“Get your maulers off me oranges” — Moore Street in the rare old times
My Dad and Dublin never used to get on. As a child, though, I remember the special hatred he reserved for our annual December 8 family trip up to the smoke.
But here he was now, asleep in my bed in my Rathmines flat after a great night out in town with his old Garda buddies.
I had slept in a camp bed borrowed from a friend. It was early morning and in the gathering light filtering through the curtains I could discern the tousled track of white hair running around his bald head, and the red tip of Dad’s right ear above the blankets.
I actually began writing this at around half five this morning, rising from a horrible night’s — you could hardly call it sleep since I seemed to be awake for most of it — tossing, turning, snorting and worrying. Feeling hopelessly lost.
Things had really got on top me and I went to bed early to try and sleep on through to some kind of miraculous enlightenment, or at least a new perspective that would let me appreciate the light of the new day. Hoping against hope things might somehow be different, better. Continue reading
What a morning that was: the Quest for the Big Enough Knickers, followed by the Blue Socks SOS From School and, finally, Daddy Goes On A Muddy Field Adventure! And home in time for lunch.
Indiana Jones? A regular old stick-in-the mud by comparison!
‘Feckin’ hell,’ I thought to myself as I rooted through our ironing-pending drawer — aka everything washed and dried stuffed into the bottom of our son’s wardrobe — for a clean pair of knickers for our daughter, ‘I never signed up for this!’ Continue reading
What the fuck does he want?”
The familiar low-arsed heft of coach Hauley O’Brien was silhouetted against the autumn dusk as he picked up the last stray football from beneath the wire mesh behind the town goal. He squeezed it into the frayed old ball bag and pulled the drawstring tight as he stood up and called Grady over to him.
Grady was not in the humour for any more talk tonight about the big play-off game against Coolderragh on Sunday. Relegation for the losers.
The pain in his left ankle was worse than ever and the aching in his right knee was a right bastard. Nagging away like an auld wan. Continue reading
I have been blundering along for the last few weeks, trying to promote my Jo Blogs thread on Mondays on the Irish Bloggers Facebook page. Being positive, it’s proving to be a slow build. And that’s okay.
The loose idea was/is a non-commercial, affiliate-free space for people like myself who want to share their thoughts and ramblings on life the universe and nearly everything.
I suppose I am a bit in love with the idea of having nothing to declare but my writing and as I type away, post and wait to respond to and share whatever comes in, either comments on my own latest piece, or the fruits of my engagement with the work of other posters who capture my fancy. Continue reading
One of the biggest buzzes I get from blogging is when I surprise myself with what I write. I’m mulling over that next post for ages and it’s nearly written before I start. Then my fingers hit the keyboard and all these guerilla words burst in stage left and take over the whole show.
This morning I thought I was going to write about the closing of a beloved cinema in Dublin city but my insurgent digits had other ideas. Continue reading
Any of you annoyed by the father figures in those movies and Netflix thingies your testy teen daughters are gorging on these days? Well, here’s one daddy who is.
Yes, I’m the father of a young teenage daughter and I’m more than miffed by the naffness of the deadbeat or despot dads in the stuff my once smiling little cherub princess has been watching.
I get the fact that daddy cannot be Mr Big forever; a girl must break away and become her own person. She must deal with the fact that Daddy has feet of clay. But a brain made from the same material, and the dash and panache of Ned Flanders!!!??? Continue reading