my on-going recovery, in the palest shades of grey.

Posted on 29 Comments

Let’s (not) go camping in Ireland?

Last week, my sister went camping. In Ireland. Took a gamble despite grey, cloudy skies breezing overhead (= Irish summer) because I encouraged her to do so. Me and my endless enthusiasm for life. ‘Give it a go’, said I, ‘what’s there to lose?’ I oozed through the Skype screen.

She may never forgive me.

The thing is… She’s not a camper. Never was, never will be. But because I’ve camped (en famille) with quite some success these past years, I encouraged her to give it a go. Forgetting (uh oh) that by now I’m ‘dutchified’ to the extent that our family’s summer camping trips resemble complete house relocations when compared to the Irish equivalent, i.e. buy a (bit of a) tent, a sleeping bag that maybe fits, a little stove and gas cylinder and Bob is your uncle.

Holy Jaysus. Well all I can say is it sounds like Uncle Bob stayed well and truly hidden on this trip. In fact, I suspect he took one glance at the setup and did a runner, and damn right he was too.

Apparently it started out reasonably well. She, and the rest of the clan, cheerily set up their individual little pop-up tents, defying the rising wind with gusto. They bravely fried up some sausages and bacon on the tiny stove – a feat in itself – before taking a walk on the nearby beach, their woolly cardies wrapped tightly around them. I’m sure at that point they felt like true campers.

It’s the sleeping part that burnt the most. Her daughters, having nipped to the local store to secure bags on ‘special offer’, unfortunately paid most attention to the pretty shades they came in (opting for pink, of course) only to discover when the time came to snuggle in that the glitzy, padded items were in fact, child-sized. Squeezing their legs in nevertheless, they covered their upper bodies with towels, good sports that they are (but oh, to have been a fly on those little walls!).

My sister, smiling as she pulled her adult-sized bag all the way up to her chin, felt proud of their endeavours. This camping lark aint half as bad as I imagined she may even have murmured as she drifted off to sleep.

Two hours later, the rain began to fall.

Now when I say ‘rain’, I’m talking torrential rain. This was no small spattering of drops, but a full fledged Irish downpour, as can only happen when you’re stuck on the side of a hill in a tiny tent, pretending to be a girl scout. Within minutes the roof of her tent began to leak, not in one place – several. Reaching up to test the wetness, she stuck her finger into the fabric, which immediately released a new, flowing stream onto her forehead. Spluttering to sit up, she realised to her horror that the floor had turned soggy and water was seeping quietly in via the side seams.

It was time to abandon ship. Scrambling out of her (now sodden) sleeping bag, she reached for her socks, to find them floating around the end of the blow up bed. Her bra was snagged on the canvas shoe she’d brought in an effort to look the part and her mobile phone was lying face down in a tiny puddle. Shit!! She shrieked, yanking at the tent’s zip on hands and knees.

Her eldest daughter’s voice from the next tent sounded equally frantic, ‘Mam!! Let’s run for the car!’. Hands over their heads, they slid and slithered towards it in the dark, tumbling into the front seats with rain running down their legs, slamming the doors shut as damp fumes began to form. It was 2.30am.

Yes, well… not quite the story I’d sold her on fresh air, total relaxation and peace of mind (based on French experiences). Something tells me her local recycle store is about to receive a mega donation of camping materials. And my next, helpful piece of advice might, just might, be taken with less than half a pinch of salt.