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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!”
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Goodbye in any language is a big ask

This morning I got the very sad news that a beloved aunt of my husband had died. Quite suddenly, or so it seems. Having come through an emergency operation quite well, we were hoping for a recovery to carry her that bit further. A recovery that would see her march on a little longer through life. Fearless, feisty as hell and brim-full of the old energy she exuded until roughly one year ago, when even a trip to her favourite market (something she’d enjoyed for years, together with my mom-in-law) was no longer on the cards.

Our hopes were not realised. It came as quite a shock.

I’ve had many shocks like this, in recent years. It never gets easier, because I feel things very deeply. Always have, probably always will. I can’t even say I’ve developed a ‘formula’ of sorts to deal with loss because every time is different from the time before. And hoping I’ll manage it better now is just a waste of energy, which ups the ante even more. Inside my head and heart.

Because heartache wants its moment, wants its ‘pound of flesh’ and if you turn your back on it, it merely doubles in strength, and bites twice as viciously.

When I first lived abroad, I realised there would be moments like this, in relation to my parents, my more elderly loved ones, at home. I dreaded them, but accepted their inevitability. They came, they went, we coped, together. My sister always with me, in spirit if not physical presence. The family I built here waiting in the wings – loving, holding, shushing, calming me. The friends I’ve made never far away.

More recently, it’s been members of my husband’s family we’ve had to lose. A cherished mother-in-law who took gentle care of me and loved, laughed with and at me, for many years. Aunts and uncles, whose sense of fun and mischief appealed to me, whose curiosity for my Irish mannerisms and heritage transcended boundaries and bonded us like childhood friends giggling over past memories.

I’ve been lucky to have found a place in the heart of such a family. Lucky to have enjoyed a home-from-home, as the years went by. But it makes it that bit harder to let go of someone we all love – again – and I’ve been dragging my heels about it, because I know the hurt it brings.

But the heartache wants its moment, so I’ll play by the rules and let myself be sad today for a special woman whose memory I’ll always hold dear.

Thank you and R.I.P., dear ‘Tante Leentje’.

market shopping
Now THAT’s what I call a real bargain!
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Bus 39, A or B?

Earlier this year I enjoyed a few days back home in Dublin with my sister and her family. It’s always such a treat, something to look forward to, relax into. Every time again. The wonderful, easy familiarity of their home and hospitality covers me like a warm blanket, smoothing out the stresses and strains of ‘normal’ life.

There’s the great food; endless mugs of strong black tea; hot buttered toast in the morning and regular shushing of the lazy, family dog. Which, when combined with the continuous chatter and sharp, unforgiving humour of my family (natural talents in fast, merciless verbal spats) makes short shrift of my more serious, control-freak self. In no time at all the lighter, giggling, who-cares-less version of me has been resurrected. Life takes on a new, cheerier perspective. I luxuriate and take distance from humdrum stuff and wake without an agenda in my head.

Having woken to a clear blue sky on day two, I decided to walk to the shopping mall, a 15 minute trot in my flats – but as I set out the weather made a sudden shift and within minutes I was breathing in a fine mist of Irish rain, the sky filling overhead with plump, dark grey clouds.

Known for pontificating on the benefits of walking to my car-loving nieces, I was reluctant to take a bus. To do so felt like cheating (honestly, even I’m a bit irritated by me as I recall this!). But as the cold droplets dribbled slowly down my neck I gave in and hurried into the shelter. And that’s when the interesting part began.

Inching my way into a dusty, grubby corner, it took me a moment to shrug off the cold and notice those around me. An elderly man with long, scraggly legs bent carelessly beneath him, looking slightly the worse for wear, was seated on the thin, metal bench. Paying me no attention whatsoever he stared off into the distance, his cheeks flushed from the air’s chill, his feet encased in heavy brown shoes that had seen better days. I wondered where he was going and to whom. Home? On his way to pick something up, drop something off? Whatever it was, he didn’t seem to give two hoots about it. Or much else, for that matter.

The other occupant of the shelter was easier on the mind. As I raised my eyes to hers I realized she’d been observing me in turn. I smiled across to return her open interest. Late-seventies I figured, dressed carefully – not expensively – but WELL. Wearing what my mother would have called a good coat. Plain black wool, solidly buttoned up. No gloves but a pale blue scarf tied loosely around her neck. Short, silver, curled hair. She smiled back. Then, ”is it the 39A or B you’re after?”. “I haven’t a clue, to be honest. I’m headed for the Centre”. “Then it’s the B”. Decisive. No room for disagreement. How Irish. I thanked her. She smiled again.

“I’m only home for a few days, I hardly ever take the bus,” I added for no reason, the way I often do, especially in Ireland. There, people expect it. No one looks strangely at you if you offer easy conversation, as Dutch people sometimes do.

“Really? So where do you live then?” she threw back, moving a few steps closer. We fell into an easy conversation. She told me she knew others, like me, who’d moved abroad in the eighties. Neighbors’ children, some of whom had recently returned. “But they’re in trouble now”, she said with regret, “this country’s in a right mess. Big houses, big mortgages and no money coming in to pay for them”. I nodded in agreement, my heart aching mildly in recognition of the missing. I understood very well what had brought them back because it never completely goes away, the longing for home.

She blamed it on the banks. Who didn’t, I thought, not mentioning that I’ve worked in the financial industry for almost eight years now, and loved every minute of it.

She wondered what it felt like to live abroad. I needed longer than a bus ride to explain the good, bad or better of the matter but gave it a stab anyway. She listened carefully. By the time the 39B came lurching into view, we were on a first name basis and had shared details of our lives, families, children (she had one daughter, still making bad decisions now and then is how she put it, it made me smile to think how a parent stays a parent, no matter what age) and laughed out loud more times than you’d believe. It warmed me, despite the drop in temperature. On the inside.

This was what I’ve always missed, living out of Ireland. The ease of connection, the casual interest, the warmth. The lack of barriers and I guess, just the simple, easy humanity of it all.

The bus pulled in. We lined up. I began searching for coins to pay my fare. She stepped in ahead of me, turning quickly back to say with a hint of pride, “put that away, I can get you in for free with my OAP pass”, her hand covering mine gently. I didn’t object, I could tell it pleased her to do it. What a nice start to my day, I thought. What a lovely lady. Isn’t it great when life throws you an unexpected gift like that?

Waiting for the bus in Dublin
Is it the 39 A or B you’re after?
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“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…
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Miss Olympics I am not!

The thing is... I’ve always been totally rubbish at anything even vaguely “sporty”. The simplest things my pals in primary school could do (skipping rope/running/jumping) were challenges I tried – and failed – to master. Annual sport events were a tragedy, with last place in the egg-and-spoon race the best I could offer, and even then minus the damn egg. Oh the will was there, certainly – but the legs just refused to pay attention and sluggishly did their own thing.

My sister was equally blessed, although I do recall her winning a sprint once – only problem was she’d started too soon so it didn’t count. She also failed to notice that she was the only one charging down the grass towards the ribbon. Which made it just a little sad, so my mother and I cheered ourselves hoarse when she triumphantly passed the finish line. Because that’s what you do for your loved ones.

By the time I’d passed the big old age of 27, I realised I needed to master something – anything – sporty. Just to show ‘the world’ that I was more than a shopaholic in high heels and could achieve perfect balance in something other than holding up a bar. Which led to many discussions with hubby-to-be. Because not only was I ready to launch myself into some new, physically challenging caper, I wanted him to do it with me. (I’d read somewhere it was good for couples to do things like that). Problem was, we couldn’t agree on what the something would be.

Weeks it took to make a decision, with neither of us liking any of the standard activities like tennis/squash etc. Eventually we settled on horse riding. I liked the sound of it. I even quite liked horses (in films anyway). I also liked the mental image of me galloping over the hills on a beautiful horse, my hair tossed by the wind… He was already very good at it, so I figured I could lean on him for manly support, and sob into his shoulder if it came to it. A win-win, you might say.

We chose a riding school that had a special program for beginners. This reassured me. Beginners wouldn’t have to ‘ride’ the damn horse, at least not for weeks – right? Wrong. Our first lesson consisted out of a grooming session (which I spent tentatively fingering the pretty horse’s shiny locks from as far back as I could, the brush I’d been given hanging loosely in my other hand) followed by a half hour in the indoor ring.

All very well except no one had let the horse in on the secret. Chomping quietly in his stall, he happily ignored my whispered efforts to guide him forwards, swishing his head at me every so often to remind me he was boss. After ten minutes hubby came to get him. The trainer looked at me witheringly, “you’re supposed to walk the horse yourself!” she barked. I smiled at her to show my good will, my stomach twitching with fear. It didn’t seem to help.

By the time I’d hoiked myself into the saddle, my new boots gleaming in the lights, the ground looked terrifyingly far away. Mustering all my courage I soldiered on, after all, this stuff was good for couples – right??! Minutes later, my bottom aching from repeated, off-beat collisions with the saddle as I tried (and failed) to do a proper ‘trot’, a horrid buzzing had begun in my left ear. I’d had enough. “I want to get off!!” I screeched, “No! You must try harder” the trainer yelled back.

“I have a fly in my ear!!” I shouted, as the horse began to dance in circles, my left leg now dangling loose from the stirrup, “let me off!!”.

“No!” she again yelled back (the biddy).

Glancing up into the observation room as we thundered by, I spotted my sister-in-law howling with laughter. An accomplished horsewoman herself, I guess it had been quite some time since she’d seen anyone cavort around the ring that way. We’ve laughed about it many times since. Later that evening my hero held his head in his hands, trying to figure out how a simple riding lesson had gone quite so amok. It wouldn’t surprise him now though, he’s too used to my ways.

But I guess ‘they’ were right after all – it did us some good anyway, ‘cos we can still giggle about it now.

I do still have the boots and yes, they’re still shiny.

Egg and spoon race
The best I could offer was last in the egg-and-spoon race, and then minus the egg!
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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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Here’s looking at you, Joost

I wouldn’t normally devote a blog to the day’s sad news – there’s enough of that going around these days God knows – because my aim is to lift our spirits with these posts, but I guess I also want to make us think twice about certain things, and in that context it fits.

For yesterday, a well known, Dutch writer/poet/art critic committed suicide, Joost Zwagerman. Aged 51. A man whose huge enthusiasm for art spread infectiously throughout Holland the last year or two mainly because of his regular appearances on a daily chat show, DWDD.

And it just really got to me, the tragedy of this sad, sad deed.

Apparently he suffered from manic depression. Apparently his father attempted to end his own life some years ago. Apparently his best friend succeeded in doing just that a few months ago. I have to wonder.

The thing is… could anyone have helped him, stopped him from taking this irrevocable, drastic step? The never-ending question. Does it always have to be this way, that people who are ‘blessed with’ the huge gifts, are also burdened with an equally destructive or negative characteristic, in some dastardly universal balancing act? Think Van Gogh. Amy Winehouse. Robin Williams. Philip Seymour Hoffman (I could go on).

What must his family be going through, right now? Three daughters. The man himself had strong opinions about suicide, publicly shared those thoughts even, sharply criticising those who commit it for the huge damage it inflicts on those ‘left behind’ as he put it. How strange, how poignant, that he himself should now choose to go down that same, dark route with a new book about to be published. I guess that meant little, in the end.

I wasn’t familiar with him until he showed up on TV. I’m not that literary and as an Irish woman living in the Netherlands, have a tendency to stick to English-language books even though I speak the language. Because I’m a lazy sod on that score.

But I, and many others, was hugely impressed by Joost’ flamboyance, his energy, his sheer joy in sharing his (very broad) knowledge of specific painters/styles with us, the common folk. When he talked, we listened. Avidly. His eye picked out tiny details we’d otherwise have missed, his voice brought us information we could understand and appreciate, even with limited artistic knowledge. Secret snippets of information worked cleverly into paintings by old masters were a delight to him, and as he explained the thinking behind them it all morphed into something fascinating. Joyful. Uninhibited.

My husband would ‘shush’ me if I interrupted him while Joost was at large, on DWDD. I have a (mean) tendency to tease him about the programme, and how enamoured he is with its presenter although secretly I totally admire the man myself, and how well he manages it all. It’s an Irish thing: taking the Mick at any and every opportunity.

So here I go, just for you Joost – thank you for sharing your clever insights with us these past years, I’m so sorry you saw no other way ahead. To DWDD (and on behalf of my hubby and I): kudos to you Matthijs, for creating and encouraging this gifted, learned and special man to benefit and share in your unique platform. Hats off from me on this rather sad day.

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In Sickness and In Health…

I love my husband. I do, I really do. Happily married to the dear man for 26 years. We still giggle at the same things. He is my best friend, the first person I share news with when something significant comes along… the only person who makes me feel ‘safe’ if the world comes too close or shouts in my face.

He still brings me a bunch of long stemmed red roses every year for my birthday. Not a lot to complain about there and I know it. Very well.

BUT…

The thing is… Let’s face it. All men have their flaws. And he, as many others before him, is just a little bit of an eejit with certain things. Especially when it comes to finding items in our house. Items that have been IN our house for generations. Or are lying right under his nose. Like the butter in the fridge.

Now for some reason, this one pops up with alarming regularity. Some heinous member of our household ‘moves’ the butter from its usual place to a different spot on the shelf. Maybe 10cm to the left or right – and what does he do? He panics. Instantly jumps to the wrong conclusion, every time again. Standing with the door open he’ll yell to me, “There is no butter!!”.

“Yes there is” I’ll say.

“No, I’ve looked. There’s none!” He’ll reply.

“Yes there is. Look again” say I.

“I’m telling you, there’s none here!”.

Me (slow exhale of breath): “Did you look beside the cheese?”.

He, after a pause, “Well … who put it there??!”

Same thing counts for milk, bread… tins of beans. All of which can be right there in front of him but he just won’t see them unless they’re placed EXACTLY where he expects them to be. Every single time.

Nor does he flourish well if put on the spot to make snap decisions, as I was reminded last month when he was given just ten minutes to prepare an overnight bag for my hospital admittance.

As we waited for the last test result, I suddenly thought of it and wondered how he’d coped. “You did pack some things for me, right love?” I queried. “Yes!” he replied, pride glowing on his face. “Did you grab my nightgown from the bed?” I wondered, with a little bit of hope, “No… ” he replied, his voice a little weaker. This is when I got worried. “So, what did you put in?” I ventured. “The nice black one, hanging on the door” (still proud, but definitely some doubt in there now). “Jesus Christ, not the black, transparent negligee??” I squeaked, my face aghast to think of what the hospital staff would say if they found me lolling in the bed in my ‘sexy bit’. White faced, he whispered, “was that not good?”.

Half an hour later (and one super speedy race back home by him to walk the dog AND pick up a cotton nightie), he was back, the missing nightgown and a toothbrush bundled into a large, garish plastic bag. Smothering my inner, “Mrs. Bouquet” streak – I let that one go.

Two days later, when he showed up with a set of four, seriously HUGE granny knickers – I’m talking deep enough to pull up to my chin – in response to my plea for some new, loose underwear, I let it go too.

Because you know what? once we’d made it past the blips and bloops of the whole process, it was his face (and only his) I wanted, needed to see coming around that door at visiting hour. And when you think about it, finding the butter is a highly overrated skill, after all.

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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.

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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.