Siblings, a small emergency, Sorrowful, glorious and joyous mysteries.

On Saturday, we brought the boy fishing to the Heritage Park, with its stocked lake, (he needs regular vists, and it's some time since his birthday trip). His fishing friend unable to come, he invites the boss, a   rare and gruff invitation, to fish with him. Her fishing rod located  and packed, in the car she carefully told him that she will fish for a little while, least he imagine she is sticking with  him for his usual obsessive  four hour marathon. The boss has a broad range of interests and fishing is in there, but on the outer reaches. He has cooked sausages, and buttered rolls, for sustenance,  and is wasting no time on lunching (for wimps).

The first daughter if gracing ourselves and the day with her presence,, her friends having cried off a shopping trip. "But what shall we do all day," she nags, distractedly, en route. "Walk.  ! Have lunch. Have a root in the craft shops" (very interesting and good,) I say, bracingly, "And get lots and lots of fresh air".  "It will be delightful". And it is.

It is a rare sunny day, and we intend to have lunch in the beautiful old, stone constructed  centre in the park, and meander gently around the park walks, (it's saturday, no purposeful activity to be entertained). It might be early summer, the  clear light  reflected in still lake water, outlining tall trees, casts and air of grace and holiday, over the whole. The sun, through the cafe window gives a sense of warmpth and ease to the ancient building where we have coffee and rolls. Afterwards, the eldest daughter picks up the threads of an ancient bond with the boss as they stroll companionably in front of us, she leaning in over the shorter boss. Murmuring, conversational eddies float back to us all afternoon. And that, I think, is the point of having  children in the plural,  there's is always a sibling to fall back on if all wese fails and the bonds, though  often acrimonious, are deep and live in well oiled grooves.

The first daughter contives to lock  the car keys in the car boot,  as evening falls  and  a chilly night looms.
Various options are considered, ie phoning  the garda station,  locating a mechanic, coathanger insertions, and the smashing of back windows. I favour the latter, being tired and reluctant to mess about ( and /or listen to various reluctant men marvelling at our  bad fortune?stupidity, before explaining that they can't possibly come out on a saturday evening) ). The caustic boy, dragged away from the lake, is forthright in  his opinion of his sisters "craziness" , and she defends herself with all the noise and determination of a budding lawyer. "Oh well, like, like, Mum has forgiven her, so like what's your problem" the boss says flatly.

An executive decision made, the window smashed with a strategic rock, which dramatic action quelled all quarrelsome impulses, and we are on our way home. In the back, they  are only slightly discommoded by the breeze freely flowing through the small side window, and chat quietly. The consensus is that it was a good day, despite the crying off of friends and the being reduced to siblings company . I realise that the day is gone forever when they  travelled with me, hung out, a noisy lively swarm, combative and companionable both. "But, you know,  are n't siblings a fine resource to fall back on, when all else fails"  I muse aloud in a conversational lull, and  then, "blood is thicker than  water you know " to my backseat audience, who are  uninpressed  seem ing to find me endlessly (amusingly) quaint these days.

"They ll see  ," as I nod to myself up front,  veiwed quizzically by my designated driver (and window smasher)   ( also from  a family of ten)  I think of the deep  deep comfort of adult sibling feedback, consulted about everything from the latest abberation, neurotic and otherwise, of children, or on  ones own knotty issues,. They get you,  you get them, your brothers and sisters, you were children together and your childrens trajectory, an ever expanding   ripple, from the same singing spring.

                                               CHRISTMAS  2004
                             THE SORROWFUL AND GLORIOUS MYSTERIES

                                             Rosary beads weave,
                                           siblings we dance down years.
                                             In each other's sights,
                                            never forget, never forgive.
                                             My mother's teeming brood.
                                              Picking at
                                             our brother sister hood.
                                            Till,   Living in  another place
                                             scattered where we fell,
                                             with other people blood dilute,
                                             and recreate our heavenhell.
                                             Weddings, funerals
                                              signify our commopn blood.

                                           We, who began in the same room,
                                  we scratched our initials on the wall of mother's womb.
                                       A greeting, warning, one to one.
                                     Haunted, we, by the communal ghost,
                                      tied by our mother's terror and hope,
                                         strung out  on her Rosary beads.
                                       And there we dangle, jangle, brood,
                                                      lost in the crowd,
                                                          in love.
                                      

Daughters Doctors and Frustration. A boy's progress. January the cruelest month,

"All you actually care about MUM. is whether you are being made to worry. ITS NOT ME YOU'R WORRIED ABOUT".  "HUH"?  "Yes, that's all you SAY, you say you're tired of being made to worry about this. You SHOULD  be worried. I am your DAUGHTER". Oh dear, I feel a distinct dip in the energy  required for the fray, as I drive the impassioned one to singing class. How capable am I of Jesuitical argument right now?  "Perhaps we might take this up later", I suggest. "TYPICAL, you always say we will discuss things later and then YOU NEVER DO". "Well", I murmer, "what with my refusal to discuss anthing at all, and  my sole concern of being worried, you have a bad bad mother"(I know, I know, wrong response. I will regroup). (I do find though that adjourning things indefinately, is sometimes the way to go.)

It all started in the doctors office, where my much put upon elder daughter sat smugly stretching her legs, while the doctor assured us that she was, albeit at the lower end of the scale, in the normal range of body weight. She also had the lack of  wisdom to tell her that she was might be a model, that she was skinny as a boy, and beautifully tall.  She topped this by discovering that in fact  the model in the wings  was 5ft.9ins. on measuring her  height as opposed to the 5ft.8ins we had assumed. Now the aspirant had finally abandoned the modelling dream, on account of her height, a few monthes before. It was a consumption devoutely to be wished as far as I was concerned, as  she had lost a scary amount of weigth in pursuit of this ambition, and become preoccuiped with matters like  calorie counts, BMIs, and an alarmingly hubristic and unpleasant Model  show on TV. I may have mentioned that I am utterely opposed to this ambition. My very clever, acdemically minded, principled daughter not being fodder for an industry which does a great deal of harm, as far as I am concerned.  Also, this is  not being a pround claim I see myself making on her behalf, when basking in reflected glory, (fingering you precious rosary beads, as you do). Still,  I would hold my tongue if she persisted, were it not for the dangerous body issues which are an inevitable component ot this life. Which brough us to the doctors office (for back up). And though the loose tongued medic continued with  a discourse on the danger to diet obsessed girls having passed a line of no return, and death the only consequence; and the dangers to the immune system in not received adequate  nutrients such as allowing  cancer, depression etc (all good stuff and true); and the necessity for the first daughter to develop some womanly curves as she looks like a boy, I suspect  she is only hearing  the bits she likes.

"And, um, should I actually be eating, like,  um snacks if I'm not hungry"?she cunningly asks as the appointment comes to a close. "Not hungry?,  no, three  proper  meals per day, is enough" says the unaware medic, as the first one looks at me triumphantly. I explain,  trenchantly that she has an  agreement with me to have a couple of buttered scones, in additon to the alleged three squares, (which have a habit of being reduced, if not supervised) in order to gain some much needed body fat. (the enemy).

One of my issues with the first daughter, is that I am obliged to assume a supervisory role in her food intake, more appropriate to a young child, as long as she persists with dieting. And of course I proceed quite often  to the statement "and I have quite enough to worry about". Its a question of handing over the burden of responsibilty for self to a growing teenager, as they are  (increasingly) (hopefully) capable of assuming it. You would,nt on  the other hand,  pass on a Ferrari to an infant to wreck. My extremly clever girl knows this, but WANTS the model frame, and so is leaving basic health and safety issues to me, while she pursues the dream . Its a multilayered arguement of course, about diet, health, and responsibility for self, in addition to what may fairly and properly be required of Mother. And its not straighforward. She knows I wont let her harm the Ferrari, and I know the slope gets steep and very slippery after a certain point in dieting (obscure to a teenager) is passed.

"Something HAS to be done about the boy",  his elder sister wears a face of sorrow and outrage, where she stands beside the boss, who shakes her head long sufferingly and says " And like I could not practice piano with him, cos he pushed me hard, and took the flex from the (electronic) piano, and hid it in his bedroom. "And", she went on, "it was only because I told him to leave the X Box, and let me practice in the payroom , like you know you said.". I have returned, at seven pm  from a protracted parent teacher meeting for the boy (held every year in January, just as you are getting over christmas) (long, disorganised queues before each teacher) having left instructions about the preparation of dinner, the  emptying of dishwasher and I am tired, cold and somewhat dismayed at a glimpse of charred looking beefburgers and exhumed potatoes,  a chaotic spread of unwashed crockery, afforded to me when I come home behind the stern committee of daughters awaiting. The boss is blinking effortfully. "AND he hurt my arm".  The boy appears. "I have been LISTENING to THEM , and thats not how it happened, YOU might think she is the victim in all this, but you have not seen her in action! She swung me against the wall, and, its clear her temper is GETTING WORSE , (loud wails from the boss), and anyway I was just fininshing on the X Box like you said when she....  "ENOUGH! GET ME THE XBOX, WHICH I AM CONFISCATING, and you two, empty the dishwasher, and explain to me what dreadful  immolation occurred to  my more or less prepared dinner, (requiring heating only)."  "And ANOTHER THING, has no one bothered to feed this unfortunate dog, ( who is looking at me urgently, throughout  this exchange.)

The scene descended into mutinous mutterings by  the boy  "Heres the X Box.  But this punishment is not acceptable unless she is being punished too" pointing at a reproachfull boss who in turn  tells me that, if I had only allowed her to explain, she would have told me the dishwasher was  full of dirty dishes,  whilst the eldest utters icily, "Well really, I did my best, and I mean, you expect too much, I mean OK we forgot about the dog, and OK , the food was burnt, and OK, .... ."  " NOT OK," I blast with the kind of parental ferocity that closes the matter. I dispense the burnt offerings to each silenced child and remove myself to the living room to sip on  reviving tea and brood darkly on what was expected of myself and my sisters, at their age. The preparation of food and most forms of housework were regarded as being within our area of competency, and at the very least, you did not argue with your parents, when you knew your failure to carry out household tasks had caused disruption. Also,  you knew when a parent was dismayed, not being so absorbed by your own interior universe, or never having been encouraged to think only of this, I decided crossly.

"Uh, what did they say in the meeting?" the boy has put his head round the living room door, his forehead creased anxiously. The tea  (with  honey,) has worked its magic, and I am beginning to take a more optimistic view of matters. "Pretty much good things, darling" I  assure him.   His seeming nonchalance, earlier on about the meeting clearly having, it seems,  been a front. I was a little surprised my self by his teachers up beat account of him, and in particular, the mentiion  his pleasant and helpful demeanour in school. Its an all boys establishement, with (mostly) male teachers and its a fact that the non nonsense, no fuss approach suits him. Restored,  I resolve on a strict domestic rota of tasks for the future, dispatch the overwrought boss to bed with  a brisk hug, and give the elder one a more level talking to about the proper execution of chores. She  listens reluctantly, and with a distinct air of wistfull long suffering and regret,  ( at the sort of people she is obliged to live with, I daresay).  She  announces that I expect too much, the cremation of dinner was entirly down to the boss's imput, and that there's no point in talking to me (as my chest begins to swell all over again) before swinging on her heel and flouncing upstairs. I have become harsh unreasonable mother again , it seems. And I   had redeemed myself in recent months  in recent months,  having met and become involved with a man, of  whom she approved, having decided we were "Quaint" (being busted holding hands on the sofa on one red faced occasion) and "cute" as she told an outraged boy (who was not  so impressed,)   on another,(when , allegedly, we had been looking in a  moony eyed  fashion at one another).  However, being a decent parent is not to engage in a popularity contest, I re assure myself, as I climb the stairs to the blessed peace of the bedroom, where I will read, may indeed dispatch a sappy text to the said man, before succumbing to the sleep of the just (exhausted). I see, on my wall callander that  January, (the cruelest)  month is out; the boy is good (cooperative, helpful and mannerly in demeanour even) the boss and her sister will  (probably)  pardon us both by tomorrow; and really things might be worse.



                              MEDITATION IN JOHN MORRISEY'S FIELD

                                            This field, spare, stubbled in Autumn,
                                               bound by the fog wrapped river,
                                                holds my child enthralled.
                                                It's silent banks empty, at last,
                                                  of all but solitary boy.
                                                   And he, silent, intent,
                                                   armed with net and jamjar,
                                                   framed, against  red stained evening,
                                                   by   stark  naked  trees, the reaching branches
                                                   pulling down a leaden sky.

                                                         My call unanswered,
                                                           he is taken,
                                                          in this prayer   to  coming  winter.
                                                           City boy, his farmer's bones
                                                            were formed from muck
                                                           and set by chill raw air
                                                          til iron forged, in blood red skies,

                                                            now claimed again.
                                                         As I patrol the rim of field and vision
                                                          made by season's end,
                                                         that coming night and winter will desperse,
                                                         and farmers's seed lay scattered,
                                                         with no purchase in this earth.
                                                  
                            

Christmas tree divine, Alice slipped away, Smudged moon.

I sheparded my  reluctant owl eyed children into the car for school this morning,  Christmas, sadly having been and gone.  And we are post parties, carol singing, plays and the like. They did have a good one.  The boy announced casually that he would  be going to a disco on  the Friday night before christmas,  as a sort of afterthought,  short on detail of venue and times. Having extracted this information, I agreed (despite the fact that he had n't actually asked). It was  clearly a youth event, and I,  his faithful chauffeur would  deliver and collect him afterwards. The girls were intrigued. "Will you be meeting anyone," the elder one asks? He shifted  around in the back of the car, while I asked "um ..yes, meet, and what does that involve exactly".  "Oh mum" she said ,  eyes rolling (I could  feel it) "I told you about this already". "Yes, but eh, I am  not entirely clear as to what it involves, you know..... I mean, does it involve meeting more than one person, and..., it is kissing, is't it?"  A silence, and  then "yes! could be more that one, and  what do you mean JUST KISSING?". Amidst much sniggering, I persist (never knowing when to quit)  "but, ah, what if you like the person, how do you stay on, can't you....ah.. meet just one?". "For heavens sake" sighs the eldest,  "you exchange phone numbers of course..... and anyway what does that mean? stay on?"  "Well darling" I ploughed " on, "in my day, if you liked each other, he asked you to stay on.  "And then", I expanded,"you went back to you friends to get your handbag ( to where they were dancing round the handbags, being less favoured than you) (or fussier) and then,  to a chorus of "did he ask you to stay on?" you took your self and your bag over to dance with him for as long as you both pleased.  "Quaint" said the first daughter, "and ...and ..did you kiss him" sniggered the boss", "No" I said firmly," not  until you were serious  (no harm in setting the bar high) you danced, and told him tall tales about what you did for  a  living, (I was variously  a trapeze artist, a tree doctor, and a nurse (very popular) and he, credulous and entertained, would dance with you till the slow dances at the end, when you would attach yourselves very enjoyably , and inch blissfully round the dance floor. (with your brother in the vicinity, allegedly keeping an eye on you, but you didn't worry about that). "BUT no kissing" I finished unless you were....."yeah yeah" all three choroused delightedly, "SERIOUS".

Of course, dear reader, if he had a car,( "does he have a car" you're  friends sighed) you might let him take you home, where you engaged in a pseudo wrestling match, which, if you let him win, he never respected you again, and if you did'nt, you emerged dishevelled but intact from the car.  And  slipped  in through a strategic window perhaps, if it was very late.  Or, more rarely, you might talk for hours in his car about the meaning of life, or, for instance,  whether the devil was an anachronistic concept in the twentieth century, (having that time been to seen The Omen), until your mother emerged  from the house in  dressing gown with flashlight, having entirely misunderstood the situation.

Much later on: the boy sat  at the kitchen table, long legs wraped around a kitchen stool, shovelling ornflakes into his mouth with intent, because, he said,  he was starving. After some probing he volunteers that it was a good night, with a waterfight in the cloakrooms, and one of the lads being ejected for throwing a water balloon at sir. And, um, was he dancing? "We all danced together.  When we felt like it" he said impatiently, and takes himself off to bed yawning prodigously.  Dishevelled but intact then.

Our house was  garnished,  ornamented with various, carefully preserved  christmas artifacts, swathes of garish tinsel,  ancient posters of santa, and as many flashing multicoulred  lights as the boy had  persuaded me to allow. The tree was  selected, after intense  scrutiny and argument, transported home with much forward planning, and stood in the living room weighed down  ( well it would be weighed down if it wasn't the stoutest,  most unwieldly tree available, and well up to its burden of baubels) ( each year I suggest something neater,  more cirumspect, but the children are  passionate about having" a proper tree".) This year, I left them to dress the tree, with guilty gratitude, in order to go to the church  removal of  very sweet and  elderly  relative . There,  the soft voiced amiable talk of the mourners in the  background,I drifted  into  reverie about the sweet natured woman, slipping away at the extreme end of the year while all around her her neighbours whipped up the usual Christmas frenzy ( the better to obscure the  winter dark, the blurring of boundaries between this world and the closing  night).  We left her there,   coffined in the ice cold, dimly lit church,  long  looming shadows subduing the rich red vibrancy of christmas  poinsettias, the  silver and blue of alabaster saints. "I suppose she's in heaven" the boss  sighed, before I left the house "but I wouldn't want it... like.... to miss the christmas tree, and all the people you know, and its like.....too far,... its too far away,".  "Oh Yeah, its  in outer space" sniggered the boy," down a huge black hole". "No, no darling, its very near, heaven, it's just you can  see it when you die, that's all". (never ceasing to amaze myself with my maternal ability to channel a pollyanna like stream of conciousness, when the need arises) ( or  ever sure from whence said stream flows)

Each  year the children divide the tree baubels, stars,  ancient robins,  tinkling bells, ornaments frorm the dim and distant past, into three piles, amidst bitter disputes as to who put up what last year, and  the year before, and the year before that (  a complex tripartite treaty reached,  quite beyond my ability to adjudicate). Just as well the tree is stout and hardy, before the onslaught of three clashing visions as to how it should be.
It was all over when I  returned from the Removal, the tree a glorious blaze of red , gold and green,  eccentric but  divine, the  angel slightly askew, triumphantly crowning  a flowing glinting wonder.

And this year, no Santa. The boss has decided it is time, though I would have gone another year, so that's that. No more Santa;  no more sweetly manipulative letters thanking Santa carefully for past loot, before slipping in the outrageous list; no more frantic scrambling about following  a change of mind after the letter has gone and santa's elves have already  got the exact item from the workshop and put in on the sleigh; no more comic confusions by busy santa where you might find  the signs on the toy kitchen placed upside down on christmas morning,  or handlebars on the tricyle facing outwards; no more hysterical children unable to sleep, afraid to be awake on christmas eve, no more sage warnings  to lively little ones about santas elves on the watch from early december, threats of lumps of coal given to a child you heard about,,  and never again three enchanted  little ones, sitting blissful in a cavern of christmas wrappings, sweet wrappers, and the exact things they asked for, at 6am (or other unearthly hour) on christmas morning. One visit to an electronic warehouse, for a couple of  I Pod Touchs and an X Box, has a fine simplicity about it after all.  And yet... and yet... I think, as we drive home from the childrens  mass  on Christmas Eve, and I remember another   Christmas Eve, drifting home on an empty road in a frozen blanket of fog, through which the the partially obscured moon shed a dim  and ghostly light, when the (oh so young and innocent) boy asked me  how santa would find us when the moon was SMUDGED, and yet.......I'm not ready, not yet.....santa?


                                                            SMUDGED   MOON

                                        Boy saw the moon saw the moon saw boy,
                                           Boy in the moon in the moon in boy.
                                        The moon, the moon the moon  is smudged, he said,  "oh why?"
                                         and I, Navigator, smelled the smoky air and knew
                                                its purple trail accross the sky.
                                         From gathering dark, the Smudged Moon rides.
                                               
                                                    His blurred face wavers
                                                       pale, now shimmers
                                                    casting soon to be, becoming worlds in light.
                                                      Darkness lightens
                                                       brightest dims
                                                    on Christmas eve, on Christmas Eve.
                                                      As we, miraclemakers! drive
                                                       home, from church and crib.
                                                    Worlds ravel and unravel as we ride,
                                                   my mindsrace plans, the children's slightly crazed
                                                      anticipation, dreams
                                                     of Rudolph redeemed, will
                                                    gather up our scattered magic.
                                                    He, who hopeful bears,
                                                   the laughing man in red, the holy babe.

                                  

Badly bruised children, Tales from the Crypt, Rattling the Human Chain.

"She's just mean, that's all, and like I didn't do anything wrong, and and even if I had, it would have been by accident , and like not my fault, and like she hurt me, my arm,  just yanked me, by my arm, and pulled me out of the room, and like... like stood over me shouting, and making me feel bad, and like how could I have known what she wanted, " the boss tells of this  treatment by one of her teachers with pained brow, her habitual expression when wounded physically or emotionally,  attempting to  grasp the logic of events.  "Mum, you should complain" her older sister says trenchantly.  I ask the  boss to explain to me again what happened, and if her arm is marked. She is firm in telling me that she does not want me to intervene  "because, like, there will be a big fuss, and I 'll be called in, and my arm's ok now, and I don't think she will do it again because, like she was nice to me later, and she's not usually,  and... and I think she knows she went too far, and and she's not MY teacher, I don't have to see her often. And besides, SHE'S.... SHE'S  JUST LIKE THAT.". She certainly seems to have fogotten about it by the time we get home,  though I am troubled.  Should I intervene, despite her injunction? I know what she means by a  "big fuss", and I 'm also aware that schools and adults  in general  are adept at  re inventing the dynamic of what has happened,  to implicate the child  in subtle and unsubtle ways,  if faced with the choice of tackling a teacher. And what harm has been done to the boss?  I am not sure. Would I , in fact, cause actual harm where none had been done, if I make "a big  fuss" as she fears.

Teachers   these days are not permitted to brutalise children, as they have done  with impunity in the  not so distant past. In fact there is a belief  now that matters have swung too  far in the opposite direction, the teacher's authority fatally eroded.  I am not convinced about that one. The imbalance of power between little one and adult doesn't change, and teachers  like the rest of us, are adept at subterannean, suble cruelties, in place of more frowned  on oppressions. As to harm done, I was primary schooled in an era where use of a  fair degree of brutality was considered appropriate in teaching children, with an indifference to, or ignorance about,  consequential damage. The casual attitude towards  those abuses  seems almost humourous now (blackly). When I was about ten years old , for instance, I presented a medical form to a teacher, filled out as a preliminary to some  school vaccination, who read it aloud to the class (it was a slow morning) and remarked, bitingly, that my mother seemed to be under the impression that I had normal intelligence.  The other children laughed loudly, and I would have joined in had the heavy dark featured teacher required it of  me. All that was required was for me to sit there  dumb and abject,  however. And I have a sneaking disbelief in my  own intelligence to this day. Again, I recall been asked for the answer to a homework question by the same malelovolent (to this ten year old, anyway) presence. So frightened was I, that the numbers blurred on the page when I looked down, and I gave her the answer to the adjacent sum. There followed a scene at the blackboard, to where she marched me, that I carry with me to this day. Being numb with fear, I couldn't  make any sense of the figures on the board, so that she caught me by  my hair, swung me back   and whacked  my head sharply against the board.   For what seemed like an eternity thereafter, I stumbled through  the the workings  of the sum. In the end, the answer was  seven. I know that because she spelled the  letters of the word out derisivly to me, and made me write them  down, although the letters made no recognisable word for me. "Se van" I told her.   Fear had made me illiterate as well as innumerate. When I resumed the (relative) safety of my desk, she asked me what answer had I  actually written down for  homework.   " Seven" I told her.  She   snatched  the copy from my hand, and after a brief silence,  delivered herself of  a diatribe against  imbeciles.

On  the    scale of  opppressions, I was not the the most badly treated. I remember  a small child,  pale yellow urine slowly running down her leg, as she stood isolated at the top of the classroom, being berated by the same teacher. We all  watched as she cried helplessly, the  situation only alleviated  for us by the fact that it was not one of us. The teacher stroked the stick she kept to discipline the children, (she named it Jimmy,) before contemptously ordering the child  home out of her sight "with her disgusting mess". So, I am not sure what damage was done to the boss now, but I will take no chances, I suspect my own gauge  may be broken on that one, and will pay a discreet visit to her  school.

And what of all the other parents confronted with this scenario then and  now,  my own included? I suspect that the level of harshness and abuse (what else was it ?) varied from parish to parish depending on how willing or able ordinary people were to counteract the priest and the teacher, to rein them in.  It was  then a rigidly  hierarchical society,  a potentially  dangerous imbalance of power reflected in the relationship between people, church and schools. Some of this abuse was so blatant, extreme, even  ( boys, in particular being badly beaten on  a regular basis in school or most cruelly and consistantly derided.) The derision was a given, ("sticks and stone may break your bones, but words will never hurt you", we said)  and  not confined to  academic matters either . I remember one boy being  mocked about his "buck" teeth over and over  by the headmaster, a male counterpart of our Cruella.  There was at best a helpess paralysis, a powerlessness on the part of parents,  at worse a cravenly  blind eye turned. My   own childhood  experiences of this could be  matched and topped by many people,  and I have heard the stories over the years  usually in a pub setting, the only setting where this stuff is pulled out in  to the light of day, still.  The wavering  angry light  shed by  many units of alcohol  catching the damaged  child ,  buried deep, and  hastily stuffed back into the crypt,  in  sobriety. There is a shocking resignation about it all, an unwillingness to be troubled by old wounds. Which, of course works  its poison  through, one way or another.    Taking into account the more extreme brutalities of that, not so long ago, time,  it is hard to see how it  can be excused,  disposed of,  in terms of a  more delicate  modern sensibility, and /or a matter of  making judgements on  a different era.  I wonder too whether this kind of craven  blind eyed not looking (hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil) is a peculiarly   Irish trait. And  if   it is now  a part of   our  heritage, working its way out  through the  generations,  like any other  suppressed  damage. It is naive to think we have left it  all behind us , in the past, or that the harm done has been healed or dealt with at all. It may even be dangerous to think that  a toxic legacy is not transferred to children,  who all  unknowing  and in a more affluent and permissive  time, will act out old traumas, bleed out from old wounds. . With the aid of  chemical and other stimulants, of course.. After all, its common belief these days that trauma is stored on a cellular level, and how can we caculate what RNA catalysed process  was caused and passed on  from old horrors,  to taint, to hobble,  future generations.?


                                                         Behind Judas Escariot.

Was it you behind Judas Escariot, you
as he slides through the door,
his  head dipping lower, and
you  carry  his coat, while you both
left the floor to the beast.
All available space
he had
Tather Tom,
when he beat the child to the floor,
til child despoiled, flower mired, could'nt take  any more.
His child's flesh too weak, so to speak
pulverised to a pulp
til nothing will ever now move
save the sad silent flow of his blood.
Father oh father oh daddy please stand
between frail flesh and beasthand.
Was it you?

Was it you who went home to cower in bed,
while Judas Escariot tightened the rope
and never once lifted his head?
The murdered child cast out with the trash.
No questions asked.
Was it you?

Are you blind to the stain that has spread
that has leached all the joy from your store,
all the hope from your heart.
Your graces departed, your houses debased and defiled,
and you dream every night of the beast
that shadows your child,
of the beast unleashed, stalks the land.

Did you claw in the ground, on your knees to seek,
in the earth to unearth,
or sorrow to find,
the murdered child, the hidden boy.
To nail the lie,
to weep, to mourn
possibility quenched,
forever gone such chance for good,
would you go back again if you could?
Was it you.

Working dogs, Misplaced Babies and a Visit with the Undead.

"Don't be a fool! He'll love it",  "Oh... my... god,  How would you feel if we did that to you. How?".  "a DOG'S DIFFERENT YOU FOO.....". " Enough"! I bellow (I can bellow), and I  wonder how exactly we came to this, after all its only Monday,  far too early for this conversation,  there's never actually  a good time for this  particularly unseemly conversation. Oh it all started innocently enough, with my first born's (d'eldest) decision to move to Australia with his wife and three children, earlier in the year. After the sad departure, during which  there was much wailing with  d'eldest himself offered the family room,  (the crying room,) going through security,  to collect himself and his distraught children  ( apparently they have to have this now for distraught Irish  departees, emigrating with their families.)  Its one thing to leave in the short term,  single and /or on an adventure,  and quite another to leave with little ones and no return date. After they left we settled down to skyping, but now, christmas approaches, and  our equilibrium is again disturbed. D'eldest and his wife are energetic party givers and celebrants of christmas, and all such events. Christmas was a project for them, beginning in early November with a plan of campaign, and brought to a mighty conclusion on the 25th, carrying all of us in the crest of their exuberant wave.  I really dont know know how we are going to do it without them, or who they, being newcomers still , will find  to share  in   their  christmas joy de vivre , in Australia.  So we are back to the girls campaign to visit, started as soon as the plane left the ground.His parents in law are going over in April next, tickets purchased for some time.  They being  very present and  very good grandparents.  Both girls feel I am being a little faint hearted by comparison, and have  assumed a gentle nagging but as I have (patiently) explained to them, blackboards will become more blurred, (optician), dental cavites unfilled, school trips foregone, and the soles of shoes glued togeather, if we have our Australian trip now  ( after which we would have to  stay home, forswear all junk food, and racketing about, wear extra sweaters in the cold  sparingly heated house and read  library books for entertainment)  (does'nt really sound so bad in fact, depending on your point of view). Anyway, and  bringing  us back  to where we started, the boy mentioned that his  friend has small pedigree dogs, and he has squirrelled away a thousand euros earned in breeding them. I  absently reminded him that the  hound has an impressive  pedegree.  "Oh my god. thats it" the innocent elder daughter squealed." But what would it involve?". The boy told her what it would involve, in succinct and brutal fashion. "What! N0!, He's our dog. He's one of the family. ..like.. like a brother, we can't take money for that.."  And so on and so forth.  "Well anyway, I have a far better idea" the boss's tone is earnest, "like..like, its not just d'ldest's parents in law who want to see them, we all want to see them, like granny too, and all the cousins and aunts and uncles, like there must surely be like forty people or so, and like why can't we HAVE THEM OVER HERE?. and buy the flights between us, that wouldn't cost   too much. and .. and we could do it every year, and then WE would'nt have to have like..like  jet lag, or..or  take time off work for mum, and like..like they'd get to see everyone, and you could like text all the family this evening mum, and arrange it before christmas, WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM (the boy snorting derisively). its better than you're stupid dog idea". "ENOUGH!" I say roundly " we will neither import d'ldest and his family for Christmas, or put the hound out to work. Not that these are not fabulous ideas, but we will visit in the summer like every one else, and explore all  other suggestions  in due course. . Over time. ..And we'll see" (The great "We'll see", invaluable strategic procrastination  in parenting).

When d'ldest was newborn, I was obliged to leave him behind me when I left the hospital for a week or so, before bringing  him home. The shift from such   intense focus on this  beaming infant, the sense of mental rupture from  my obsessive preoccupation with feeding, bathing and just staring at this helpless indomitable creature, left me adrift in a fog of disorientated depression.  I visited every day of course, and was permitted by the attendant nuns to hold him briefly as they stood, blank  faced,  by. The infant handed to me  so reluctantly, wrapped in a  stiff and unfamilar  yellow blanket, began to seem more like their baby than mine  to me as the week went on, till I reclaimed him,  got him home. In our subsequent life, crowded with it incident as it was, I never revisited that week,  until driving down the motor way after the plane had departed for Australia, in another grey fog, pervasive  and entirely interior.  But equilibrium has been restored,  and I passionately believe that your children should go beyond you, so to speak,  physically,  geographically , emotionally and in any other way there is. I am pleased they have expanded their horizons in such a magnificent way, and we will be regular visitors.

The boss has agreed to go with me to see the latest Twilight movie. Well, I have been corrupted into a sneaking fondness for these movies.  I was obliged to take the girls (and a less than thrilled boy) to the first two, and somehow or other I was drawn in. And besides I have always been intrigued by vampire stories.  When younger I came across and devoured ( in vampire manner) Anne Rices's very entertaining books. I suppose its all that brooding  vampirish angst, all that dark regret and loss coupled with the irristable power of the undead. The allure of the vampire reminds me of the notion of wakem, in native american culture, or that which mysteriously is, a dark flowing energy, neither good or bad, uncontrollable  but necessary, vital,  in balance with washte (the ordinary.). Sexuality , poisons, dangerous creatures, pain, creative energy, darkness are wakem, and appeal  in particular to teenagers, and whatever inner wild child the rest of us channel. So, I asked if we were going to this one, with feigned reluctance.   I was  surplus to requirements  however, as both girls went with friends ( small gangs of blase looking tweens and teens, collectively gasping in the cinema  when the boys on the screen took of (no, flung off) their shirts.  Which  happened a lot, believe me.) Anyway, the first daughter says she can't face  this one again for a while   but the boss has agreed to take me. So,  if you see a solid, solemn faced twelve year old girl  leading a sheepish, popcorn clutching woman by the hand, in to see  New  Moon, that would probably  be us.

speedvans, marie antoinette, buzzing boys and a kind of crucifition

"Wrong! theres only one speed van on each stretch of road, AND  he's always in the same place,  always"  the boy has emerged from his  miasmic gloom of last night ( much passionate electric guitar playing with a closed look on his face) .  He's first out  the traps into the eternal  argument on our  way to school this morning.  "But..but.. there could be another one,  further on in front of us, another one........" the boss never got to finish,  "They have a limited number of vans, how do you suppose they could EVEN AFFORD  to  have more than one in each area,  they're trying to slow you down not catch you out"  the boy is energetically working up a head of steam,  "And you know this how?" the dreaming genuis comes to life ( from  a dignified retreat on being told to pull down her skirt).   "Just look it up on the internet,  go on, they show you where the van is, in each area", the boy  is on a roll (and loud. Loud)  "But that doesn't  mean there  can't be others.."..  "It DOES,   read the stuff on the website,  they 're not trying to catch you out,  it's always,  always,  the same place". "Umm well we must check out the website darling, to settle the arguement".  "There's  no point, HE settles the arguement by shouting everyone else down". (the dreamer is bitter) "And YOU never..."    "Christmas boxes,! for people in need!" I say hastily "have we got ours ready" (a strategic change of subject) "Oh, and you know there's a lot of homelessness in town", says the boy wisely, "we see Red Willlie out side our school every morning,. Of course," chuckling, "he's not actually homeless, just comes in on the train every day  and pretends to be". "Really, mum all you have to do is look around you in town and you will spot the homeless people, its not a joke, they are there", (my pained angel)   " Yes and how do you  actually know they are homeless darling?".  "Oh , oh you do know," said the boss,  " like sometimes you see people who like have  like layers, like two jumpers tied around their wast and maybe two coats on top, and ...and... and old shoes".  "Ah" said I, "people wearing their entire wardrobe in fact ."  "Yes, ( the First daughter has gone from stern to icy) yes, and those people are cold (a slight shudder, she being a cold creature) and have no where to go".   "And ...like mum, WHY  do we have a big house all to ourselves" (the boss is in accusative mode ).    "Huh?".  "Yes, all to ourselves when you could fit another family in  our house. At least".  I protest faintly that our house is not that big, and we have a person in every bed room, while reflecting that another family might be interesting considering that this family cannot abide each other for long  stretches of the day. We discuss tenements, where, I say entire families   had a room each in large houses in the last century, and there was huge efforts made to get them  OUT OF THAT, and  into proper accomodation. "But you can see homeless people, every day NOW" insists my   avenging angel....  "Yes" ( the boss's  tone is sadly reproachful)and..and..like .. there's that man who sits outside all day long,  near  your office mum, on the doorstep, you  can see him all the time.". (I feel  as though I have told them all  to eat cake.)( And you can call me   Marie Antoinette ). "Oh " bellows the boy , "I  KNOW  him, we all know him, HUH ,  he knows what he's  doing, and he always winks at you".  "Theres is no point, NO  POINT,  in continuing with this conversation"  (the angel speaks. ).  "No, no,  go on darling, say what you want to say ". " NO  point. There is no point with HIM talking over you,ALL THE TIME.  I refuse to discuss this, while HE is allowed shout everyone down, and sneer and never be dealt with!"  There is a silence after this passionate speech. Then I tell her that, in my experience, sadly, this is how men argue  and/or debate, they compete,  they attack, it often involves  shouting. "And after all darling its good experience for you, to make yourself heard over him. When I went to university, it took me quite a while to adjust to men taking over debates and discussions and I wasted a lot of time being indignant, until the penny dropped. They do the same to each other, its not gender directed,"   "Huh, thats just unreal, mum, thats...thats just  a cop out, you just let him away with  it".  "And the  good thing (I labour on brightly, in her cold  silence)  IS THAT THEY NEVER MIND YOU SHOUTING BACK. ITS..ITS ...LIBERATING  ". I am addressing (shouting as it turns out) her back as she climbs out of the car, and unfortuately follow up with an injunction to pull down her skirt (shifted upwards again).  I say unfortunate as, according to the boss and the sniggering boy, there is a small group of youths standing nearby who overhear and are staring after her, broad grins on their faces. (OH DEAR GOD  the poor  girl is right, and I am an Inadequate. A terrible fool).  But perhaps she hasn't realised. ".  "Umm mum, I think she knows, " as we pass her by,  arms actually folded, and face set as she walks. And that my friends  is how to alienate your beloved daughter, ( fast forward to hours of appeasement later on) from sheer inadvertant tacklessness and instinctive motherly injunctions at the wrong moment. The so very wrong moment.

I  drove into town  to collect the boy from  meeting up with his friend on Friday  evening. "But surely, darling, there were only two of you when I left you in?" as I extracted him from a buzzing ball of at least twenty boys. " Oh" he said airly "we just kind of picked them up as we went along,  you  know,  fellas all on a half day from school, hanging around, we sort of gathered them up and kept going. "going where dear boy? "Oh, nowhere, not really, just  walkin and talkin, just hangin around".  The entire gathering seemed to have vanished when I  looked back .. As though I had unravelled a ball of wool when I extracted the boy. "Where have  they gone  now?".  "Home" he said laconically before asking me what was for dinner. I had a sudden arresting vision of a vortex,  a boyball rolling through the town sucking every pubesent boy into its ever increasing energy field, emptying   the town and hinterland  of laughing,  care for nothing boys, til I and a few other parents extracted a handful, and the rest fell out, seeping  home to their tired, bemused and  (no doubt) relieved  parents.

The boss has won an inter schools art competition on Monday.  Her second win this term, her earlier poster win going forward to represent the county. She is a prolific prize winner of art and other childrens'  competitions. The school encourages it, its good for them and good for her. And,  as I think I may have already mentioned , I bask.  Her first painting competition  win occured when she was seven years old. That  competition was sponsered by the parents of a small child who had died,  a pupil at the school, a silver cup given  to the winner  in her memory. When she won, the boss brooded much on whether this would make the childs parents feel any  better, and why and how the child died. For a time,  it seemed she could not think about her win at all without thinking about this child. There was much discussion about what happens when we die (such  a long story) and why, and why  that particular child and not another.  I struggled  to explain, as you do, to put some safe shape on the realities of death and loss.  You never feel you are actually qualified to offer these( halting)explanations. And you never are.    The boss herself caused me a few heart stopping moments. When she was two months old, as I tiredly  descended the stairs , a footslip and she flew from my arms,  a precious fragile thing  (so recently and with such brooding  careful thought , such labouring energy,  brought into the world)  falling down endlessly, getting further and further away from me to as I watched,  useless. (useless)  (useless). "I think we were lucky this time,  She must have bounced on her nappy, not a bother on her," the doctor told me later with grim humour.  I had a similar sensation two years later, when she  fell under the reversing  car of a horrified neighbour, the sense  of increasing, forever stretching distance as I ran  on and on  towards the car pinning my silent  child. It is as though you have already taken on board an eternity of consequences and loss in an elongated second, a lifetime of guilt accepted, a desperate bargaining with god, fate,  or something, being offered in arrested time.    And  we were lucky that time too, a clean break in her leg, her precious head and vital organs safely clear of the wheel. I was hysterical, unravelled for a long time afterwards.  I  sometimes access those desperate slices of frozen time,  of  watching  at the top of the stairs,of  the endless never to arrive race towards the car,  a  head trip  for  darker moments.      She has forgotten about the child who gave her name to that early art competition   now,  she glories in her win, plots on the spending of a generous cash prize as she ought,  though  I have not. All her  subsequent wins, briefly and poignantly  bringing this child to mind. Her sister had , in fact, brought home a  sad little story  the year before, about a child in her class, headscarf wearing and often absent, who  didn't run about with the other children in the yard  "cos she's not allowed, mum", but who was always smiling "cos she's nice mum".  I began to check  on  whether this child had had come to school  from time to time. One day, she said to me "Oh no, mum, she never comes in now". I made some enquires,  and it was as I had apprehended. My daughter  never mentioned the child again, forgot about her , I suppose,  but the fate of those  two children merged in my mind, a  waking   nightmare, the small hostage to fortune given with each child,  lost ,  the  haunting fear of  all  parents,    the unthinkable thing if you are to carry on with reasonable  confidence and the energy required in rearing  children. . This poem is about agony.  And the  unyielding  love  of parents.

                                                                               GRIEF

                                                   Held
                                                         by
                                                            unbearably slender thread,
                                                               an egg shell head
                                                                   is all ,between my baby and the void.
                                                   Inadequate membrane of pink and bone
                                                          to house
                                                                my jewel, my care, my own,
                                                                    that cruel chemicals exposed.
                                                   The soft brown down that grew
                                                        and stirred our hopes
                                                           not enough
                                                              to keep my sweet one warm.

                                                  We wrapped her up in cotton wool,
                                                      in  layer on layer on layer of love.
                                                  The drugs they said,
                                                        we spoonfed
                                                             from her poisoned cup.
                                                   We took her back to school
                                                            the glory days
                                                                 we knew she could.
                                                    I held her ghosthand fast
                                                        the long way there
                                                            the long way back,
                                                               oh fool, remember not to hold too hard.
                                                    Her face and open beam of glee
                                                            to be
                                                                with her own kind.
                                                    So rough, so rude, so everyone of them alive.
                                                    My face a mask,
                                                               I mimed goodbye,
                                                                    I mimed
                                                                       dont crush, dont push
                                                                            dont be too much
                                                                                dont let her know you know,
                                                                                   on this day let her be a living child.
                                                     Her tense and radient face
                                                                  dreams of beginning
                                                                        willing to start.
                                                     The memory,
                                                             snapshot
                                                               slow corrodes my heart.
                                                     It trails to mock my struggle through nightsdark.
                                                     I carry you
                                                            you carry me
                                                                 between us two she lies.
                                                      I am without compass
                                                                 point
                                                                     this husk.
                                                      The small white coffin has the rest.
                                                      (We let them, take her, coffin with the rest)

Epilogue:  she stood beside me a few minutes ago,  the boss, at the lift  in the multi story car park telling me about how she played  the same  traditional songs over and over   on the accordian in the school band,  for the school open day ( Open Days, even in primary schools these days, such is the competition for pupils and precious grants) "and.. .and I had to give my red band jacket to Roisin,  mum, cos  like she forgot hers, n only mine would fit her,  and they gave me  another  too small one, and my arm was bent in it as I played,  n  like I couldn't straighten it, and it was so funny, n we had to play the same songs over n over, and we couldnt stop laughing, n it was brillant, like so much better than class, n Mrs Ryan was pleased with us,  even though  we kept laughing, n even though my arm was achy n we had to keep playing the same ones over n over, like, like KEEP PLAYIN GIRLS! SHE SAID,   n  even tho we laughed,  n laughted,  n laughed" and  she was off, away from me,  running down the up moving  escalator, her solid twelve year old frame  a blur of motion ,   hair streaming behind  "cos the lift is  so boring mum, an this its faster, n the boy  n me always come down this way you know , n  you should try it yourself Mum" she breathlessly tells me  when I catch up with her down below.

Violated teddy bears, hauntings, an unapology, a benidorm dream and Clare De Lune.

"No! Sorry. There's only one christmas day, 25th December, only that day. I am not accepting any other possiblities". The boy's lively tone has an edge to it. "Oh, oh no, in fact it could have been another day, like, like, some people think it was in April, A theologian visiting our school told us , they just picked the 25th in order to have a day to celebrate".  The rest of what the boss has to say is drowned out by a resounding "No" from the boy  "I mean, right,  we will agree to differ on this " ( the parental solution, imposed on extreme arguements is  now adapted by the boy) "but"  (sotto voce) its the 25th. Only one." Poor boy, brain of ungiving cut and thrust, muscles of steel, instincts of a scrapper, and heart of mush. He it is who digs out halloween and Christmas decorations every year, sternly upholding family traditions. He discovered this year, at Halloween, that one of our large witch posters had vanished,  disintegrated as I  explained  (after seven years hard haunting) and I rushed to find the remaining one ( lurid orange with hook nosed, pointy chinned, leering witch.). "Oh, at least you kept that one. That one's sacred. You will keep that one, wont you?". I am an abandoned  declutterer, ruthless and reckless in dispatching stuff  via bin , blackbag and recycling plant. It is the only way, I find, to hold back the tide of stuff  that comes with stages, interests, and essential needs of three children who are as sentimental about stuff as they are fickle,  forever moving on to the  next  irrisistible thing. They mistrust me deeply, of course, suspect me if stuff can't be found. I am blamed, even as I tell them  I should cast out more! more! to save  us all and the house being engulfed in a tsumani of STUFF..

Anyhow, the boy puts up his sacred pictures every year, and has an ancient teddy bear in his room, a hostage to fortune, who from time to time is seized and borne off by our Hound of the Baskervilles , to a corner of the house to be violated. The hound is entirely addicted to the raiding and carrying off of soft toys, all the cuddlies and fluffies from the girls bedrooms, and the boy's bear (positively the only soft item in his bedroom). The hound knows his transgression is heinous indeed, but he can't help himself, the wild light of addiction, the reckless thrilling joy of being bad, in his eyes as he streaks past you on the stairs, a fluffy  between his jaws. He has removed the eyes and nose of the boy's bear, in various attacks, before being cast out into the garden by a distraught boy. And I can tell you that your heart would have to be a cold and stony place indeed, not to be  yourself  undone by  the boy's raw sorrow,  his anguished demands that you repair the bear. He left it behind him  in a hotel when he was younger (couldn't holiday without it ) and I had the  guilt racked sense of having carelessly misplaced a child until we got the  lost  one  back (messy detour with distracted boy). Least I ever forget,  the boy needs his ediface of sacred days, and bears  and holy pictures,  even as  I work on   regulating his profanity.(a work in progress)

I am all aglow on Tuesday after the boss's parent teacher meeting.(Her last one in Primary school)  Is it too fanciful to think that the universe gave me boss's  parent teacher meetings  to make up for all the rest?  (the horror, the horror!).  It's all good, no , it's all superlatives, let's not be modest here. Well I don't actually take credit for it, she came onto the planet fully formed, already superlative (I have the baby  pictures to prove it, her large intelligent face looking benignly at the camera,  like a visiting alien from an altogether superior species, whose intentions are, more or less,  altruistic) So, no, I don't take credit but I do bask in reflected glory, the boy asking me why I am grinning broadly  (like a crazy person) when I return to the car.

On the way home, she asks me if  I want to know something really annoying and JUST WRONG  about the broadcaster, Pat Kenny. "Umm yes, why not" (surely nothing sordid?).  "Well he gets  paid €90 per hour, every hour, EVEN WHEN HE IS SLEEPING,  while, like,   people in the world and maybe even in his own country now are starving."  "Pardon?"  "Yes, even though  he ONLY (heavy irony) gets paid €730,000 now, and...and he used to get  €900000, thats still €90 he gets  every hour EVEN WHEN HE IS SLEEPING. And,  and, like,  he must surely know PEOPLE ARE STARVING.   "Oh.  I see." (I guess Pat Kenny's not sleeping the sleep of the just, so ). She asked me last week whether I had a pension plan in place, (an extremely distracting line of questionng when  you are driving. I can tell you )(particularly from a strong minded person not easily fobbed off). "I mean" she went on, "how do you plan to have money mum, when you retire?" (Her uncle retired recently, and it was discussed.)  The boy snorted and I thought, ( an interior rant) retire? retire! I am never retiring.  Expiring  maybe,  when the three are launched and paid for, my ghost to walk the road between home and town (the  local metropolis where it all happens,  shooling, work and three burgeoning social lives) , screeching nastily at those cars with double headlights that blinded me when in my  earthly shape, and   flashing a ghostly boob from time to time   at boy racers .(as you do ). Retirement is for wimps,  civil servants, and politians.  However, and particularly after her impressive outing of Kenny, I am handing the management of my financial affairs over to the boss, (as soon as it is legal).

"Its just completely unaceptable using that sort of language att this hour of the day, mum, and I am tired of being subjected to it , and I'd like to know what you are going to do about HIM"  the first daughter glares at my back (I can feel it), as I attempt to get the car out of the estate on to the road on Wednesday morning.  "What? what? what did he..."  "He told me to shove it up my arse, when I asked him to move his schoolbag (both sitting in the back), at this hour of the morning!, something has to be done about him!"  (I sometimes expect an American accented director type to reveal to me that we are actually in an extended version  of the movie Groundhog Day)  "Apologise" I order the boy hastily ( the delicate eared one is not going to let this go ) "For what!, she said stuff too". "Apologise! Now".  "Uh ah em   sor (sic) (its the unapology !, a boy special).  "Apologise PROPERLY "    "Sorry. I'll never ever say that again.  Never. Until later on in the day ". The delicate eared one begins a long lament on her misfortune in being connected  to such as the boy, and   doubly afflicted  in having a mother who LETS HIM AWAY WITH IT, while I reflect on how I told the boy last night that I was climbing on to the roof  to signal (any) passing aliens, who might be interested in taking him off for a good probing , after another round in the   war  of attrition between himself and his sister, while we were watching Speilberg's alien saga, Taken.  "APOLOGISE, SINCERELY AND AND NICELY RIGHT NOW". The boss sighs deeply into the silence that follows, and remarks on how impossible it is to disscuss thing with the boy's noise. "Shush " I hiss at him, as he gathers his verbal forces (I can feel it) (he knows she is an unstoppable force once she gets going) and she's off (he subsides, in the back) (I can........). The boss is afire with a school project where they set up a mini company in small groups, she and her friend plan to create a website to sell tee shirts and other items with her own designed logo, but,  like, her friend wants to sell things very cheaply, and , like , I told her we had to make a profit, and she said, what? whats that?and I told her,  and she said Oh.  And then, like,  she wanted to sell teeshirts with the twilight logo, beause, like, the movie is just out, but I said we could not, because there  would  be ,like,  legal problems , and she said Oh.  But I said I have worked out a design we can use, and, like, now we have to figure out what we need to buy , to, like,  transfer the design on to the teeshirts,  and, like, we could like  use your credit card mum,. and ...."    and I said "Oooh. Well anyway darling here we are, at school and I daresay we can discuss this later".

And still, I though afterwards , driving solo (bliss) one shouldn't dismiss any of the boss's ideas out of hand. I suspect she will be generating  shed loads of  money some day, and may syphon some of it off  to me (as a sort of afterthought). I don't  exactly stay up nights tormenting my poor head  about  retirement plans  ( see para four  above), but one should always have a fall back plan. Probably.  Well in fact I had a vague plan about taking myself off  to Benidorn, in Spain,  because it is sunny,  cheap and there's a grand view of the beech, if you take the precaution of renting  an apartment on the top floor of one of those high rise blocks, which I presented to my incredulous siblings on a night out recently, my vision deepened by pints of carlsberg.(oh yes)   After all, money is mostly needed in the rearing of children, and after that, what DO  you actually need, other that a supply of books, a decent sound system, a kitchen to cook in,  the odd bottle of wine and walks on the beech?  I used to think of this, when driving past Benidorm, (to somewhere more salubrious) on spanish holidays, I explained, and if one was lonely there would always be lovely english expatriots to talk to  and ...and  karaoke!  I can say accurately , at that point, that    my Benidorm dream  fell apart at the seams,  thrashed by my loving family's amused jeering at my low class vision for the future. (my negative equity inspired lateral thinking)  Still,  Spain sounds  a deep cord in  me, the tatty  and the sublime, the  lilting murmer of  spanish voices, the landscape baked all summer long, the complex tragic history and I may get  there yet (Benidorm or elsewhere), if  there is a lull before the Expiring that is, and I manage to keep my wits from wandering too far astray (probably requires a good sheepdog).

And besides, Karaoke, what's not to love? It has everything, freakshow, beauty and the sweet sweet music of good natured ,allowing  humanity. The earnest young girls, veterans of high school musical and  glee, who know all the words and sing without misgiving; the vibrant, disinhibited,  comrade in armed hen party girls shouting in perfect harmony, the startling solitary diva (always one) who takes you by surprise, making  the hair stand up on the back of your neck, with her  note perfect purity, (its  like  panhandling for diamonds really)(with the muddy bits being far more fascinating) the middle aged, shedding sense, discrimination and timing in an out pouring of  damp eyed  sentimentality and lets not forget the begrudgers  wallowing in a pleasurable orgy of distaste.   Its all good my friends.

On Friday, I am commissioned to download the musicsheet  for  Debussy's Clare De Lune, by my delicate eared one. Having recently taken her grade six piano exam, she needs a piece for a pending  provincial  piano competition. We went to open night at the boss's chosen secondary school on Tuesday night, where she and I trailed  exhausted after a   bouncing boss, determined to vist every nook and cranny, unearth every possible activity on offer, so that she could plot and plan  the next six years itinerary. As we trudged past yet another open doored, brightly lit classroom, the first one grabbed me by the elbow "Oh listen"! I extracted my attention from its  fug of overload and observed  a small girl playing Clare De Lune on an enormous piano with the most delicate timing and lovely competency to an entirely empty room, unheard except by my subtle, music loving girl. "Ah" she said "thats been in my head for ages, before I even knew the name, that's what I'm playing for  the concert. Oh listen! That's it. I am so happy." And she is, at the prospect of learning something really hard to master, of torturing herself  in obsessive and determined fashion with her  will of iron and  her able flexible fingers, till she gets it right, its beauty as suble, ordered and demanding as her own.

(the memory of the small girl who played the piano to  an empty room with such passion and delicacy, and I wish I could share the exquisite sound of her playing in those few moments with you my friends,  now stored in my gallery of mysterious, haunting and magical things (a  gorgeous mystery wrapped in a beautiful enigma) for all time ).

Footnote: dispatches from a roof, basically no show by the aliens.