So there I was, lying in my old bed in the family home a few years back and brooding magnificently. My backbone was an amoebic sponge soaking up all higher resolve and positivity. All my early morning gloom was lacking was a Smiths album playing in the background.
Actually, I was just bored. Or so I thought as I began to feel the postcard-blue haze of an unseasonably bright winter’s morning filtering through the closed curtains and my mood lifted. The word golf dropped into my brain and I sprang up from my misery, dressed and washed quickly and was soon in the shed disentangling my old golf clubs and cart from the clutter.
One boy and his dog: Bella and O chill after O’s return from school
“Where’s Bella?” asked a sleepy O, pushing his blonde mop back from still-closed eyes, when Mom came in to call him again for school.
Mom didn’t know.
“Get Dad, he knows …”
So, where was I just then … which of my many morning jobs was I engaged in … maybe I was putting on Mom’s egg, and the kettle was nearly boiled for her coffee.
Hah, you see, they don’t know all the stuff work-from-home Dad is doing, especially when they are just getting themselves sorted for school and my wife for her work, until things go wrong, or something ruffles the surface of the morning school day routine in our house. Continue reading
“Walla, Walla, Walla!”
I have no idea where this chant has come from and what it even means. I am just bellowing and bawling it out, as loudly and as far as my nine-year-old voice can reach. My mouth is stretched wide, wide as a cave, and my is neck arched upwards and my vocal cords are burning with the effort.
“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 gathering autumn dusk now as he picked up the last of the stray footballs from beneath the wire mesh behind the town goal. He squeezed it into the frayed old ball bag with the rest of the shoal 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. Going, going, but never gone, nagging away like an auld wan.