Broccoli for Breakfast

Charlie and Lola

2006-04-25T11:53:00.000+01:00

Almost exactly a year ago my daughter and I, quite by accident, discovered a series of the most imaginative, colourful and engaging children's stories I have ever come across. Titles such as 'I am too absolutely small for school', 'I will never not ever eat a tomato' and 'I am not sleepy and I will not go to bed' will not fail to disappoint children and adult alike. Aimed at 3-7 year olds Lauren Child's Charlie and Lola series is the perfect example of good children's storytelling mixing the everyday childhood experiences with the creative colours of a child's imagination. Narrated through the very sensible and grown up voice of 7yr old Charlie, the stories are packed to the brim with so much effortless humour that my daughter - who is a bit like Lola - goes to bed laughing. And that kind of laughter is wonderfully infectious. Lola, unlike her brother, already at the age of four possesses a masterful command of comedy and comic timing that many tired old stand-ups could learn from.

The illustrations really set these books apart from the standard children's book range. Child mixes photography with simple line sketches and collage effects with great results that really challenge children's visual and sensual perceptions of the world around them.

I am told that Charlie and Lola are on the CBeebies channel and that they are accurate representations of the book. I have yet to see them not having digital, but we have caught clips on the Charlie and Lola official website and played the Cloudhopping game on the CBeebies website and are desperately tracking down the 'I've won, No I've won, No I've Won' book and game set. If you have not yet discovered this entertaining duo I hope you and/your children will have many hours of simple laughter ahead of you.

Blue in Blue

2006-04-24T13:32:00.000+01:00

I'll leave the Heineken Cup semi-final post-mortem to the very experienced sports journos of our national dailies who will today, doubtless, find some way to translate the winning formula of kick-shove it up your jumper-and maul into pages of sparkling copy to delight their Munster readers. But, despite the fact that I find Munster's style of rugby innately boring and predictable and much prefer the spectacle of fast ball, clean passes, light footed manoeuvres, weaving between the gaps and climaxing in the final hurl of body and ball in tandem across the try line, Munster's stalwart, unfaltering reliance on a well-tested strategy executed with brilliance left their fans roaring for more. And I should know sandwiched, as I was, on the North Terrace between five extraordinarily vocal Munster fans.

Perhaps it is only coincidence that every single rugby match I have attended, from Mini, to Club, to International games alike, has been won on the day by the team with the most vocal fans. Today I went into Lansdowne road believing more than ever in the magic of this Leinster side; I listened to all the hype that had been written and reported about them since their sensational, heart-stopping victory over Toulouse three weeks ago as I would a sermon; and I knew, in the very essence of my being, that, given the 40% of possession predicted for Leinster, they would run in try after try with such spectacular skill that, for the remaining 60% of the game, Leinster fans would bang their drums, chant their chants and sing their songs to keep the team spirits from dipping until the final whistle heralded their place for the first time in the Heineken Cup final. And, though I dedicated my vocal chords to the Leinster cause, it certainly felt at times like I was the Sole Operator particularly after the opening ten minutes so heartlessly laid waste to the hopes and dreams of the Leinster fans. And, as the changing scoreboard began to reflect the full extent of Leinster's humiliation I could see men in blue making an early departure from the stands. If, on pitch, Leinster proved they had no tricks up their jumpers to match Munster's, in the Terraces and Stands of Lansdowne Road those who dared to wear blue had nothing to counteract the low-lying fields of Athenry offered up like long-lost Hail Mary's for the sins of idolatrous Munster fans.

And therein lies the problem: Leinster fans have no song. Any team worth their salt has a melody for their fans to latch onto and carouse in times of tries and console in trying times. Welsh rugby fans, when on form, have the power to open a closed roof at Millennium Stadium with the simple words 'Bread of heaven, feed me now and evermore'; wherever England's fans go so too does their sweet chariot; even Clontarf Mini Rugby teams have their own chant. But alas any attempt made by the Ladyboys to be heard went unnoticed as chants of 'c'mon Leinster' were drowned out by the swelling voices surging with every line-out won, every roving maul, every beautifully placed kick from Rog's golden boots. If only we had a song so our men in blue would know we hadn't forgotten them; a song to show them that somewhere deep inside within the first 20mins of the second-half we still believed the game would live up to the hype and we would witness a truly incredible day for Irish rugby; a song to hurl right back when the Athenry chorus commences – then perhaps we could have commuted some of our positive belief to 15 men who had given up the fight far too soon.

We need a song and we need one fast, at least in time for this week's Celtic League match against the Ospreys at Lansdowne. If you can't make it down to support you can catch all the action live on Setanta on Sat. night. Whatever you do, please wear blue and let's support this team who (albeit with a game in hand) are top of the league and eye balling some silverware this season.

Constitutionally Yours ...

2006-03-16T09:08:00.000Z

Following on from the request by Fiona for a community of women bloggers to consider the possibilities of using the medium to stimulate political debate on gender issues in advance of the forthcoming general elections here, here's my starter for ten. So, before Bertie's footsoldiers come knocking on our doors with their clarion call for a yes vote, let's consider our beloved Constitution.

July 1 1937 is a date of little significance to most of the populace of this island and yet it is a landmark date; a recorded moment in the short history of this state when our founding forefathers proclaimed our fundamental values and our living creed. Almost seven decades have passed and, despite unprecedented global metamorphosis and seismic shifts in our domestic mores, the 1937 Constitution places an Irish woman's value as nothing more than a wife, mother and homemaker.

As a nation we have dealt with considerably more emotive and controversial issues than this, from divorce to abortion, and yet, it seems a little more than negligent that no one has sought to alter this prohibitive view of a woman's value in Irish society. Of course, by default, subscribing to the belief that 'by her life within the home, woman gives to the State a support without which the common good cannot be achieved' (Article 41.2.1) we fail to acknowledge the growing contribution of fathers in the home and their role as primary carers of their children.

With regard to the mother's role outside the home our Constitution is quite prescriptive and asserts that the State will ensure that mothers 'shall not be obliged by economic necessity to engage in labour to the neglect of their duties in the home' (Article 41.2.2). For most mothers today employment is definitely an economic necessity; for others it may be a vocation or the fulfilment of some personal ambition. But, that gender should in some way provide a licence for employment is both outrageous and obsolete.

We have come a long way since 1937; neither the family nor the workplace are shackled by long outdated concepts of gender so, why should we continue to accept it of our Constitution? If our Constitution is truly to be regarded as a reflection of the values to which we subscribe, then it must embrace the egalitarian principles by which we live our daily lives.

Given that the Irish Constitution forms the basis of superior law in this country, it is imperative that this issue is give the importance it deserves and amended to reflect the actual barometer of values within contemporary Irish culture. This is a matter of great significance, even greater than the haphazard gender politics played out in today's media. It is, in fact, as Alpha Connelly, former Research Counsellor to the Law Reform Commission writes, a matter of basic human rights.

“If as stated by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights .... all human beings are equal ... then a constitution which endorses a gendered distribution of power and wealth in society offends against this basic moral value. In the interests of justice and equality, it (the Constitution of Ireland) needs amending.”

It is a curious indictment of our society that we have yet to have a referendum on the constitutional representation of the Irish woman that incongruously places her firmly within the ranks of second class citizen. We have some time now before we mark our X in the box when the big day arrives and we could well use that time to consider the very real implications for women and men in Ireland today if we choose to leave these anachronistic prescriptions of women unchallenged. Perhaps, Fiona, we could start the proposed caucus with some conversation on this matter and lobby for some meaningful amendment to Article 41?

Love's young dream

2006-03-13T23:29:00.000Z

Something redmum wrote today reminded me of the time my son fell in love for the first time.

Nikita wore her hair in dreadlocks - the kind they fashion on every city street across Europe in the height of the summer. She was nine and he was eight and after some crazy golf they realised that they were in love. At night, on the veranda of our caravan, I mused to my husband between sips of beautiful Burgundy, at how wonderful it was to see our son mixing so well with girls.

One week later and Nikita's little sister reliably informed me on the way to the playground that she had borne witness to a stolen kiss behind the caravan. I fretted for several seconds before accepting that the summer of love had entered our holiday home and that, given their ages, there was really nothing to worry about. Aged eight and nine love is spectacularly innocent - thank God. He blushed when she called around; he visibly smarted when my husband and I cajoled him about his new girlfriend, and I grimaced when my husband told me that in a few years time they would be climbing out windows to meet each other while we dozed in the comfortable stupour of a few glasses of red.

Nikita left a week before we did and on that day my son sulked for hours on end like some petulant teenager. I am pretty certain that in his head he found it supremely difficult to reconcile his newly discovered feelings for girls with the normal eight year old response to the species inculcated in single sex male playgrounds across the country. But his heart was truly broken as the nine year old beauty from Cork belted up and headed off for the ferry back to Ireland.

The aftermath of the affair lacked all the sunniness of a French campsite. Pretty soon - too soon by my reckoning - he reverted to type. The had swapped addresses before she left and within days of us returning home she had sent a postcard. He vehemently refused to reply and by this gesture denied, if not their love, at least their singular moment of childish romance.

And so, back to redmum, where young men lure young women out of their homes for an afternoon in Mcdonalds and a stroll around St Stephen's Green in gangs of twenty plus. Between RedMum and I we have at least two decades worth of young love's dream before us; we will both be shoulders to cry on whilst the gentle and tender hearts of our offspring are smashed into pieces by those boys and girls who are the focus of our children's infatuation. I just hope that we have the stamina to deal with it.

Some good news

2006-02-08T10:41:00.000Z

It falls to me to be the bearer of good news because the established media appear to have no truck with positive messages anymore - we seek them here, we seek them there and we desperately seek them anywhere - a single ray of sunshine or a shining silver lining. These days every page turn of our national dailies is another bad news story; every radio talk show is congestion, tolls, fatalities, rape, violent crime and hospital trolley tallies and so it continues incessantly shrouding our lives in a pall of social disaster stories. We are becoming a nation de-sensitised to every victim's history by the unending tidal wave of misery encapsulated in each news bulletin and headline. Sometimes I catch myself blessing myself and petitioning various heavenly representatives to ward off the spell of media doom and gloom when I set forth on a long journey, when I walk darkened streets at night or when I find myself in a queue at A&E. And I can't say I am a great believer. Last week my perspective changed and I finally shook off those shackles of cynicism.

On Thursday night my nine year old son shook the house and our hearts with howls of insufferable pain. Like me, he seeks out heat and warmth wherever he can find it and, for at least a year now, has refused to go to bed without a hot water bottle. Whatever the season it has been there with him toasting his toes while he sleeps. That is, until Thursday night when it burst and sprayed a steady fountain of scorching water from shin to ankle. In an instant my husband was there to dowse the leg. I watched him contain the terror of brutally wounded skin with simple banter about school, the forthcoming six nations match and lots of talk about all the sweets he would buy our son for being so brave, whilst I bit my lower lip until it bled horrified at the thought of my child's pain.

And so we move to A&E. We follow all the rules and visit our GP first the next day. But the burn area is simply too big for them to treat and we are referred to Temple Street A&E. My first thought is that we will spend the better part of the day in a waiting room, so I fill my new handbag, which is the size of a pillow case, with bottles of juice and chocolate bars and easy peel oranges as we head off into hell that we are so reliably informed is A&E these days.

After presenting ourselves at reception we are directed to the waiting room and we settle down to a game of top trumps. Within less than a minute two nurses appear and suddenly my son is on a bed under the concerned gaze of the on-call doctor receiving Nurofen and carefully chosen comforting words.

I know that we have issues in this country with our health service, I am not denying that; it is depicted as a raging Leviathan that many Ministers of Health have struggled to tame, but when it serves us well we are silent and I wonder why. Perhaps we were just lucky on the day, perhaps we arrived to A&E at an opportune moment, but maybe we should consider that this is how it is for many people who urgently need medical care, and because they don't get airtime or pages of print to tell their story the postive messages will always be lost to a media that trades in pictures of Armageddon.

If music be the food of love, play on!

2006-01-31T00:16:00.000Z

Few experiences in my life have moved me as much as listening to good music. In my teens I might have been a Goth but my mother binned all my army surplus shop purchases as soon as they entered the house and I never could master the whole eye-liner thing. But like most people the music of our youth stays with us all through our lives and I return to the Smiths, David Bowie, The Cure and favourites like Fleetwood Mac and the Rolling Stones when my heart is broken, when I feel my age creeping up on me like the lines around those eyes I once wanted to blacken; but mostly I return to my friends when I want to believe that one day, if I really wanted to, I could sit up all night and watch the morning come. And so, the songs that made our histories, from first kiss to last love, become the soundtrack we return to time after time to nourish ourselves on the food of our innocent folly and joy when all else fails.

At thirty-two I have become an unapologetic music crank and will listen to very little released post 1989; that was the year my heart smashed in two on the disco floor as John went off with sexy Sadie. Reared on a diet of classical music where the Beatles sometimes made a guest appearance as a treat, pop music became my secret joy, my tainted love, as my father shook his head in disgust at the thing we dared to call music. Nonetheless, I sought out my own music that began with Billie Holiday and ended with Bjork.

And then it happened; it had threatened to so often with promises of brilliant bands and unknown artists that could release me from the eighties and launch me comfortably into the next century replete in the knowledge that I had finally moved on. But it never amounted to much before until someone, who shall remain nameless for fear of financial assassination by some mighty mouse corporate entity, gave me, what we used to call back in the day, a mix tape. A simple white envelope, crackling cellophane window and hand written playlist was all that stood between me and a new musical experience that I can only describe as the best thing since last week's orgasm. And so I say, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, I'm going to Chicago for some Palace Music where I can take Julie London off the turntable for Julie Feeney. Come on Feel the Illinois-e as I let my self slip, slide away into century 21 to the beat of a much different, more magical drum! And so, to my anonymous friend I say, Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing, Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing, Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty? What would life be? Without a song or a dance what are we? So I say thank you for the music. For giving it to me

Blog Off!

2006-01-19T09:23:00.000Z

Conor Brady's article in the Village at the beginning of the month sparked off some ideas in my head about blogging, the purpose and future of it in particular. In his article Brady cites an entry on Wikipedia that expressed unfounded allegations against John Seigenthaler, founder of USA Today and Robert Kennedy's administrative assistant in the 1960s , stating that he had in some way been involved in the assassinations of both President John F Kennedy and Robert Kennedy. It took 132 days in total for the editors over at Wikipedia to remove the offending allegations and one cannot begin to imagine the intractable damage done to Seigenthaler's character and reputation during that time. Brady's prinicipal complaint is that blogging opens the doorways to a host of novice journalists who break the basic standards of the profession by 'publishing everything first and then letting the reader edit'. Yet while the Siegenthaler case highlights the sometimes sinister intentions of rogue self-publishing voices floating around insidiously in the internet ether, I can't help thinking that there are more bloggers out there concerned with facts, accuracy and good-intentions than otherwise. Brady equates the rise of the blogger with the 'concomitant decline of fact-based journalism', but now more than ever the established media, in this country and indeed many others, are quite prepared to run stories that they know will secure high takings at the corner shop with only a cursory backwards glance at the truth after the damage is done. Who can forget the car crash journalism and unspeakable injury inflicted on the grieving Lawlor family when the Indo chose senationalism over fact to rush a story onto the front pages of the Sunday edition, or indeed the malignant effect the unchecked venom of Kevin Myers unleashed on our single mother population over at the Irish Times? In an age when more and more people get their daily dose of news via television or internet the importance of blogging will surely rise. It's future is unknown of course, but it is unquestionably an interesting and exciting time for the ever-increasing blogging community. I don't believe that mainstream media will be entirely usurped by blogging, but I remain convinced that the blogosphere can provide a very particular service as distinct from traditional newsrooms. Bloggers bring a personal voice to reporting through the expression of their opinions and often illustrate their political and moral responses to news with an abundance of first hand experience. Paul Conley makes an interesting point on the blogger v mainstream media debate. He writes "Blogging isn't just writing. It is more. It is writing and conversation. And those two things combined make for better journalism than either could alone." And I am inclined to agree. The vast majority of bloggers provide a facility for commenting on their writing which in turn can be read as a very real barometer of public opinion on a given issue that is considerably more diverse and fresh than any letters-to-the-editor page could ever be. The success stories of blogging further underline this point as the mainstream media gradually turns to bloggers to fill opinion columns - both GUBU, who writes for the Sunday Times and red mum who has a weekly column with The Echo secured their positions by virtue of their blogs. Turning stateside where publishers have offered book deals to Julia Powell of the Julie/Julia project and former editor of Wonkette, Ana Marie Cox, who makes her first literary outing with what is billed as 'the political novel of the season' Dog Days and has just signed a deal for her second novel the power of the blog to release untutored, intelligent and well-informed voices should neither be trivialised nor undermined. Since I have tuned in to blogging I firmly believe my life is richer as I expose myself on a daily basis to opinions, dicussions and ideas that would normally be censored out of our national dailies and weeklies. I still read my favourite newspapers and magazines of course, but more I more I want to know what my faceless and often nameless internet friends think about today's hot issues. Where to bloggers? Onwards and upwards!

Who do you think you are?

2006-01-12T09:25:00.000Z

Yesterday was a peculiar day for me. It all started over at GUBU with an interesting discussion about gay adoption, which got me thinking about my own, and ended with Jeremy Paxman's foray into reality television on one of my all time favourite television programmes, Who do you think you are? A bit like Paxman, sometimes I believe, that it is best to live life 'looking forwards, not backwards' and yet as he walked through his genealogical journey from the single-roomed slums of Glasgow to the tenements of industrialised Bradford, his story began to gently seep into his pscyhe leaving the man of steel shedding a simple tear in the registry office in Bradford as he discovered his grandfather had lost both parents by the age of ten to TB.

At the outset of the programme Paxman vociferously declared his lack of interest in his ancestors, but by its close he admitted he had found their stories 'humbling', evocative and was proud to have come from a line of people who had arduously battled against adversity and 'come out the other side'. I was spellbound by his response to his history as it gradually began to unfold before him, and I found myself scrutinising the faces of every sepia tinted photograph they showed of men and women in out-moded attire for a likeness to Paxman. But overall it struck me how privileged he is to be able to access these stories, albeit tragic, of his ancestors.

As many adoptees will know the decision to uncover your own story is a monumental one; and yet trickling away at the back of your mind, popping in and out of your thoughts on birthdays and important events, is a desire to know something of your history. On the nature v nuture debate I, shaped by my own experiences, come down more heavily on the side of nurture and yet more clearly than most, I see that there is more to it than this. Coming from a family of three adopted children, I realise that as much as nurture joins us together, nature sets us apart. And I suppose that, like Paxman, I really do want to live my life looking forwards, but I believe a little peek at the past might go some small way to explaining who I think I am.

Tag - You're it!

2006-01-06T01:00:00.000Z

Although I have been on an extended holiday and that for me means no computer and definitely no Internet, I am reliably informed by Pampooties that I have been tagged. It seems that In Fact, Ah aka Colm Bracken, was tagged by Sinead and in turn has unleashed the strangest of memes unto a select handful of novices and newcomers to this great blogosphere, of which, happily, I am one. The rules are as follows - the first player of this game starts with the topic “five weird habits of yourself,” and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don’t forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says “You are tagged” (assumingthey take comments) and tell them to read yours. Now why anyone would wish to know my weird traits and habits is beyond me; it smacks of one of those tatty mags showing countless photos of otherwise svelte and beautiful celebs wiping vomit from the corners of their mouths. However, in case, like the dreaded chain letters of old, some dreadful ill befalls me should I fail to complete my mission, here, in no particular order, are my all time top five weird habits.

1. Falling asleep.

Now, whilst I would not describe myself as suffering from narcolepsy, I am pretty certain at this stage in my life that I may be a borderline case. The desire to sleep overwhelms me with such regularity that I find myself needing it in the most unfortunate and often quite serious circumstances. I will confess without blushing to the following: I have taken slightly more than twenty winks in the office toilets; I have fallen asleep in meetings, lectures and seminars; I have battled, desperately I might add, against dozing at the wheel and I have put my feet up and a newspaper in my hands to cover my face and fallen asleep at my desk. Worst of all perhaps, I even managed to fall asleep during labour.

2. Remembering Names.

I freely admit that I am hopeless at remembering names. You could introduce me to anyone and I will make notes, wittering away internally to myself some identifying features always punctuated with the name – yes, that’s John, tight trousers, small feet, John, unpolished shoes and the limpest of handshakes, John, … mental note to self, that’s John. Thirty seconds later he could be called anything, but all I can think about are the scuff marks on his shoes and the way his handshake made me want to vomit. Just can’t do names. Sorry, Paul, John, Ringo, George or Kate?

3. Cleaning.

I hate cleaning, but I love the results. Some days I will clean my house from top to bottom sterilising every inch of ceramic, wood and carpet as I go. I hoover the ceiling and the mattresses regularly, I polish the bathroom and kitchen tiles and I handpick little piles of fluff off the carpet. Nobody in my house gives a toss that any of this is done and quite frankly I am not even sure that they are in any way aware of my super-human cleaning efforts. So I curse myself as I go about the house armed with bottles of detergent and sweetly scented cleaning implements for being unable to mop up the detritus of everyday life with good grace.

4. I’m just a girl who can’t say no!

I have written about this before, but I just cannot refuse a door-to-door salesman his three minutes of banter. Call it what you will, it is certainly a significant sign of some severe personality deficit that allows me to entertain anyone, selling anything from feather dusters, to cobble lock paving, to Jesus calendars without so much as blinking an eye. Somebody save me because in the last three months I have bought an unwanted religious calendar, a fortnightly window cleaning service, a packet of six ‘magic’ cleaning sponges and goat in Rwanda.

5. Very Superstitious!

I am a little ashamed of this one because mostly I consider myself a rational, intelligent woman but, amongst other things, I will not walk under ladders, I salute every solitary magpie I see and always leave a building by the same door I entered. I once broke a mirror and swear that the seven years that followed were without doubt the worst years of my life.

Now, all that remains is to pick another 5 victims. I am new to this and don't know where this all began and who has been tagged already etc. etc. so, hoping they are all virgins of this meme, I choose:

Maura at Babblogue

Aine Livia

Auds at realitycheck(dot)ie

Sarah st GUBU

that girl at Thinking out Loud

A little education can go a long way

2005-12-04T23:48:00.000Z

In case any of you missed it, there has been an interesting debate on the subject of feminism doing the rounds last week. Now, while the discussion has hardly rocked the blogosphere, it has raised some very interesting questions regarding the status of modern feminism.

Sinead at Sigla may well be held responsible for kicking off the debate with her response to Damien Mulley's piece on the 'most powerful women in the bloggersphere'. Sinead's interesting article (which mentioned the f-word only once and in relation to this blog) resulted in an incomparable display of ill-informed anti-feminist doggerel over at reality check (dot) ie. Sadly for Auds at Reality Check, she tried to make sense of feminism without applying any cogent or comprehensive analysis to the subject. In fact Auds came back from her first outing on the matter, Women, Sex and Blogging with an incredible blast of fanciful reasoning offering up Eve, the lead character in Hollywood B movie Legally Blonde, as a role model for women today.

The most disturbing aspect of Aud's piece, entitled Feminists. And why I am not one, lies in the fact that her understanding of feminist ideology is severely biased towards radical and separatist feminism. The radical feminist movement was born in the sixties and is the daughter of second-wave feminism; by contrast the majority of western feminists today are much closer in ideology to first wave feminists and a lot of radical feminist principles are now completely outmoded by modern thinking on the subject.

But radical feminism is sensational, it is a particular brand of feminism that encourages the media to irresponsibly link all feminist thinking with a depraved culture of man-bashing, bra-burning, female victimisation; it is headline grabbing stuff that demands women replace patriarchy with matriarchy which in itself is no solution to inequality within the sexes.

Blaming feminism for almost all societal ills, as Auds does, from a collective misunderstanding of rape, to ladette culture, is an unfortunate, one-dimensional position to take up. Men are not the 'official enemies' of feminism, we do not view them as rapists and wife beaters, moreover they are credible partners in the struggle to afford their wives, their sisters, their mothers, their daughters and ultimately themselves with the benefit of a level playing field – one where men do not carry the burden of responsibility on the wage-earning front and one where they can secure equal rights within the family. Feminism is not necessarily all about women by the way, nor are all feminists female.

Feminism is not a single ideology and since its inception has never been. If, as Auds suggests, claiming to be a feminist depends on the definition, then I suggest that she and women of her ilk educate themselves in the many definitions of feminism out there – Marxist feminism, eco-feminism, liberal feminism, post-colonial feminism and black feminism – take your pick, just don't assume that all feminism is radical or separatist, please. A little education can go a long, long way.

Are men necessary?

2005-11-17T01:04:00.000Z

Maureen Dowd, 53 year old 1999 Pulitzer prize winning NYT columnist known exclusively for her incendiary wit and cut-throat humour, has released a new book which is both an uncharacteristic and unworthy successor to Bushworld, entitled Are men Necessary? The book, which provides a new meaning to vanity publishing, ought to have been relegated to several column inches but is causing an unprecedented uproar in the States at the moment. With its release this side of the pond, the same frenzy is doubtless set to continue.

As a journalist Dowd has chronicled some of the most interesting moments in the White House in recent times. I adore her characterisation of GW as the 'Boy Emperor' and find her caustic wit concerning White House rule incredibly refreshing. She is the worthy winner of the Pulitzer for her coverage of Monica Gate, yet, like so many journalists these days, she is stepping outside her comfort zone with her new book and the clangers are deafening.

Are men necessary? (the title is an interesting twist on E.B. White & J Thurbe's Is Sex necessary? Published 1929) claims to examine the nature of contemporary women. Dowd scrutinises the shopping and dating habits of American women whilst bemoaning the demise of feminism with little regard for those women for whom botox injections and education are simply not an option. And herein lies the crux of the matter; Dowd has modelled a nation of women on herself, naively translating her own experiences into the universal. She throws out the comfort blanket to those who dare to call themselves feminists by stating that it is alright to be a feminist once again whilst simultaneously taking it away by writing that her book is intended to be a 'breezy, fun change of topic from the Iraq war to the gender war.”

Now, Feminism has never been billed as fun, in fact to do this is to trivialise the essence of the movement, but then perhaps we should be grateful to her for bringing feminism back onto the tables of the chattering classes dinner parties somewhere between the aperitifs and the main course. The sad thing is that feminism, given the unsettling failures of the movement, really does need to be tabled once again, but not in some light-hearted, let's-not-talk-about-Iraq way. Dowd herself reports an incident which illustrates this point perfectly. As part of the promotional extravaganza for her book Dowd was asked to be photographed for Elle magazine. On arrival the photographer presented her with a Ken type doll and a pair of scissors asking her to pose stabbing the plastic mannequin in the groin. Dowd, naturally, refused. And yet we are left to consider the fact that feminism in its weakest hour is still being depicted as man-hating mania.

Dowd has missed the point of her own book in spite of herself. She really should have written a book about the unnecessary marketing driven sexualisation of youth culture. In the text she refers to pre-pubescent girls wearing t-shirts claiming 'My Dad thinks I am a Virgin' and 'You were hotter on-line' almost as if to signpost the source of declining feminist principles; yet she does not develop this argument in any sentient way. Dowd's acerbic wit would have been better placed examining this contemporary phenomenon than seeking to understand why 53 year old high achieving women seek to wrap themselves in the protective allure of botox and Manola Blahniks and do not have a boyfriend.

In essence Dowd's treatise on modern woman offers little to those who are truly concerned with the state of feminism today. Instead Dowd's book reads like an unfortunate advertisement for a 50-plus dating service for professional women. Put simply by Jessica Valenti at www.feministing.com 'feminism isn't a F***ing dating service'. Don't buy this book.

Too little, too late?

2005-10-25T00:03:00.000+01:00

Ten, no twenty years too late, and Fianna Fail finally announce that a third of the candidates they will be fielding at the next general election will be women. There is a part of me that is still quite ambivalent about gender quotas. Perhaps they are simply empty tokenistic gestures designed to keep the last remaining ranting feminists at bay; a small group by all accounts these days, but noisy when they get going. Naturally the principles of meritocracy should be at work, slotting the best available representatives into the right jobs, but I think we all know – male or female – that it just doesn't work that way all the time. The introduction of quotas into FF's current electoral strategy may just turn out to be a sticking plaster solution to a problem needing serious surgery, if not, in fact, amputation. But as a starting point we may find that it enables some women at least – assuming the electorate puts the requisite X beside their names - to breathe some life into the half-dead macho world of Irish politics. However, if it is true that FF are anxiously seeking women in a bid to reclaim the myriad of female voters that they have successfully managed to disenfranchise since last polling day, this move may be less progressive than it seems on the surface.

Prior to the last general election all the mainstream political parties were surveyed by the National Women's Council of Ireland regarding their gender policies, female representation on the national and European stage and particular efforts made, if any, to recruit women into the party.

Below is one of the generic questions posed within the context of the survey to all parties and the response from FF.

Did your party set up particular measures to make it easier to reconcile political activity and family life? (day nursery, adapted calendar, no night meetings . . . )

No. Individual women politicians have adopted their circumstances to cope with family life pressures.

In the spirit of balance it is fair to say that FF were not alone in their response to this question. Labour, however, were the only party who stated that they provide crèche facilities or cover childcare costs when delegates are required to attend meetings.

But this is the nub of the issue; this is the real reason why we do not see more women sticking their hands in the air when the party calls or putting their names forward onto ballot papers. And no amount of quotas will ever address the fact that there simply cannot be a marriage between political and family life without substantial change to the fundamental workings of the political machine in this country.

Whatever Happened to Feminism?

2005-10-18T10:25:00.000+01:00

It's Tuesday morning 6.30am, the clocks have not gone back yet so it's pitch black outside and you wake to the piercing tones of the alarm clock. Your body aches from a poor night's sleep where you battled for dominion of the duvet and the mattress many times, before finally wrenching a tiny corner for yourself from the three other bodies (two of which began their slumber elsewhere) vying for space and warmth in your bed at around 5am. There is a damp nappy attached to last year's bonny baby pressed into your forehead; and between you and your loving partner is a small boy in the star position with his feet in the place where your head should be. No time to waste gazing in adoration at their angelic sleeping faces; a minute wasted at this time of the day could see the entire morning operation of washing, dressing, breakfasting, creche and school runs fall apart at the seams and then you will miss that window in the traffic between acceptable congestion and total gridlock. And, for one split second you allow your mind to wander as you think to yourself, if women ruled the world things would be so different.

No matter what your status, I would guess that you have at least once considered how life would play out in a woman's world. Maybe it pops into your head as you sit in boardrooms for what seems an eternity listening to men ramble on and on in circuitous conversations designed only to show off their dazzling wit and genius like peacocks fanning their feathers; and you know, that if the room were full of women, you would have been back at your desk hours ago and on target for leaving on time. Or perhaps you are just fed up with the same old questions, such as what's for dinner, do you know where my favourite shirt is, or can you ring the man from SKY and get him to check the box because the Premiership is on tonight?

Most of us if we are honest have had the same epiphany, usually when we have reached our own personal nadir, whatever that may be. But, is it in fact true that a world in which women held the balance of power would be any better? If it is, what exactly would this Nirvana be like?

If the women that are currently upheld within the popular media as icons of contemporary success ruled the world, I have no doubt that the moral and physical landscape would be drastically different. Boob enlargements and botox injections would be available on the health service, appointments for compulsory makeovers would arrive through the letterbox with the same regularity as the dreaded dental check-up; pink champagne imbibed though a straw coated in golden glitter would become the drink of choice and the nation's favourite dish would be replaced by egg white omelette with green salad on the side – hold the dressing! Finally, babies will be delivered by C-section only and nannies will be supplied to all new mothers for the formative years facilitating their return, at the earliest possible opportunity post delivery, to their beloved quarters in the gym and the salon.

Perhaps a world created by women would indeed be pinker and fluffier, softer round the edges with the comforting smell everpresent of freshly baked cookies like the grocery hall in Marks and Spencers. Engineers and designers would be tasked with making cars out of rubbery substances that would pop back into shape when dented, supermarket shopping would finally become automated and self cleaning ovens would actually live up to their name. The female pill, thongs, and, with a bit of luck, gymnasiums and their variegated instruments of torture would be resigned to display status, housed in polished glass cases in musty museums dedicated to the former objets and curios that existed when men ruled the world.

Assuming we could create a world less enslaved to the ubiquitous god of Image (and this is a big assumption) can we really claim our world would be so much better? Because, while there are countless women out there making a difference in all aspects of society, both in the home and in the workplace, oddly enough the status of women today is in many ways no less vexing and disadvantageous than before.

Female bosses, studies show, are more likely to be bullies than men with a significant proportion of women at the top displaying typically masculine characteristics like aggression, assertiveness and competitiveness where we are conditioned to expect nurturing, caring feminine traits. Add to this the fact that women in management positions who bully will almost exclusively bully female rather than male employees, leads me to question whether women, with the balance of power on their side, would in fact create a more open, trusting work environment for their colleagues.

As a child I remember the joy of dressing up in my mother's high heels, messing around with her make up slapping lipstick on my nose and mascara in my hair; today prepubescent girls are to be seen in daylight everywhere in skirts that barely cover their midriff – which of course is variably pierced – platform heels, layers of candyfloss lipgloss and the mandatory thong. Who lets them out like this? Their mothers of course.

But let's take a moment to cast our minds back to what the feminist pioneers strove to achieve. The feminist struggle asked for one thing and one thing only – equality; equality of rights with regard to education, sexuality, opportunity, the judicial system and property; in short, parity in all things. Yet, through the mouthpiece of social opinion, be that TV, radio or the press, we routinely trivialise the unprecedented bravery and determination of the feminist pioneers of the 60s and early 70s as well as the results that this movement brought to bear. Let us not forget that without the efforts of these women we would be forced into endless hours of home economics at school followed by a lifetime of housecoats, home cooking and housework or - if we chose to work outside the home – half pay and an expectation that we would surrender our careers when married. We would read manuals about striking the balance between pleasing our husbands in the kitchen, in the bedroom and in between, and we would always venture forth into the world beyond the halldoor with our heads covered, our skirts below our knees and our voices subjugated into uncomfortable silence.

In the last three decades as direct result of the liberties secured for us by feminist activists like Mary Robinson and Nell McCafferty amongst others, Irish women have continued to gain increasing economic independence, but appear to have practically obliterated from living memory the efforts of the Irish feminist movement. Feminism has somehow become a dirty word and women are actively discouraged from naming themselves feminist in case they will instantaneously be transformed into the stereotypical right wing feminist clad in the obligatory dungarees and doc maartens, armed and ready for a session of man bashing.

The pioneers of the feminist movement, despite their tremendous success, did not get quite the result they intended. There can be no doubt that, notwithstanding the bizarre and antiquated rules of certain golfing establishments, doors are in the main open to women in every sphere of life. It seems almost as if the feminist movement has been abruptly stalled and the lethal combination of a booming ecomony and unprecedented levels of social and political apathy have halted any further progression in this matter. Yes, Irish women have secured the vote and are entitled to a place on a jury of their peers, they have egalitarian property and employment rights, and no longer have to ride cross-border trains to find contraception or boycott bars refusing to serve women beer in pint glasses ... but at what cost?

The journey towards a truly open and non-partisan society is only partially complete. Although the Pill can be acquired on prescription to all women regardless of marital status and condoms have been legally available since 1992, there is still some residual stigma attached to the issue of contraception in this country. In 1998 a study conducted by the British Medical Journal into unwanted pregnancy amongst 2000 Irish women of all ages, marital status and background revealed that a considerable percentage of young, single women were 'afraid to be found in possession of contraception', and some even reported that their GPs had refused to prescribe the pill on the grounds of both age and marital status. Legal abortion and the free availability of the morning after pill still persist as hot topics for debate, so it is not surprising then that Ireland has one of the highest rates in Europe of both unwanted and unplanned pregnancies amongst young women. Without knocking the important progress that has been made in this field, the fact still remains that Irish women do not have the same degree of sexual health rights as the vast majority of women in the western world.

On the surface the issue of women in the workplace appears positive, but beneath the polished you've-never-had-it-so-good veneer presented by this hapless government there are many concerns regarding the status of women that remain both to be questioned and answered. Never before in the history of the State have so many Irish women actively participated in the workforce; 55.3% of women are now engaged in employment and yet a mere 20% of senior management positions are held by women. Currently 52% of women with children under the age of three are employed and, without the prohibitive childcare costs experienced in this country (the highest in Europe), perhaps even more mothers would join the workforce. Then again, it maybe the case that a significant proportion of the 52% of mothers with young families feel necessitated to work given the supreme costs of living in Ireland and particularly in the capital today. The rates of pay for women are also shocking; women on average earn 15% less than their male peers and in total women earn 82.5% of male income. Yes, women have never had it so good, but is this where the journey ends?

It is the rise of the superwoman, the uberfrau that is most disturbing. Juggling career, home, financial and family responsibilities is compelling women in their droves to strive to be the perfect mother, the perfect wife and the perfect employee and is without doubt a recipe for social disaster.

The crisis emerging today is not exclusively a female problem, but moreover it is a problem of epidemic proportions facing society as a whole. To those who smugly say, from the sheltered quarters of a third level education and a life far from the plight of women who still labour unpaid in the home and those who do men's job for a fraction of the pay, that feminism has achieved what it set out to achieve, I would say this - Feminism never sought to place even more strain on women and the family unit; Feminism sought to change the fundamental principles at the heart of our moral, social and political hierarchy that refused to acknowledge and facilitate the multifaceted role of women as workers, thinkers, mothers and homemakers. And, because that hierarchy has not been changed, because all that has happened is that the current generation of women dining on their mothers' sacrifices have to work twice as hard at everything, that is why we still need feminism. And men need it too.

Forcing women into superwoman roles effects our children, our marriages or relationships and our performance at work. Forget the stereotypical picture of modern man which is shoved down our throats at every possible opportunity, I firmly believe that our society is packed with progressive modern thinking men who do not want their wives and daughters to be thwarted by their gender. Men, in the main, want an equitable playing field in the home, in the workplace and amongst their peers. And this equality for all is, of course, the fundamental principle of feminism. Today we urgently require a new generation of feminist thinkers – both male and female – to step up to the plate and redress the underlying imbalances at work in our society that continue to undervalue women both in and outside the home and refuse to properly discuss and acknowledge the importance of the male within the home.

Bring back feminism! Long live feminism!

It is time to come out of the shadows with your wives!

2005-10-11T09:42:00.000+01:00

Interesting times in the Vatican at the moment; revolutionary times, perhaps. As a three-week synod, comprising over 250 Cardinals and Bishops commences, the issue of renouncing mandatory celibacy in the priesthood is very much on the table. On the one hand the council are on the verge of outlawing homosexuality, even if celibate, within the priesthood (like to see how that one turns out), whilst on the other hand, they are considering removing the compulsory vow of celibacy for Catholic priests in order to tackle the dwindling numbers of ordinations in western civilisation. Ah, yes, the lack of bums on seats can lead organisations to consider almost anything. And with one hand the Lord may giveth more priests to the organisation, yet with the other he taketh away the homosexuals, practising or otherwise, from his devoted ranks.

The issue of celibacy is a tricky one and has often been dismissed by the Church, one would think not on the basis of any moral or theological grounds (after all, celibacy was only introduced around 1070), but due to the issues in terms of property rights that would doubtless ensue from the establishment of marriage within the priesthood.

It is too early to second-guess the outcome of the discussion at the synod, but suffice to say that the fact it is up for analysis at all is a positive move. After all there are many priests out there, domiciled in a variety of countries including Italy, Portugal, South America and numerous African states, who are secretly married or involved in steadfast relationships with women. In Northern Europe recent statistics have revealed that somewhere in the region of 20% of all priests have either a wife or mistress and in many cases also children.

I recall a time when I was working in a summer language camp in the West that was based in a boys boarding school. I had the responsibility of checking that the girls were not messing around in their dormitory after lights out. On one particular night after returning from the local pub, I was greeted by Bruce Springsteen singing Born in the USA at the top of his voice. Naturally I assumed the girls were up to mischief, so I legged it upstairs, following the blasting music up to the corridor of the dormitory. When I got there, they were all sleeping peacefully, but the source of the music remained a mystery. I continued down the corridor, through an open door that led to the priest's quarters. With the Dutch courage of a few pints within me, I knocked on the door. I was just going to ask him to take it down a notch or two. When he opened the door, I noticed immediately that there was a woman, scantily clad, sitting on his bed. In his hand he carried a tumbler filled with whiskey; his shirt was open revealing an unspeakably hairy chest. Without looking like I had seen the woman, and certainly training my eyes away from his exposed flesh, I asked him to turn it down and he dutifully did.

Of course, I could not keep what I had seen to myself. So the next day I mentioned it to one of my colleagues who was from the area. It was a well known fact, indeed something the community had simply adjusted to, and the priest in question had been having it off with this woman for many years. Let's hope, for their sake, and for the sake of others like them, the synod will return a vote in favour of marriage within the clergy so that these women and men are no longer relegated to shabby rooms in dark corridors, the subject of whispers and gossip and can, like the rest of us, exist openly in loving relationships.

Who knows within the next fifty years or so, we may in fact bear witness to future synods discussing the notion of women priests.

Working Nine to Five

2005-10-03T06:34:00.000+01:00

It was 12.30 on Saturday night, more properly Sunday morning, and I entertained one final flick through the channels before going to bed. Starting at zero, which in our house is Sky One, I caught about ten seconds of some fat bloke who runs the 'toughest pub in Britain' - all tits and no teeth, you know the type - telling me as he gasped for air between sentences, that pubs are run by the locals. Who cares? Flicked on to 1 - RTE 1 - and my feet started tapping, my mood uplifted as I watched the opening credits roll to the unmistakable southern drawl of the one and only Ms Dolly Parton.

Now, I love Dolly; I love her music; I love the way her massive boobs draw attention to her tiny waist and I love the way she allowed herself to be immortaly captured as Polly Darton on Sesame Street . But really, I should be going to bed. But, I thought to myself, I'll just watch for another half hour and then hit the sack.

By one-o'clock I knew I was in for the long haul, and well and truly captivated by this film. Made in 1980 the film tells the tale of three very different women who, all in desperate need of income, find themselves employed in multi-national hell for various reasons, and they become friends; it is a union founded over a couple of drinks, a spliff and a shared hatred for their egotistical, chauvinistic, misogynistic boss Franklin Hart Jnr. Otherwise known as F.Hart.

Now, I'm no film critic and there is a lot to criticise about this film. For example, the woes of these women are ultimately resolved by a man, dressed head to toe in white, who is presented as an omnipotent, god-like, sugar-daddy type figure. He is the ultimate hero, who unwittingly saves these women from a long stretch inside.

But to me, that's neither here nor there. I watched this film with a certain curiosity and nostalgia. This was 1980; the clothes these women wore - Dolly aside - reminded me of my mother. Being a '70s baby, I was curious about the depiction of the office. I noted the typewriters, Xerox machines that filled an entire room and a floor full of women incessantly answering phones, putting people on hold and skillfully forwarding calls (something I never mastered) surrounded by a sea of paper. How things have changed.

But what really gripped me, what really moved me to comment was that, although technology has moved on apace, the essential office structure, the hierarchy of employment and the endurance tests that some women go through each day they cross the threshold of their place of work, really has not moved on that much in 25 years.

Let's face it, at its simplest level there are still women out their making coffee for their boss; middle-aged women, with years of commitment and service are still, like Violet, being passed over for younger men; and there are women, like Dolly too, who fend off advances and unwanted attention from male colleagues on a daily basis but do not take it any further, because, like Dolly said, they really need the job. And all those typing pools filled with women have just been replaced by women who sit at computer screens in administrative functions, such as order entry, accounts receivable and payable, and customer service. Like the typing pools of old, you rarely find a man there.

From my own experience in a similar environment, I can honestly say that I have been groped in the office, I have had married men make advances towards me and buy me gifts - unwanted I might add - and I have been asked to make coffee, many times, for my many bosses (always male). I have also been passed over for a promotion, because some single - no kids attached male - with the brains and wit of a tiny sparrow, was deemed more suitable for the role. I do not jest, I was once told by a HR manager that the reason I had not got a job was simply becasue I was not male. Sworn to secrecy, of course, I took it no further.

Watching Nine to Five last night I remarked, not only how little has changed, but how as women, without unity in the workplace, when we all continue to overlook the indiscretions and injustices perpetrated against us, because we need the money and are too frightened to rock the boat, these things will never change.

Irish Male in Crisis

2005-09-28T23:24:00.000+01:00

There have been countless discussions about quality of life in contemporary Ireland oozing from every orifice of the media recently; some worth listening to, most not. Of course we have been plagued by the ubiquitous commentary by and about Mr Hobbs on the 'controversial' Rip off Ireland series broadcast by RTE. We have endured tedious debates on the exploitative cost of living in the State, the punitive cost of childcare and ramblings about the outmoded grocery bill with no resolution I might add. And then, to top it all off, earlier this year we checked the calendar for April 1st as the Economist reported that Ireland, out of a massive 111 other countries surveyed, topped their annual poll in the Quality of Life Index. But, of all the interesting stats about quality of life in Ireland being bandied around at the moment, the one that stands out in my mind to be worthy of further serious discussion, is that married Irish men are the least happy demographic in this country.

Now, we could laugh for hours about how the separation of the Irish male from his number one slave (the stereotypical Irish Mammy) has inevitably led to this crisis in Irish masculinity or, perhaps we could roll out the old jokes about how all women inevitably turn out like their mothers. But, with a little more consideration, I believe something more serious is troubling the Irish male.

First generation female babies of the women's liberation movement in Ireland were raised believing that they could have a career after, as well as before, marriage. They performed well at school, infact sometimes outperformed their male counterparts, and effortlessly merged into all levels of the workforce protected by the certain belief that they had not only a right to be there, but that they had earned it too. Now, this is not a forum to discuss the successes or failures of the feminist movement, but, suffice to say that as young Irish girls were being prepared for a very different life to that of their grandmothers, young boys across the nation were not being trained to play their role in the equality game. Mothers all over Ireland, whilst urging their daughters to complete their education and fulfil their ambitions, were on the other hand subconsciously filling their impressionable sons' minds with the belief that one day a nice woman, strike that, no lady, would enter their lives equipped with an extensive culinary repertoire, a feather duster and a fertile womb. Who advised them to learn how to change nappies; who encouraged them to rustle up more than the rudimentary hangover fry-up; who sat down and explained the secret combination that turned the washing machine on?

So, on the one hand we have gung-ho type go-getter women who really, for the first time in the history of the state, have carte blanche to achieve what they want from their lives, and on the other hand we have men desperately struggling to understand what their role within the marriage really is. They are not necessarily the top breadwinner anymore, never mind the only one and so they are expected now, like women, to balance a career and domestic tasks that they never saw their fathers do. They are finally understanding what it is to be a woman. Is it any wonder they are miserable?

What a great big Moss!

2005-09-27T00:09:00.000+01:00

I know Kate Moss is old news and that there are bigger stories out there today than the downfall of some drug-addled clothes-horse, but there are still things that need to be said about this story. Or, more particularly, about the media's coverage of the surprising news that a multi-million pound earning supermodel has an unseemly addiction to, what they casually refer to as, California Cornflakes.

To be frank, I have never in my life given more than a passing thought to Kate Moss, or indeed others of her ilk. Recently I mused at the peculiarity of her relationship with wild child Pete Doherty, but it was really nothing more than this; a fleeting notion, with neither merit or meaning. Now I don't live under a stone, but I don't believe that I ever consciously connected her to H&M, Burberry or Rimmel. However, I did notice her, some years ago now, advertising Coco Chanel, sprouting feathers from her head and seductively swinging back and forth on a simple steel perch. This stood out in my mind mostly because I was curious if the then current stories about Pamela Anderson and her bedroom swing had any influence on the content of the ad.

Let's face it, ultimately Supermodels do not permeate our consciousness in any meaningful way. Sure, we spot them in magazines as we quickly flick through endless pages of emaciated women, with their overtly blackened eyes and quirky hairdos, on our way to content of more depth. When I do stop on these pages, albeit rarely for longer than a millisecond, it is to question whether anyone thinks normal women would either care to, or dare to, face the world on a daily basis looking like they had just departed from the set of some recent zombie flick.

Ultimately I really don't care that Kate Moss has been caught with a fifty pound note stuck up her left nostril, that's her own business; but, what I do object to is that she is billed as an 'irresponsible role model' for today's susceptible youngsters who may consider it an option to find succour for their teenage angst in a bit of Charlie instead of the latest chart hits. Role models are quite simply treacherous inventions of media hype designed to project the disaffection of a population against a solitary human being struggling to exist in the paragon of perfection created for them by the media.

Consider this with regard to role models: Mr Bill Clinton, role model for many young Americans, unfortunately caught with his pants down in the citadel of the free-thinking world - did young teenage males all over America suddenly seek blow-jobs in revered places. I think not. Probably happy to get one anywhere, methinks. Then consider the all-smiling-electorate-schmoozing Blair, role model for many British youths, not yet fully formed in their political thinking, who history will remember for launching missiles of hatred against a populace already devastated by tyranny against the weak and somewhat questionable backdrop of liberation. Should we be surprised if the British teenage population show no concern about wrecking havoc on terrified nations? No. Remembering the sea of people who took to the streets of London & Dublin in protest, we can be hopeful that most of our young people are much smarter than that. I see little evidence that the so-called impressionable youths of today are prepared to hitch themselves to the dubious aspirational wagon of political freedom flouted by the leaders and role-models of the free-thinking world.

But, back to Kate Moss, armed with her bandy legs and chosen weapon of destruction, exciting an unprecedented media frenzy based on the fear that our own beloved little ones, who still sleep with their well-worn teddy bears, will soon follow suit. It simply does not stack up. Ms Moss, whatever else she may be, is simply a model; a skimpy, skinny, beautiful thing that unseemly fashion houses, of dubious repute, choose to hang things on, including the meaningless tag of 'role model'.

I had you at 'hello!'

2005-09-22T23:49:00.000+01:00

I was rightly suckered today; and, in my own home, to add insult to injury. Today, I purchased the Church Art Calendar for 2006. Now what shall I do with that? Doubtless www.Twentymajor.blogspot.com would have a few colourful suggestions for me. But, the fact remains, that no matter what the future of this wretched publication, I bought it and it is sitting in my kitchen as a perilous reminder, because I do need one, of the hazards of not saying 'No!'.

I have never been gifted with door-to-door salesmen. My husband, however, hardened by years of city living, opens the door to these pernicious peddlars and, without so much as entertaining a single sentence of their patter, closes it right in their faces with a curt, abrupt, but categorical 'NO!'. You see, I just can't do that.

So, today when the doorbell rang my son answered it, assuming it was one of his fanclub who call every ten minutes wondering if he can come out and play I did not budge. I, meanwhile, continued about my business pondering nothing but what I would put on the table that night. So I was totally caught off guard when he told me there was a man at the door for me. Interesting! Who could it be? What did they want with me? A Man, and all for me! Marvellous! Stepping up to the threshold in anticipation of some gorgeous hunk, I briefly paused as all my anxieties about saying 'No!' leapt to the fore. There, in front of me, stood a sixty-ish year old male, garbed in what can only be described as a gaberdine purchased 'for life' back in the seventies, wielding a picture of the Christ Child complete with sparkling halo, printed on glossy paper.

'I have a Church Calendar for you.' he said, pushing the Virgin and Child into my hands.

'Oh, right. Thanks.' I replied.

Sold, he thinks - easy pickings!

'I come every year and drop one off.'

I have been here over two years now and would not forget a gaberdine like that. Nonetheless, I thank the man, feeling good that this is an act of kindness of sorts, and not some chancer beggar.

'So, that's €5.00, please.'

I can't back out now, so I call to my son to bring me my purse, hoping he will never find it, because he can never find anything when asked. But, of course he does. I have €3.00; God Bless that child, I am saved. But, no, interjects gaberdined fraudmaster sublime.

'Sure, whatever, you have will do.'

Whatever I have will do! I might be naive, but alarm bells are ringing. Well, I think to myself, it's either €5 or €3. And then I scan around for the ID tag all these boyos are supposed to call with; I see nothing. What should I do? I hand-over my €3.00 and am relieved already that he will now move on and I can retreat with my calendar, back to my life.

Was I swindled? Was I rightly had? I don't know. The Calendar looks kosher enough, amply plumped out with articles about miraculous medals, Devotions and, what they refer to as, 'approved Catholic data' (whatever that might be). In fact, I don't care if he was above board or not, I didn't want a flaming religious calendar to look at every day of 2006 to remind me of my failings, weaknesses, sins etc etc. I just didn't want it, but the doorstep pressure was simply too much for me.

Now, I know I need help before I end up with bags full of unwanted cleaning products, a new telephone account with some unknown dealer and a windowcleaner who calls twice weekly. But this is new territory for me and, without becoming someone who frequents public parks all day long I don't know what I can do to avoid these master swindlers. They have me at 'hello!'.

Manners Still Matter

2005-09-21T22:50:00.000+01:00

In a rare moment of lucidity I pulled, not a Homer, but a Marge and tuned out cable TV for Kids at home. Following the advice of some good parenting manual which I read many moons ago and often chastised myself for not following, I finally made the time to sit down and watch TV with my kids. I intended to enter their world without judgement, to laugh together and simply enjoy some quality children's entertainment. I can affirm, however, that, other than the clearly adult-oriented and wonderfully satirical Sponge Bob Squarepants (which I dearly miss) there is absolutely nothing to recommend the vast bulk of trash they call children's programming.

Of course history has shown that generations have always been divided on the subject of what constitutes entertainment. Back in 1954 when Elvis Presley gyrated his groin to the tune of 'That's Alright Mama' I would hazard a guess that all-American apple-pie making Mamas across the US definitely did not think it was alright. So I wonder if my distaste for these asinine and irreverent shows is fundamentally a generational issue as I recall how my mother issued an outright ban on watching Grange Hill. But I have viewed today's hero characters in prime time children's programmes mock authority in a pantomimesque manner wrecking havoc all around them to the tune of canned laughter. No-one says 'please', 'thank you' or 'sorry' unless under duress. And it's alright. No penalties, no punishment and no consequences. Then comes the advertising which assures our young audience that what they want, not what they need, is within their grasp. If I were six could I resist imitation?

If you like me were raised in a household where failure to be mannerly was a punishable offence, you might be alarmed by some of the antics of our prepubescent population. I am by no means suggesting that our dearly beloved offspring have become moral and social reprobates by the time they reach the mysteriously named age of reason, but it seems the average 2.5 hours of television per day is adversely affecting our children's ability to be mannerly. Given that we largely learn by imitation in our formative years it is hardly surprising that our Play Station babies appropriate the mannerisms of their television friends.

Teaching manners is probably the most difficult task I have encountered as a parent. Doing Irish homework when you have the bare minimum or returning to algebra for the first time in decades is considerably less challenging than encouraging your children to master some manners. Holding your cutlery correctly, eating with your mouth closed and, for those less gifted in hand-eye co-ordination, getting your food into your mouth in the first place are not instinctive behaviours in the average child. Similarly, saying 'excuse me' and being polite when receiving an unwanted birthday gift is learned behaviour. I am no Nancy Mitford, but I would like my children to be fully equipped for life and this involves teaching them the importance of manners. I have spent many long, difficult hours attempting to instil in my children a value system based on these basic principles for living and it would be unreasonable of me to exclusively blame the box for all our ills. But, so far without television's inane role models to guide my children through their daily life their behaviour is noticeably calmer. Most of all the quirky, irritating, irreverent lingo that they pick up from these shows is finally beginning to peter out.

I am not suggesting that we return to the days of the strap and the belt, to the strict disciplinary regimes of old where good behaviour is delivered through fear and subjugation. But I really want my children to understand the value of manners; I want them to believe that life is simply a little bit easier and pleasanter for all when we remember our manners. But more than this, I want society to understand that if we force feed our children a daily diet in which satisfying the self is the meat and two veg of all meals, none of us can complain that children today are unable to look beyond themselves in a moment of desire and understand the consequences of sating this hunger.

What's wrong with today?

2005-09-20T23:57:00.000+01:00

To be perfectly forthright, I had never considered that I would ever be a home-maker, housewife or full-time mother, after all I had spent the better part of eighteen years preparing for a career outside the home. Coming from a family of girls brought up by egalitarian thinking parents it was drummed into us at an early age that success in life was the result of hard work at school and college and would secure us the career of our dreams. And, naturally, I believed that this would be the case; it had to be, not only because my parents, but moreover the nuns told me it was so. As the years rolled by I completed the arduous, and sometimes punishing educational marathon to guarantee a tick in each requisite box along the path to success – GCSEs, A-Levels, a Degree and even some postgraduate study – until finally one day at the age of twenty-two I completed the most onerous task of all and purchased some sombre suits complete with cravat, destabilising stilettos and a lunch box and teetered off into the workforce on my journey through corporate Ireland for the foreseeable future. At the time I believed this would be the next forty-three years. I would put my dream of becoming a writer on hold for a while, and one day, when things looked better return to my destiny armed with buckets of cash and a comfortable writing room.

And yet, after a mere decade housed in the prefabricated cages on the outskirts of our city that they deign to call offices, I have moved home for the foreseeable future i.e. Forever. And, finally, after all those years in constricting clothing and air conditioned offices that make each season feel like the last I feel free. I am no Nigella Lawson, but since April I have learned the art of baking. Within hours I can effortlessly fill my home with the tempting and alluring smells of home made bread and freshly brewed coffee (an estate agent's dream). And, my children, who were formerly housed between relations, crèche and after-school care each working day are happier now; more content in themselves and more certain that their parents are not merely figures in their lives who struggle, cursing from rush-hour to rush-hour to be places on-time. We are finally coming together as a family.

But most importantly, the dream I once had, before rent, ESB bills and the cost of childcare got in the way, is several steps closer now. It is perhaps at this moment, for the first time ever within my reach because, for once in my life I refused to follow the rules. I did not do this flippantly; it is much harder to stop, think and change the inevitable course of your life than to continue giving all to organisations that ultimately do not reflect your own moral, social or ethical code than to continue thanklessly apace on the route to meltdown. So, to all of you out there, slaving away for a pittance, but in the course of events lining the pockets of your company executives and CEOs, I urge you to stop and think. There is a fantastic radio advertisement for a recruitment company (whose name I forget – not so fantastic perhaps!) with the tag line - “You didn't settle for anything less when you were a kid, why do it now?” Don't put your life on hold for the right time to make that change; there is never a right time. What's wrong with today?

Please Stop Talking About Sex!

2005-09-19T22:23:00.000+01:00

My mother always warned me that one should avoid discussing sex, politics and religion in polite company, but, quite frankly, there is very little polite company left these days and anyway, what else is there to talk about? Dublin house prices? Schools? Immigration? Jordan's gaudy wedding? Kate Moss's unseemly drug addiction? Regardless of the topic of conversation a connection with the hot three simply cannot be avoided. And yet, of these three, why is it that we still draw down the blinds when it comes to talking honestly about sex?

Stop anyone in the street and they will be happy to tell you their religious views from lapsed a la carte Catholic, to atheist, to Buddhist, to shopper. Some people, of course, are slightly more reticent about their political stance, but I find that the secrecy of the ballot box is predominantly a position ruthlessly defended by the older generation amongst us. Most young people today, on the other hand, appear almost proud of their political apathy. But sex, despite the mass media coverage of the issue, despite the ubiquity of the custom-built cleavage and the tantalising thong, honest talk about sex is still taboo.

There are so many polls about sex these days – who is doing it, with whom, where, and how many times a month, week, day. Statistics regularly chart the average age of virginity loss, membership of the mile high club and most popular non-domestic venue for the delightful act. Durex complete an annual global survey into sexual activity so we can easily compare and contrast our behaviour with our more traditionally advanced Mediterranean and Scandinavian counterparts. Naturally it comes as no surprise to learn that the French top the leader board with regard to frequency of sex doing it a whopping 137 times a year – we Irish are doing it on average thirty-two times less a year. Incredible as it may seem, for its honesty alone, one survey conducted by Lipovitan health drink informs us that, lack of sex is a major contributing factor to ill-humour in the office amongst men, finally providing women of the nation with concrete evidence of the long held suspicion that the reason the boss is picking on you is, because he simply isn't getting any.

Obviously the latter survey result is true, but in general I have an issue with polls. In the main they probably do represent trends favourably, but, on the subject of sex, I would be amazed if a forty-something male, when questioned by a youthful, buxom, blond marketing student as to how many times he is getting down to it with his missus answers honestly. I have considerable difficulty visualising him responding that he's lucky if he gets it more than once a fortnight, providing it is not bridge season. However, with the success of technology and the soaring rates of home Internet access, on-line surveys surge forward a pace and, thanks to the anonymity of the Internet, there is no further requirement for fibbing or flushed cheeks anymore.

A recent poll conducted by Ireland's latest women's glossy, Prudence – http://www.prudence.ie/ - seems to suggest that Irish women are at it like rabbits, whether with partners, nameless faces or whether they are simply indulging in some recreational solo pleasure. 50% of those polled are having sex at least twice a week (bearing my basic computation skills in mind, if Durex tell us that we as a nation are doing it twice and week, but only 50% of the modern freethinking Irish women of the nation are at it twice weekly – somebody is surely lying?). 69% of Irish women masturbate at least once a week and one eighth of those polled have had more that 30 sexual partners. So, the new generation of Irish women, unshackled by the prudish mores of old and fearless of the eternal burning fires of hell, have thrown caution to the wind are not afraid to shake their booty. No questions about STDs, unplanned pregnancies or abortion, then ed.?

I would like to think that I would answer honestly if asked to participate in any random poll. If I were polled regarding my political affiliations, moral beliefs or religious principles certainly I would have no issue providing truthful responses. But, if asked about my sex life – albeit by some anonymous, clip-board wielding pollster – I am not entirely certain that honesty would in fact be my policy.

Quite frankly, I find all these surveys – whether truth or lie – at best only manage to fuel my, already considerable, sexual insecurities. I need to work harder than ever now on my annual tally lest I be responsible for bringing the rising national statistics down. I am weary of endless reports, graphs and charts produced to measure the who, what, where, of it all and long for some more relaxed commentary on the blissful act itself.

No-one it seems is prepared to discuss the periods of drought (that is within a relationship). One very late night, following a few too many glasses of red, my long-time friend confessed to me that she and her partner had not had sex in weeks. Was there something wrong with her, perhaps he just didn't fancy her any more, was their relationship doomed? Big questions tossed and turned in her mind, and assured her that something catastrophic was surely brewing. Naturally, because no-one discusses the matter, it never crossed her mind that this in fact could be perfectly normal. My friend and her partner both work full-time, commute long distances daily, rarely have time to eat never mind schedule in time for love-making, so how could one spell of inclement weather become a storm? I defy anyone in a relationship who works full-time, possibly has children, mixed with an active social life, to tell me that they have, at some point past the love's young dream stage, not endured the same.

Let's have some honest talk about sex, please.

Bowler Hats & Barricades

2005-09-19T21:33:00.000+01:00

Still inflamed by the trite comments of Ms Looney, who clearly fails to comprehend the complex issues that continue to pose difficulty to a lasting peaceful resolution in Northern Ireland, I dwell on the situation that has evolved in Belfast in the past few weeks.

I think I know what parades are about – they are at their core celebrations. Parades all over the world represent moments of communal celebration where citizens unite, often in festive gear, to give recognition together for something they believe is worthy of commemoration. The element of simple, innocent fun and the jubilant party spirit is evident in parades all over the globe, from St Patrick's Day in Dublin and New York, to the Carnivals in Rio and Notting Hill, to Bastille Day and the 4th of July. Now stop for a moment and consider this; UVF gunmen garbed in balaclavas and combat gear, brandishing weapons on the hill at Drumcree, the triumphalism of Trimble, decked out in his sash, linked arm in arm with the openly papist-hating Ian, and the jeering, taunting Apprentice Boys' Parade back in 1969 that brought the British troops to the streets of Northern Ireland in the first instance. Now I don't feel quite so festive; now the party mood is gone.

Despite its profuse claims to the contrary and despite the glowing self-references to a fundamental belief in the principle of 'parity of esteem', the Orange Order honours in its parades the memory of a moment in time when Protestants in Ireland united forces against the papish James the second and emerged victorious at the battle of the Boyne. Out of this singular moment in time the Orange Order was born.

During the long history of the movement parades have been banned and outlawed by many governments. Since inception Orange Order parades have been accompanied by violence and from 1796 to 1797 15 innocent Catholic citizens were killed during violence at Orange parades in Stewartstown. Some years later in 1813 four more deaths occurred as an Orange Order parade made its way through one of the first areas of Belfast identified as predominantly Nationalist.

Not all Orangemen sympathise with violence, this much is clear. Across the province this weekend concerned ministers proclaimed from their pulpits that they were reconsidering their membership of the Order. Brave men indeed, whose sentiments towards the violence expressed by supposedly like-minded brethren cannot be held in dispute. But, sadly, all it takes is a minority of tribalistic warriors intent on upholding what they deem to be traditional values and cultural beliefs to blacken the name of loyalism. And, as long as memory prevails, those who do not espouse similar beliefs, those who can still recall the violence of recent days and years, alongside memories of the once leader of the state grinning from ear to ear as he succeeded in making his way, the conquering hero, down a road full of citizens who did not want to join the party, is it any wonder that they do not wish to see sashes and bowler hats moving to the triumphant beat of the Lambeg drum through their already troubled communities?

Back to the Looney bin!

2005-09-19T01:31:00.000+01:00

There are some journos who are just everywhere; from radio, to daily press, to TV they permeate our consciousness. Take Ms Fiona Looney for example. She is the ubiquitous media whore moving effortlessly between the Sunday Tribune to Woman's Way, to the Gerry Ryan show and also often makes an appearance on 'comedy' panel shows broadcast by RTE. Now, of course, she is on the verge of becoming a national phenomenon with her forthcoming novel Misadventures in Motherhood and her play Dandelions she will be hard to miss. She is often witty, incisive and forthright when she writes or speaks about her kids and the humorous moments that occur amid the domestic bliss of suburbia where the little knocks and bruises of everyday life are repaired with a kiss and a cuddle. But I am afraid, this week's column in i magazine is quite simply a bridge too far. Out of her natural habitat where lancing boils and sticking band-aids on things is routine, Ms Looney enters the political domain and urges the nation to rally to the aid of the loyalist rioters taking over the streets of Belfast at the moment with a few DVDs! It's so easy to be flippant when it's someone else's child stuck in A&E with a potential fracture of the skull. Or indeed, worse still, the 15 year old who has lost his testicles as a result of the rioting. Or what about the 77 year old granny dragged from her vehicle with her 11 year old grandson by men armed to the hilt donning the traditional terrorist battle gear – the great balaclava. Yes, why didn't she think to offer them some DVDs and save herself? Obviously they had nothing better to do they day the 'pipe went'.

Seven Things

2005-09-17T23:15:00.000+01:00

Your are no-one in the blogosphere if you have not completed the Seven Things meme that is travelling from blogspot to blogspot with incredible haste at the moment. And, despite the fact that I have not been invited by a cyberland comrade to complete the Seven Things, I feel that by way of an introduction I should give it a go. Seven Things I plan to do before I die:

Write a novel
Become a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist
Move to a house with a mature garden complete with mature gardener
Learn how to make curry that smells and tastes like it came from the take away
Take up acting
Have another child (No. 3)
Visit Africa

Seven Things I can do:

Eat chocolate without guilt
Drink a pint of Guinness in less than 10 seconds
Play the piano
Intelligent rant
Be honest about myself
Make really delicious birthday cake
Walk in four inch heels

Seven Things I cannot do:

Write Poetry
Endure people whose prime concern is their appearance
Live with pets
Read Harry Potter books
Go to a health spa
Function properly without 8 hours sleep per day
Brag

Seven Things I find really attractive about the opposite sex:

The smell of sweat
The way they let you squeeze their spots
The inevitable bulge in the groin area especially when wearing tight trousers .. where else is there to look?
The scapula
Their ability to say 'I'm sorry' first
A great big bear hug
Belly button fluff

Seven Things I say the most:

Life's too short
I'm too short
Twenty Silk Cut Purple, please.
I'm sorry, how much does that cost?
Do other cars come without indicators?
Are you listening to me?
What did you say?

Seven Books I love:

Fanny Hill, or Memoirs of a Lady of Pleasure by John Cleland
Shakespeare's Sonnets
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Tristam Shandy by Laurence Sterne

Seven people I would like to see take this quiz:

Barbara Bush ... because I bet she lists 'Why don't you try some pretzels tonight, darling!' as one of the seven things she says the most.
Mariella Fostrup ... simply because I just love her.
Terry Wogan ... banter, banter, banter ... where's me jock strap
Oscar Wilde ... lend us your handbag
Sean Moncrieff ... I am not gay! But, I do like dressing up.
Eddie Izzard ... I am not gay! But, I do like dressing up.
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