Just a word of thanks...

AS regular readers will know I'm an aspiring writer. Well because of that I've been hanging out at Write Words a lot and have made some lovely new virtual friends- esp in the Chick Lit forum.
I have to say these enormously talented ladies have taught me so much about my craft and I want to thank them wholeheartedly.

And for the record I"m now 10,000 words into my second novel 'Signed, Sealed, Delivered'.

Enjoy this tiny taster:
After Jake had left me, swaggering out of my flat with his T-shirt inside out, I had tried to win him back.
I became, I can admit with the fullness of time, a little psychotic over the whole thing. I bombarded him with phonecalls and when he changed his number I started with letters and emails.
I wanted him to know that I was as shocked by the whole thing as he was and that I had reacted myself with the same anger and disbelief but that it would and could be ok and sure we hadn't planned it, but that didn't mean a baby would have to be a bad thing.
He didn't reply. I would have handled the whole thing better if he had repeatedly told me to feck off, but he didn't. He just ignored me and that allowed me to tell my pregnancy addled, hormone riddled brain that perhaps he never got the 36 letters or 49 emails and that his phone must have a fault.
Eventually, after sobbing like a mad woman all over Janice Grayson's new nursery, Beth sat me down on the luxury rocker and told me that I needed to let go. I needed to realise he didn't want me or our baby. I nodded, agreed- I mean I hadn't really wanted our baby myself. So I decided that I had to change my tactics. He might not have wanted us then, but surely that would change when he heard about his own daughter?

Disgusted with Derry

I'M ANGRY, and -to paraphrase that great philosopher of our time 'The Incredible Hulk'- you will not like me when I'm angry.

I have always been exceptionally proud to call Derry my home. I have been proud as punch of our sense of community spirit- our ability to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and get on with life when everyone and his granny seems to be conspiring against us.
Always a home-bird, I have never wanted to leave this city. I never wanted to be part of the 'brain-drain' and when I'd finished studying I returned to Derry to set up a home, start a family and settle down. I even managed to persuade my other half, an English man who had heard enough about the Troubles to put him off Northern Ireland for life, that Derry was different. I persuaded him that all that nasty business of the last 30 years was behind us and that this was actually a safe place to live. I was very smug in my praise of my hometown.
Last Saturday night Paul McCauley was kicked half to death. Two others were injured. My own brother had been at that party earlier in the evening and, by the grace of God, had gone home early. I cannot bear to think about the position our family may have been in now had he stayed.
I know the people who were at the party. I've met most of them at various times as they sauntered in and out of my mammy's house to see my brother. It seems trite to say it now, but there isn't a bad bone in any of them- but then no-one deserves to be jumped upon in their own garden and have their heads kicked in, bad bone or not.
The attack may or may not have been sectarian, but I think that in focusing on putting a label on the assault we are ignoring the most frightening aspect of this whole episode: There are people in this city who think it is perfectly acceptable to do as much physical damage to another human being as possible without thinking, for one second, about the consequences.
Those people include, but are by no means limited, to the scumbags who left Paul McCauley for dead. They prowl our city streets every weekend looking for people to batter to within an inch of their lives. They enjoy it. They thrive on seeing people scared, on hearing people beg them to stop. They are the worst kind of scum and they are dirtying the name of this city every time they lash out at someone for a bit of craic.

Emotional
I find it hard not to get emotional when talking about this issue. Twelve years ago my brother was their target. He was pounced upon at 8.30 in the evening as he walked along the river with his friends. He was kicked in the head until he was battered and bruised and his teeth were smashed. His attackers kept on kicking him in the head until a passing car stopped and hauled him to safety.
I have emphasised the fact that he was kicked in the head because this shows how his attackers clearly didn't give a damn if they killed him. Every blow could have been fatal. Every blow knocked a little bit of confidence out of him that took many years to rebuild and yet we know that he was ultimately lucky.
If you are wondering, my brother's "crime" was that he dressed differently to his attackers. He didn't talk to them, didn't engage with them. He was just walking to a friend's house (in fact the same house where Sunday's attack occurred) when those responsible took a dislike to him.
My mother's best friend is a social worker attached to the Brain Injury unit. She admits she has been shocked at the increase in people needing support and treatment as a direct result of beatings they have sustained in this town we all love so well.
It is a shocking and sickening indictment of this city and how it is becoming a place that people no longer feel proud of.
At a time when we should be pulling tourists in by the thousands, when the City Council is doing all it can to make Derry as attractive as possible to residents and tourists alike, these animals think of nothing of destroying anything, or anyone, in their wake.
I think it is time that we got tough on our culture of street crime. I think it is time the people of Derry told everyone for once and for all that enough was enough and we aren't going to stand for this any more.
The fact is it could have been any of us who were beaten to a pulp in the early hours of Sunday morning. This wasn't a city centre street, it was a private back garden and any one of us could have been in it, enjoying a few drinks with friends while waiting for the sun to rise.
The attack on Paul McCauley shows once and for all and none of us are safe as long as these thugs are allowed to wander our streets and get away with attempted murder.
So yes, I'm angry. I want to be able to convince my husband that he lives in a city where we won't judged for our accents, our religions or what clothes we wear. I want to know that in 16 years time when our son goes out for the night I won't be pacing the floor worrying that he will be the latest victim of an unprovoked attack.
I want to feel proud to call Derry home again.

Boys and their toys

MY SON is a typical wee boy. He loves Bob the Builder, Noddy and Thomas the Tank Engine and gets terribly excited when he claps eyes on a 'PC Plum' (police man), fire engine, "ambliance" or airplane.

He looks every inch a boy- from his curly bap to his battered sneakers. He always has looked like a boy, to the point that he has never once in his entire life, even as a week old infant, been confused for anything other than a little boy. (I do remember one well meaning old dear peering the pram and saying: "That can't be anything other than a boy, can it?")
But love for cars, trains, planes, footballs and rough-and-tumble aside, the real love of his life at present is a TV character most certainly aimed at little girls- the wonderful Fifi ForgetMeNot.
He has not one but two talking Fifi dolls (he did have a third but she met a sorry end under the wheels of a passing car). Fifi must go everywhere. In her pink welly boots and denim dungarees, complete with flower motif, she must sit in his high chair with him at every meal time, must go to bed with him, to his Auntie Stella's with him, in the car with him and dare he wake in the middle of the night and she is not to be found there is all hell to pay.
I have taken to avoiding Foyleside because Joseph has renamed it "Fifi's House". He knows that Adams sell Fifi clothes and that the Early Learning Centre stocks a variety of Fifi toys- all of which he thinks he has an automatic right too just because he loves her so much.
Similarly I have lost count of the amount of times I have been woken during the night to Jane Horrocks' voice announcing "Hello, I'm Fifi ForgetMeNot, you're my best friend" as Joseph brings his cuddly best friend into the bed beside me. The added joy is that Fifi also has the power to automatically switch herself off after two minutes declaring loudly: "Don't forget to come back soon!".

Fifi's world...
As a doting mammy I don't really have any problems with my son's fascination for Fifi (who comes scented with a real flower smell). At times she is a welcome relief from the endless episodes of Fireman Sam or Noddy but other people are perhaps not so understanding of my son's love for a girl's toy. In fact I have received a few odd looks when people see my child cart his treasured pink and yellow doll around with him.
Earlier this week I bought a bright pink Fifi ForgetMeNot duvet cover for Joseph and some of my mammy friends were shocked. A few said that while their sons loved Fifi too, there is no way they could put a pink duvet on a boy's bed- and their husbands would go mad at the very notion.
It seemed strange to me. My friend's little girl, Amy, who is the same age as Joseph happily sports a pair of Bob the Builder pyjamas. They are dark blue and clearly designed with little boys in mind. No one has batted an eyelid. Amy loves "Bob De Da" (as she so very sweetly pronounces it) so why shouldn't she have pyjamas emblazoned with the Bob the Builder logo?
It would seem it is more acceptable for a little girl to cross the gender boundaries than it is for a boy. No one would be concerned if Amy had a Bob the Builder duvet cover. I doubt they would bat an eyelid if they saw her peddling around the streets on a Bob the Builder bike- but should you put your average Derry young fellah on a pink bike or in pink pyjamas and you would be asking for trouble.
Personally I've never had any problem at all with Joseph playing with toys for girls as well as boys. He owns a tea set (admittedly he is about as interested in it as he is in molecular biology), a pram and a rag doll. He has been known to dress up in a Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus costume and practice his Bella Ballerina dance steps in his granny's living room. I don't think any of this will have done him any harm. He is just as likely to spend three hours driving the same truck up and down the garden path or to run around the garden dressed as Superman shouting 'Super Joe' at the top of his lungs.
So I don't have a problem with letting him go to sleep at night under a pink duvet cover. I'm aware that as he grows older and spends more time with his peers he will more than likely die with embarrassment at the very notion he once took Fifi to bed every night, but for now, while there is still a touch of babyness about him, he can do whatever makes him happy. (That said I'll be vetoing his his repeated request for Fifi pants to go alongside his newly acquired set of big boy underwear- a mother has to draw the line somewhere and wearing girls' underwear is a bridge too far, even for me.)

I predict a riot!

All because the lady loves her wain...

What a stunner, eh?

Drum roll please!!!

This is my 100th post on this blog.

It should be something momentous I feel- sadly it's not.
It's just me, sitting here, smiling and feeling rather smug.

When you're smiling...

TWO YEARS ago when I was dealing with the 'joys' of sleepless nights and other new parenting gems I took to yamming down the phone on a regular basis to my VBF friend Vicki.

As a mother of three (well, she had two then- but she breeds fast) she was well versed in the stresses of dealing with family upheaval and she calmly told me that a good laugh beats a good cry any day of the week.
I thought about what she had said and realised she just may have been on to something. You see, when I phoned Vicki to off-load my woes, or vice versa, we inevitably managed to bring the conversation round to something light-hearted in an attempt to cheer up whichever one of us was standing on the proverbial window ledge.
At the end of each conversation we would have laughed until our sides hurt and gone away much less stressed and ready to take whatever renewed 'joys' the next 24 hours would throw at us.
I started to realise that when I needed a release of emotion, it was often more productive to stick on a Billy Connolly video and laugh until my pelvic floor muscles begged for mercy than to lie in a darkened room listening to Sarah McLachlan CDs and weeping like a Banshee.
I'll admit however that being a typical Derry woman my immediate reaction to almost every situation is to automatically think the worst, get myself into a state of blind panic about it and come to the conclusion that the world as we know it is set to fall in around my ears in a spectacular style.
I have always believed, you see, that if you prepare for the worst and expect it to happen you will be pleasantly surprised when things go right. I have always seen huge danger signs when it comes to anticipating that everything will run smoothly. It is in just these situations that someone on high will delight in switching on that great big celestial candid camera in the sky and then watch with glee as your life implodes around you.
I'm not sure where I got my extreme pessimism from. My parents are fairly normal, and my sister is positively Mary Poppins-like in her outlook. She lives life one day at a time, having developed a rather impressive"cross that bridge when she comes to it" attitude. I, on the other hand, have been building imaginary bridges to cross most of my adult life.
My husband is equally optimistic in his approach to life. The phrase "so laid back he is horizontal" was designed specifically with him in mind. So there I am, the lone merchant of doom in my family.
Unsurprisingly I have discovered that walking around under a black cloud of my own making does not make me happy so - with the help of Vicki and her wicked sense of humour - I've set about trying to make myself laugh when I'm more tempted to cry.
Billy Connolly is a good start. I have yet to watch a video of his without howling with laughter throughout. The jokes don't get tired. I find his impression of drunk man, be it walking or singing, hilarious.
Also guaranteed to raise a giggle is an evening spent with friends, be it the real ones who I know in person or the TV show of the same name. It is a great treat to lock the doors on the world and curl up on the sofa with a kingsize Galaxy and an hour of two of Ross, Rachel et al.
Vicki and I share many in jokes. All I need to do is call her Mabel and she returns the favour by calling me Betty and the laughter starts. Likewise, and back to the Billy Connolly theme here, there is one friend I only have to mention the phrase "A Roman and only one" to and we both convulse with laughter. (For those now looking at this page with a look of confusion on their face, I highly recommend the 'Billy and Albert' DVD)
I'm sure onlookers would think we are cracked, or as the lovely Rosie McCann who used to sit beside me in work would say, that we were on the glue, but nonetheless such simple expressions and jokes can lift you from the sourest of moods and make the rest of the day that little bit more bearable.
Of course there are situations when a good cry is necessary. It would be wholly inappropriate to hoot with laughter at a funeral, but in the majority of cases a smile can and does help.
So, I'm asking the people of Derry to cast aside our reputation as grumpy so and sos and to start smiling more. It won't be easy- old habits die hard- but go one give it a go, it can't do any harm!

Month 29- Behold the spawn of Satan

Dear Joseph,
I would like to start this month's letter by saying I love you dearly with all my heart and what may follow should not take away from the surge of positive emotions I feel about you on a daily basis.
You have turned into, what we in Derry like to call, a wee shite. It's not that you are bad as such. You haven't killed any puppies or thrown anyone out of a window (with the exception of your Tigger glove puppet)- you have just become, how can I put this, trying.
You have discovered the joy of tantrums and, much to my 'joy', the ability to do the full body slump whereby you collapse into a gelatenous heap on the floor and wriggle about so that even the most wily of mammies/ childminders/ daddies can't lift you up as you screech and shout "Me no want to".
I should, I guess, applaud your stand for your rights but when you take that stand in Tesco, while people tut and look on, it can be hard to deal with.
You have also discovered the 'excitement' which can be created by you running off in crowded shopping centres sending your mammy/childminder/daddy into a frenzy of panic as we search for you all the time imagining the worst.
And, you have also discovered just how much 'fun' it is draw blood from your own mother while you sink you teeth into her boob while giving her cuddle.

That's not to say you aren't a joy. You make me roar with laughter each day. Just yesterday you sang "Don't you wish your mammy was fun like me, don't you, don't you" in the car and I almost choked. You tell me I'm "so handsome" on an almost daily basis now and you love me, entirely and totally.
And I do love you back baby boy. But, if you can help it all, please stop with the mammy abuse.
Love you squillions.
Mammy
x

A friend for every season

YOU'LL FORGIVE me for sounding exceptionally smug this week when I say that I really have been blessed with some of the nicest friends on the planet.

My birthday has been and gone and I now, as a woman in my 30s, reserve the right to be exceptionally self indulgent and quite publicly say a huge thank you to everyone who made my transition from a young thing to an official grown up lady so smooth and enjoyable.
I think we women rely on our friends much more than our male counterparts. There is a many a crisis I could not have survived without my friends around me. Himself has a role to play, of course he does, but he doesn't understand my need for chocolate, wine and a good cry or giggle in the same way as 'the girls'.
Now usually us women have a group of friends from every era of our lives and never the twain shall meet. You know, you have the school friends, the uni friends, the work friends and the mammy friends. Then, of course, you have the family friends, those who are bound to get on with due to blood ties but who you do actually quite like when you think about it.
Each of them knows a different you. Your school friends know the gawky, silly you who wanted to be Teri Hatcher in 'Lois and Clarke' and who cried herself silly for a whole day when Bros broke up.
Your uni friends know how you were madly in love with the class mate who didn't ever look at you twice. They may even have driven you past the object of your affection's house as you did your best 'Fatal Attraction' impression.
Your 'mammy' friends can sympathise about the sleepless nights and could recount your labour story to you as if were their own. They even know the appropriate moments to cross their legs and grimace while telling the tale.
Your work friends know the you that is both at times the consummate professional, but who at other times is prone to a snottery big cry in the toilets when you have a bad day. They know what bun you take with your morning cup of tea and when to leave you alone as deadline approaches and steam rises from your keyboard.

Do you do voodoo?
As for family, well they know everything about you. Nothing escapes them and when everything goes horribly wrong with your non-related friends you know there is at least one person who will be nice to you and help you make the voodoo doll.
As a general rule, you don't want them to mix. Your work colleagues could do without knowing that you used to make up dance routines to Bananarama songs in your family friends' living room.
Likewise your Mammy friends, who think you are exceptionally grounded and responsible, do not need to know how your uni friend also brought you to the shop where your unrequited love's mother worked just so you could check out the prospective mother in law.
For my birthday, however, they all got together and, better than that, they all got along wonderfully with each other.
I was spoiled rotten. My sister booked me and my VBF (very best friend) into the City Hotel for the night. My school friend brought enough pink champagne to sink a small ship. My work friend showed up with a voucher for a fancy pampering session at a local hairdressers. My VBF (who is also a mammy friend) travelled over from Scotland just for the occasion and jointly they paid for a trip around town in a fancy stretch Mercedes limo, where all my friends had put together a collection of my favourite songs for us to sing to.
Each song, just like each friend in the Limo, represented a different stage of my life, but funnily enough each friend sang along loudly to every song and we roared with laughter together as we shared our individual memories.
As we sat together in Pitchers for our meal, I looked around and couldn't help but feel emotion choke me. It's a wonderful experience to realise people care for you and genuinely want to spend time in your company. Each of them gave me a thoughtful gift, from some gorgeous jewellery to a bound copy of my novel (perhaps the only time I will ever see it in print).
More than that, these girlies, many of whom had never met and only knew about each other through me, had been scheming, plotting and saving for weeks before the big day to make it special for me. They had formed their own friendships through email and phone calls.
Ever since that night each of them have contacted me to tell me how lovely the rest of them were. They have vowed to keep in contact and we all plan to meet up again next year when my sister gets married (exactly one year today- woohoo!).
Self indulgence aside (before this gets too tedious), I think this is a perfect example of just how supportive, open and welcoming women can be. Friendships can be the most nurturing and inspiring relationships in our lives and as far as I'm concerned every woman should have her own set of 'the girls' to call her own.
So to 'the girls' I'm proud to call my friends, Lisa, Vicki, Erin, and Nora- thank you all from the very bottom of my heart and remember, a friendship is for life- not just for a 30th birthday.

You're beautiful, it's true

MY SISTER phoned me on Monday night to tell me about an ad that is currently airing on TV. (Sadly, no, we don't have more exciting things to talk about in our family).

She said the new ad for Dove, of all things, was really moving. Well, in the interest of journalistic investigation of course I sat down in front of the TV and flicked the channels until I found out what she was going on about.
Dove, who make very lovely soaps and shampoos, have launched a 'Self Esteem Fund' for young girls. While Cyndi Lauper (or someone trying to sound like Cyndi Lauper) sang about letting your true colours come shining through, images of young girls flash on the screen. One hates her freckles. One thinks she isn't smart enough and then an impossibly skinny girl lets us know she thinks she is fat.
Then Dove announce they are going all out to show every little girl just how beautiful she really is. It's a lovely sentiment and I admit feeling all warm and glow-y as the ad ended.
The cynics out there will no doubt write this whole escapade off as a cynical marketing ploy by a company who, by dint of their very existence, are more interested in selling products to stop you smelling like a back end of a donkey than changing the world.
But I, for one, have to commend them. I like that a company isn't afraid to use real women in their ads. I like that they feature ladies over a certain age and women with real, saggy boobs and wobbly cellulitey thighs in their campaigns.
And I really like a company who has made it their mission statement to make little girls feel like the most special and beautiful little creatures on the planet.
I visited Dove's website (www.campaignforrealbeauty.co.uk) and discovered that 92% of girls aged between 8 and 12 would change one or more aspects of their appearance.

Sindy and Barbie
My God, when I was eight all I cared about was Sindy and Barbie and which was the cooler. I remember being vaguely aware that I had a wee touch of a pot belly and what my mother lovingly referred to as a "duck arse", but this was, in my mind, just the normal S bend shape of a child.
I never thought about getting rid of my freckles, nor did I really contemplate my weight or long for bluer eyes or a smaller nose. I never thought I was stupid, even when long division baffled me beyond words.
It saddens me to think that young girls can doubt themselves in this way- and it angers me that we have allowed them to believe they are anything less than perfect and beautiful and that up until now no one has really deemed it an important enough issue to do anything about it.
Sure, we had the Spice Girls, with their "Zig a Zig Ahs" and shouts of "Girl Power" but in reality were they role models for us to aspire to? Erm, there was the skinny one who married a footballer and lives off his money. Then there was the chubby ginger one, who became skinny, the chubby, then normal, then had a baby she called Bluebell. I'm sure there were a couple of others too, but they didn't really amount to much in the grand scheme of things.
Looking around today it's hard to know who young girls aspire to be. The charts offer little inspiration. I mean there is that stupid Fergie woman singing about her humps and her lady lumps or there are the Pussycat Dolls (or is that Dollz, with a z? I'm so not with it) encouraging young girls to be freaks like them.
The best selling toy for the 8-12 year olds are dolls (with an s) called Bratz (with a z). Now I know I'm nearly 30 so hurtling towards old age at lightning speed now but surely things haven't moved on so much that we no longer regard being a brat as a bad thing? Next thing you know there will be a range of dolls on the market called "Wee Feckers" and no one will bat an eyelid.
If our toys and our heroes aren't there championing our self esteem and letting us know it is ok to be nice, polite and non freakish young ladies then how are our young girls supposed to accept themselves for the people they are?
I, for one, find it so sad to see young girls trying to conform to perceived notions of what being beautiful and cool is. It's a sad day when you see a seven year old wrestle her way into a boob tube and slip on a pair of heeled shoes. Similarly there is nothing as heartbreaking as seeing a child of the age of four point to her belly and tell you it is fat.
So I'm all for Dove and their Campaign for Real Beauty and I want to tell all the little girls out there with freckles, or pot bellies, duck arses, sticky out ears, you are beautiful, it's true!

A load of balls

*First published on June 2, 2006.
DISCLAIMER- THIS COLUMN WAS WRITTEN WITH TONGUE FIRMLY INSERTED IN CHEEK. ANY ENGLISH PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE DISPOSITION SHOULD LOOK AWAY NOW


IT IS with a heavy heart that I have realised we are now in the month of June.

As the days pass, the sense of impending doom and dread I feel grows stronger and stronger. This is the month I have dreaded all year- the World Cup is almost upon us.
In precisely seven days time my husband, my male relatives and the lion share of my male colleagues will morph into football obsessed yahoos who will become incapable of discussing anything other than the qualifiers between the Ivory Coast and Serbia.
This delightful experience will last a joyless month, during which time I will have to fight with himself for use of the remote control- which I imagine will be a pointless exercise anyway as there will be nothing on the TV remotely non-related to the footie.
There will be no escaping it. Matches will be played at all hours of the day and when the matches aren't actually on there will be pre-match coverage and the post-match coverage and the between match coverage.
Nothing will be sacred. They will move Coronation Street and EastEnders to accommodate the matches. (I am physically restraining my hands here from typing bad words to express my displeasure. I realise that is neither big nor clever and I apologise for my thoughts).
To add insult to injury even the priests are in on the act- and worse still they support England!
As you may have guessed I'm not a ladette. The astute among you may realise that I don't care for football. The closest I've got to watching a match in recent years is checking out the latest series of 'Footballers' Wives'.
I may have feigned an interest if Ireland had managed to qualify. I'm pretty sure that if the boys in green had made it to Germany (and yes, I did have to ask my colleagues if that was right) I would have shown some enthusiasm just as I have done in the past, when I joined the throngs of people watching the big screens in Squires in 1994 when Jackie's Army stormed the USA (and yes, I had to ask that too).
I'd have found a player I fancied and ogled his legs. I'd have gone to the pub with my friends and waved a cheap agus nasty plastic Irish flag around and sang a resounding chorus of "Ole, ole, ole, ole"- but in the absence of a national duty to watch the football, I would love to ignore it entirely.

Tense month
Unfortunately I am married to an English man. You may realise that sets the scene for a very tense month in the Allan household.
It's not that I hate the English football team. I'm sure some of them are fine footballers in their own rights. What I hate, however, is the jingoistic, self satisfied smugness that particular nation sees fit to adopt if they win a match.
They go overboard with the news coverage, the songs, the flags, the Union Jack boxer shorts and (yes, I've seen this) toddlers carted about in special edition St. George's Cross buggies.
It's galling. It is not like they've found the cure for cancer or caught Osama Bin Laden shopping for Weetabix in Tesco. One man who has spent his whole life kicking balls around has simply managed to kick another ball into a net the size of your average bus. Oh, some men chased him while he did it. Whoopee! Hardly cause for national celebration now, is it?
Himself, of course, is very excited. He loves the World Cup. He is is giddily excited about being able to share the World Cup with his son for the first time. They will bond over it, as I sit with a face like thunder in the next room- excluded entirely from my family unit.
I should say I'm lucky most of the time. Himself is not a mad football supporter, so for three years out of four I can more or less pretend the blasted sport doesn't exist- but there is a strange mist that descends on him around the time of the World Cup that changes everything.
He becomes an English version of Homer Simpson, who melds into the sofa, can of beer in one hand, cheering and jeering at the footie and nodding at the sage words of Gary Lineker as if he was given said words on tablets of stone from on high.
If he gets together with his best mate Chris, we have a real life version of 'Men Behaving Badly' played out in our living room. I remember France 1994 being particularly traumatic on this front. The two of them dragged a cool box, filled with ice, into the living room for each major match and drank their way through the Ivory Coast's supply of cheap and nasty beer.
For four solid weeks I gave up on the notion of getting any sensible conversation out of him. There was no point. Like all strong women, I know when I am beat.
I'm hoping the eight years between then and now will have mellowed and matured my other half and that his threats to train the wee man to fetch the beer from the fridge for him are, indeed, just idle threats.
I'm stocking up on a selection of the finest Chick-Lit books, fine wines and soppy DVDs and I'm going to lock myself into my room to escape the nonsense. Hopefully by the time 2010 comes along (which will be in South Africa- and yes, I had to check) I'll have a little girl to bond with and the men can get on with it themselves.

Watch yourself Mazza!

Dear reader,
I have written a novel! A proper one with loads of words (86,000 of the blighters if you want to know). Most are spelled correctly. Some have more than one syllable. There is a fair smattering of incorrect usage of the whole its/ it's thing, but hey, it's a first draft!
It's called This Little Piggy and if any agents out there fancy signing me up and finding me a fancy dan publisher, that would be just dandy!
I'm prouder than punch about it because this was one of the three life goals I set myself for before I turned 30!
The first was to learn to drive and pass a test. Well I ticked that badboy off the list on March 21! This particular ambition was resolved on 6/6/6 (hope that isn't an omen!).

Big up to Queen Mazza who inspired me in 'Under the Duvet' by revealing she wrote her first novel in her 31st year and also big up to my friend and colleague Siobhan, who always wanted to write a book but sadly never got the chance.

Also thanks to everyone who read it while it was a work in progress! Love ya all!

(For the record, my third ambition was to lose bag loads of weight- but in the words of Meatloaf, two out of three ain't bad!)

Month 28- "No Mammy, it's a orange lorry"

Dear Joseph,
Welcome to your 28th month birthday. In so many ways it feels you have been here forever and yet, there are times, I wish you really had been. It seems like a heartbeat since I held you in my arms and wondered what the holy feck I was going to do with this newborn creature.
You seem to have become a human sponge this month. Of course, as your mammy, I have to say I'm well aware of the fact that you were born the most handsomest, smartest child in the world bar none- but this month you have exceeded even my wildest handsome and smart expectations.
The curls on your head have become wilder than ever and I swear when I looked at your this morning your eyes were that little bit bluer.
The real beauty in you though is your personality. I love to hold you close and say: "Joseph's my baby"- this month you have learned that the best way to impress your doting mother is to reply "Mammy's my baby" back.
Smart and gorgeous- what more could a mother want?

Of course you can catch me out. On our mornings in the car, driving to see your favourite Pepsi dog, we like to spot the vehicles as we go.
By about now, I can tell you what we meet before we go and I can get sometimes get a little lazy with the lorry spotting.
Seeing a lorry speed towards us I said: "Look Joseph, it's a yellow lorry"
"No mammy, it's an orange lorry," you replied.
My heart swelled with pride as I skited you one across the top of the head for being cheeky!
Love you loads,
Mammy

(No children were actually skited across the top of the head during the month of May)

A sofa is for life

I AM the proud new owner of a sumptuous red sofa. It takes pride of place in our front room and is deliciously soft to the touch.

I love it more than I ever thought it possible to love a piece of furniture. My heart swells with a sense of pride and happiness each time I see it or sink into it's cosy cushions.
For me this red sofa represents so much. You see it's predecessor was a hand me down- a cast off from my sister in law who had moved on to bigger and better things.
It was, once, a gorgeous cream colour and my sister in law had bought it before she had her own family. Given that her daughter is now approaching 10 years of age, you can imagine it's vintage.
It has survived many spills, copious attacks by crayon toting toddlers, a fair smattering of assaults with baby sick and it remained comfy 'til its last hours. It was, however, bogging and no amount of steam cleaning or bleaching could restore it to it's former glory.
I would sit on it each evening, my heart sinking as I noticed another mark or stain that would refuse to budge and I would covet the fancy new sofas of friends and family.
Earlier this year we took the plunge and ordered our new creation. I was stupidly excited- not only because I knew I would be getting rid of the muck magnet that was making our 'good room' our 'dirty room', but also because we are one step closer to being proper adults and not owning a plethora of hand me down furniture.
When himself and I bought our house we relied strongly on the kindness of family and friends to furnish it. We had the basics- a bed, a TV and a couple of Argos' finest creations in MDF with a real wood veneer.
The sister-in-law donated the sofa and my friend's mammy sold me a table and chair set for tuppence ha'penny. My Godparents bought us a shiny new fridge freezer as a wedding present and we scraped together the money for a washing machine.
The rest of the house was bare. Two bedrooms were empty, a second living room held a bookcase (you know, one of the one's that was on offer with tokens from SuperValu- you all have one) and the house was more a shell than a home. There was a echo in almost every room.
According to my parents we were actually quite well off. When they first married and moved into their own (rented) home they sat on boxes until they could scrape enough together for their first sofa and there wasn't a luxury fridge freezer to be seen.
That was how life was then, you see. You didn't expect to have it all as soon as you signed your wedding certificate. People didn't move into show homes with the latest of everything as soon as they came back from honeymoon and I can't help but think that progression hasn't necessarily been a good thing.
A friend of mine married last week and has just bought her first home with her husband. Each time I've tried to get Gillian on the phone between last November and now I've been told she was down in the new house painting.
Chatting with her over a glass of wine at the festivities, I reminisced about my own home buying experience and how we had next to nothing. Gillian informed me her house was "just about done" and there was "only the New England room to finish".
My jaw dropped. The New England room? Whatever happened to newlyweds buying a bulkload of magnolia paint in the B&Q sale and slapping it up over crumbling plaster walls of a first time buyers' fixer-upper opportunity of a house? Now the in thing is, apparently, to choose a theme for each room and decorate it accordingly. And of course, it is very much the in-thing to have a shiny new house in a shiny new estate with lots of shiny new furniture to fill it.
I doubt very much my second-hand sofa would look the business against her classy New England colours and I bet her furniture is not the wooden veneer type from Argos. I'm guessing she won't be married five years before she buys her first brand new sofa either!
I know of couples who are getting married who feel totally overwhelmed by the expectations foisted upon them. It is expected now that you can't possibly get married without buying your own house at the same time. Viewing the marital home holds almost as much excitement as seeing the bride saunter down the aisle in her big frock.
I'm proud of the fact we held on to our beloved hand-me-down sofa for five years. It was comfy. It served us well. Our son loved it, especially colouring in between the lines with crayons (his new fascination).
More than that, the fact we've had to wait five years to be able to comfortably afford a shiny new suite, and cast off the last of our cast offs, means that we appreciate everything we have all the more.
Of course, the other theory is that I'm just horribly jealous of Gillian's New England room when mine are colour coded around the latest shades from Crayola.

Men!

IT'S THE ultimate cliché to write a column about the battle of the sexes. I mean every female who has ever put pen to paper has at one stage knocked out a quick couple of hundred words on how and why women are so much more superior to their male counterparts.

It pains me to go over old ground. It makes me question whether or not I'm providing a decent level of service to my readers but there are some times, and ladies we all know what I'm talking about here, when all a woman can do is grip her head in her hands and sigh.
We all know the old adage. Men, can't live with 'em. Can't kill 'em. Much as I love my husband deeply, sometimes I genuinely feel as though I have not one, but two sons to look after. The second of my sons just happens to be 34, with a decent smattering of chest hair and an addiction to computer games and a couple of cans of lager on a Saturday night.
The wee man is no trouble in comparison. I can tell him what to do and generally with a bit of a foot stomp and the odd tantrum he will eventually realise that mammy rules the roost and he bows to my God given right to be the boss of him.
Himself (the big one) is a little harder to handle. He knows he doesn't have to agree to my every demand. He is aware that he is, in theory, a grown up but that doesn't change his need to have me there making sure everything around him runs as smoothly as possible.
I may well work full time. I may well have the lion share of the responsibility for making sure our two year survives another day without meeting some grisly end involving a mouldy yoghurt and a Bob the Builder friction vehicle. I may spent my evenings in a semi-comatose state loading and unloading the washing machine, setting out the clothes for the morning for the Messiest Toddler in History (Copyright, Joseph: 2006) and making sure we don't catch Bubonic Plague from the mildew in the shower- but apparently, and I didn't know this when I got married, none of these count as a excuse for not making sure himself has a clean, dry shirt for work the next day.
(Before I continue, I'm not saying himself turns into some wife battering maniac if the shirts aren't clean- he will happily wear one that stinks and show me up in front of the rest of Derry. I may be a modern woman of the noughties, but I'll not be shamed by anyone leaving my house in clothes reeking of body odour- no sirree!)
I'm sure some of you are wondering if my husband is okay with me revealing his inadequacies in the highest selling newspaper in the Derry area. The thing is, he is fine with it. He knows it is true- just as he knows deep down that he is not the only man with a woman behind him making sure his shirts are clean, he has new, sensible shoes and that his diet includes something a touch more nutritious than sausage sandwiches.

Home truths
Get any group of women together and the stories will start flooding out, and trust me, there are a few common themes here. I'm not one to tar people with the same brush, in the words of the wonderful Jane Austen it is a truth universally acknowledged that:
A) Men, great explorers of the world, responsible for discovering new lands and widening our horizons to new cultures and experiences, cannot 'discover' the car keys that are two feet away from them.
Instead they will phone their wives or partners or (being Derry) their mammies and ask them where their lost treasure might be. Their looking involves a cursory glance in the direction of the sky or somewhere equally as useful before giving up and looking for help from their more sensible halves.
B) Men, responsible for running the country, and planning military battles- cannot remember that when taking a child under the age of two out for the day you might want to bring some nappies.
Oh, he'll remember his cigarettes, his mobile, his money, his golf clubs (just in case they pass a golf course) but nappies and wipes? Are you mad?
C) Men, icons of fashion who crave to look like David Beckham and covet Armani suits- cannot dress children for love nor money. Let your other half free to dress a child and he or she will end up looking like a poster child for the NSPCC.
D) Men- proud of being handy, of having logical and technical minds and who can wire a plug quicker than saying "Job's a good 'un"- cannot bring themselves to show off any of these skills in their own home. Hands up who has a wonky lightswitch or dodgy washing machine?
E) Men- business geniuses, responsible for the financial management of multi-million pound businesses- have no concept that the £30 in the bank has to last until pay-day and no, it's not just there for the purpose of buying the latest Playstation game- especially when there are no nappies in the house and your child has a dodgy tummy.
Now, as I've said, I love my husband. And my father. And my brother. Indeed I have a certain degree of affection for most of the men in my acquaintance but please, for the love of God please, don't try to tell me that they are the superior sex because, as I see it, the facts more than speak for themselves.

Confidence in confidence alone...

LIKE MARIA in 'The Sound of Music' I have confidence in sunshine. I have confidence in rain. I have confidence that spring will come again, but besides which, you see, I have no confidence in me.

I'm a great fan of that song. It brings back hugely happy childhood memories of curling up on the sofa , watching Maria dance towards the home of the Von Trapps swinging her guitar and getting ready to face the Captain and his seven children. (What's so fearsome about that?)
It also reminds me of pushing my clapped out, second hand, rust bucket of a bike up the hill towards Grianan Fort, my aunt and sister beside me.
The sweat lashing off us, our wee legs knackered from the exertion of the cycle run out from Rosemount, we would sing the words loudly and push ourselves to our limits to reach the Fort- where we would settle down to a picnic of custard creams and Kia Ora.
Those days, in the brilliant sunshine, as we looked down over Donegal and Derry, we really did feel on top of the world. We had confidence.
When someone told us we looked nice, we believed them. We didn't shrug our shoulders and reply that we looked like we had just been dragged through a hedge backwards.
If someone said we we could sing or act well, we rewarded them with an encore- performed with such over enthusiasm they would wish they had kept their mouths shut.
If someone commended our work, we boasted about it to everyone who would listen. We didn't care if we came across as a 'spoof'. We were taught it was perfectly acceptable to be proud of your achievements.
I wonder when that changed and we all stopped believing just how fabulous we really are?
Most days when I see my niece, Abby, I will ask her at some stage who the best girl in Derry is. With no hesitation whatsoever she will reply with her own name before skipping off not even giving the question a second thought. Of course she is the best girl in Derry. Everyone is always telling her that- why would she believe any different?
I know someday though, and it saddens me, that she will stop believing the hype. Someday (probably when she is a surly teenager and telling us all to "Shut up") she will question not only if she is the best girl in Derry but whether she is even the best girl in Shepherd's Glen?
The truth is that there comes a time when being boastful, confident and contented are no longer considered to be desirable qualities in the modern woman, and without the positive affirmations of our youth we start to question everything about ourselves.

Melodramatic
It may sound melodramatic of me, but think about this. When was the last time you met a woman truly content and happy in herself? It amazes me to meet beautiful women who can't meet the gaze of others because they think they are ugly. It angers me to have conversations with women peppered with phrases like "Ignore me, I'm stupid anyway", and perhaps it angers me so much because I know I'm one of them.
A few weeks ago I was talking with a relatively new friend when I revealed my greatest secret. I'm actually quite shy. Painfully shy in fact. (It was, in hindsight, ridiculously stupid of me to have chosen a career in journalism given this personal affliction).
I'm constantly afraid of not sounding intelligent enough- of not making much sense. I'm afraid that if I say the wrong thing the powers that be that will strip me of my academic accolades realising that there was some dastardly mix up in the exams office. ("Sorry that was meant for the other Claire Allan. The one with her name spelled the uncomplicated way- Clare Allen".)
The better solution I believe is to do all we can to make sure young people, and young women in particular, never forget that sense of self belief we all had when we were wee. Someone should ask us all on a daily basis whether or not we are the best girls in Derry and we should force ourselves to reply that we are.
Maybe if we say it often enough, and loud enough, we will start to believe it ourselves.
Failing that, I'll hoke my old bike out, brush up on my Rodgers and Hammerstein and start singing as I clamber up the hill to Grianan Fort.

Month 27- shamelessly stolen from Dooce

Inspired by the lovely lady at www.dooce.com I have decided to write a monthly update on the life of Joseph, who shares a birthday with Leta (Dooce's little girly).
Forgive the gushing sentimentality.


Dear Joseph,
This morning you woke me with your trademark smile and a delightful aroma from your nappy which did not sit well with my headache. Twenty-seven-months ago I would have been horrified at such a rude awakening, but now, despite the smell, I can't help but grin.
There is something about you that makes me smile each time I see your face and my smile becomes a grin when you give me a trademark 'big squishy'. (Copyright Joseph: 2006)
I love how affectionate you have become. I love your little kisses- now with a proper closed mouth and the added sound effect of 'Mwah'.
Talking is your strong point. God knows keeping clean and tidy isn't, so we love to hear you talk and tell us all about your life. The running commentary in the car each morning, where you scream hello at the fire engines and tell me all the colours of the buses and vans never ceases to me amaze me. I'm glad I'm not arrogant enough to be blazé about the fact I helped make something as intelligent as you. It takes my breath away.
It's a weird time for me and your daddy, because part of us wants to keep you wee and babyish- but part of us is just so disgustingly proud with every new word or sentence you come out with that we relish each new day. We have become full time baby bores. Anyone who knows us, knows about you- and those who meet you agree you really are one pretty cool dude.
Daddy took you swimming today and you came running out of the leisure centre straight into my arms to give me a huge cuddle and tell me all about your adventures down the slide and in the big water. Your conversation was more a series of random words, pasted together between giggles and screams. "Splish, swimming, slide, wheeee! Water, Daddy, splash." Well that just about sums it up better than I ever could.

The Lovely Lady at Dooce (LL@D) said this month her daughter is the most beautiful creature alive. I think you and Leta could fight it out for that title. Wonder if we could arrange a celebrity grudge match?

As this moves on, I'll tell you more about how you were born (you might want to mentally block out the bits about the stitches and the bleeding) and how much you have changed my life, but for now, just believe I love you baby boy.
Mammy
xxx

Home Sweet Home

IT'S FUNNY how we take certain things for granted- simple little things like turning out the light in the evening, climbing into bed, resting our heads on our pillows and drifting off to sleep under a comfy duvet.

We all too often take for granted the ability to walk through our own front doors, take residence on our own sofas or shower in our very own bathrooms.
That said, I do love my house- it is my retreat and my sanctuary. When it is clean and tidy it is my favourite place on earth- when it is messy I spend my time generally cursing the very foundations it stands on. With a two year old son and 34 year old husband (also a man therefore also a mess magnet) you can imagine I spend more time cursing than relaxing these days. It's hard to sometimes see the good point beneath the clutter and dust.
Recently we gave the old homestead an overhaul. With a freshly decorated master bedroom, some new wooden blinds, a proper big boy single bed and laminate flooring in the wee man's room and new coat of paint on our crumbling exterior I am, I have to admit, happier with Chez Allan than I have been in a long time. (Now if I could transform my pokey back yard into a luxurious bijoux city garden I would be in seventh heaven).
But it hasn't been this overhaul that has made me start to look on my little house with new eyes. Surfing through the internet on Tuesday, looking for inspiration for this very column (Joseph not having done anything remarkably hilarious this week) I came across a BBC News Report on the Wandering Scribe.
The Wandering Scribe is an anonymous woman who writes a Blog (an internet based diary for those not au fait with nerdy media technology like me). She lives in her car in a laneway somewhere in London. She writes her Blog at a local library. She showers and washes her clothes in the laundries of a local hospital, she sleeps, night in and night out, in the front seat of her car.
She has lived this way since losing her job and suffering a mental breakdown in August of last year and she writes about her experiences with the searing honesty that only anonymity can allow.
The thing that strikes me most about her story is not her guile in managing to get staff discounts in the hospital canteen, or her ability to store all her life's possessions in the back of her car (my clutter would need the fancy new double decker bus that runs on the Slievemore route these days)- more it is her desire to lie down.

Stretch out
It sounds so simple doesn't it? I mean we all do it. We all climb into bed and lie down at least once a day. We all like to stretch out and I'm pretty sure that I'm not the only person in world who often sighs with pleasure as I snuggle down and let the soft duvet envelop me.
But this woman has not had a lie down in eight months. She sleeps sitting in her car, wrapped in a damp sleeping bag, struggling to get comfortable.
She longs to be able to lie down, on a bench, on the grass, on the floor- but doesn't want to draw attention to herself because while the Wandering Scribe is homeless, anyone meeting her would not realise. She is an expert at keeping up appearances- right down to washing her hair every day and finding ingenious ways to iron her jeans.
Being a self-confessed bed-aholic, who likes nothing more than a Tuesday night amid my copious pillows and cushions reading a good book or watching Desperate Housewives on RTE 2, I cannot imagine how it would feel not to have that most basic of luxuries.
It was that one notion that made me look at Chez Allan in a whole new light. I mean, yes I would kill for an electric shower and a bath which did not have a habit of leaking so that we get delightful water stains on the kitchen ceiling. I would love our back living room to look organised- not a crazy mixture of a living room/ study/ branch of Smyths and yes, it would make my heart glad to get some new flooring for our bedroom too- but those are all window dressings.
They are the things we are expected to have now, whereby in years gone by a house was a home first and a stylish place to live second. Thinking about the house I grew up in, in Leenan Gardens, I realised how far we have come in a few short years.
We didn't have central heating- no one did. I remember being stupidly excited at the thought of spending a month in a mobile home at the top of the street while they did the work, not realising in my childish innocence that grown ups saw this as pure hell. (In the end, we moved before they did the work and I never got my sojourn in the Wanderly Wagon).
We had carpets my mother now tells me were threadbare and our furniture was an eclectic mix of new and very, very old.
It didn't matter though, because it was home. It was a place that felt safe and when I climbed into bed (to lie down) at the end of the day I felt happy. (Even if, for a short time, I had to share my room with a boy).
I'm sure the Wandering Scribe wouldn't be bothered with water stains on the ceiling or threadbare carpets. I'm sure she wouldn't spend an inordinate amount of time coveting a power shower, when a bog standard one is available to her in the privacy of her own home.
Her bravery and honesty has taught me a powerful lesson about being happy with what I have and I hope that, sooner rather than later, she finds a comfortable bed to lie down on.
(You can visit the Wandering Scribe at http://wanderingscribe.blogspot.com )

It's been a long, cold, lonely winter

I"M SURE I'm not the only person in Derry who has started to think that Spring is actually a mythical season which exists only in the mind of chocolate companies desperate to sell copious amounts of eggs for Easter.

As the rain has battered down around my ears with ridiculous frequency last weekend I was starting to worry that my funky black mules and T-shirts were destined to remain in the cupboard forever more and that my trusty winter coat may in fact just have become a regular all year round coat instead.
Living in Northern Ireland I'm wasn't expecting a tropical heatwave. I'm not deluded enough to live in hope of a long hot summer, but I was of the opinion that by the latter stages of April, I could at least have managed to get through an entire night without having to switch on the oil heating to stop the icicles forming on the end of our noses.
In a desperate attempt not to put our lives on hold in the hope of a sunny day, myself, himself and the short, curly haired one have tried to encourage the changing of the seasons by setting out in the car, like a proper family, with proper packed lunches and everything- in the vain hope God would smile down on our good intentions and let the sun shine through.
Despite the ominous grey clouds that filled the sky on Easter Sunday, I strapped the wee man into his car seat and ordered himself into the passenger seat (oh, the power of having my 'R' plates!). Setting out on the highways and by-ways of the North West at the requisite 45 miles an hour (himself is so not impressed with this wee rule) we determinedly headed for the most scenic sites in the hope of having a proper family day out.
Our first stop was the Roe Valley Country Park. Like any typical toddler Joseph has a fascination with the ducks and luckily the country park has a quaint little duck pond with about 20 of the blighters. I proudly looked on as my son starting playing with them (okay, harassing them) with squeals of "Quack Quack" at the top of his lungs.
Sadly, much as I tried to ignore the gloomy weather, the rain meant the heels of my fancy boots sank into the mud and even the wee man's designer wellie boots could not handle the mud pools and mahoosive puddles.

Things proceeded to take a dramatic turn for the worse when he managed to kick one of his froggy boots off in the vague direction of the ducks- nearly braining one and leading my unimpressed hubby with the unenviable task of having to have to climb into the pond to retrieve the errant boot. (They were an expensive present and match his coat, scarf and hat- I was not letting them float off into the sunset).
We then did the rain and sunshine hokey cokey for an hour (jumping in and out of the car in time with the frequent bursts of rain) until even I was convinced to admit defeat and head back home.

High on chocolate
Later that day, however, the clouds had cleared and my sense of adventure returned. With a child off his head on chocolate and sugar following his Easter feasting, we decided a walk on the beach might be a good idea.
Again taking the wheel (after much discussion on the merits of female drivers compared with our male counterparts) we headed to Faughan (or is it called Lisfannon these days? The names are all changed since I was a wain).
As we pulled up on the sodden golden shores of Inishowen the rain came again- followed by a healthy gust of gale strength wind. Ever the explorers we ventured out anyway and wrapped up in our winter woolies (in April! For the love of God! Why?) and played a game of chase the tide for half an hour before I realised I could no longer feel my ears, nose of fingers.
With the danger of frostbite increasingly imminent we retired to the car, complete with screaming toddler who "wanted the beeeeeacccchhh!". There was no chance for soggy tomato sandwiches or a cool drink to bring down our temperatures- instead it was heating on full blast in the car all the way down the road and as soon as we got home it was hot drinks and a quick dive under the duvet to stop hypothermia kicking in.
I'll admit I'm not the most outdoorsy of people, but my inclination to be at one with nature just fades to nothing in the face of adverse weather. When the sun is shining I love getting out and about- it makes me feel happy, healthy and full of life. Usually that feeling comes around the middle of March, but this year I'm still waiting.
As I write this, I'm staring out of our office window and the sun is shining brightly. Dare I say, there is even an air of warmth about the place- and this morning, for the first time, I left my coat in the car and enjoyed a brief bask in the sun.
I'm trying not to get my hopes up that this means spring has finally sprung, because I know there is a fair chance that with the weekend rapidly approaching and Sod's Law being exceptionally evident in my life right now that come tomorrow it will be raining, sleeting or snowing.
It's about time though that we got to shake off the shackles of a miserable winter and enjoy letting some sun shine into our lives.

As time goes by

IT HAS begun. Try as I might to ignore the fact- now that it has started, there is no stopping it. There is no turning back the clock and starting again- no appreciating what we had when we had it- because, dear friends, welcome to our 30s.

Today, (Friday for those who got a sneaky preview of this paper on Thursday due to the Holy Week thing) one of my VBFs (very best friends) is celebrating her 30th birthday.
Next week another friend relinquishes her 20s title and eight weeks after that it is my own turn to give in to destiny and admit I'm no longer a spring chicken.
It seems like a mere blink of an eye ago that we were sat in Henry J's on Magazine Street toasting today's birthday girl's 21st - dancing stupidly to the Macarena and drinking cocktails. Indeed I was young, free and single and eying up the handsome young devil her boyfriend had invited along.
Now I would be hard pushed to remember the Macarena (and could quite possibly break a hip doing it), would be drunk on a wine gum never mind a cocktail and am about to celebrate my fifth wedding anniversary to the handsome, but not so young, devil her boyfriend invited along.
Yes, things have moved on considerably and there is no denying that we are collectively entering a whole new phase in our lives.
For those of you who have already hit the big 3-0 and beyond, I wonder how you felt as it approached. I've heard of some people becoming virtual hermits and hiding away until the day passed . Others have taken to doing something major to the mark the occasion (my sister got a tattoo AND got engaged- how's that for making an impact?). One friend took a hissy fit and locked her husband out of the house, others have just let it wash over them like any other ordinary day.
I'm not sure how I feel about it. The logical side of my brain tells me it is, of course, just another day and age is more about your state of mind that what your birth certificate says. But on the other hand, there has to be a stage in your life when you finally accept you are an adult- doesn't there?
The thing is, 30 feels grown up. It feels like a proper grown up age where you should have proper grown up responsibilities and perhaps think about wearing proper, grown up, sensible shoes and perhaps using a scarf to keep the cold out instead of just as a pretty fashion accessory.
My 20s were, I guess, a time of experimenting with my life, building towards my future and laying the foundations of my very own family unit.
There was plenty of drinking, laughing, going out and having fun (especially in the first half of the decade) and things changed quickly- more quickly perhaps than ever before or they are ever likely to again.

Settled down
I started dating, got engaged and then married to himself. We bought a house, settled down and started a family. We built up our stock of furniture from two bedside tables and an bookcase to a proper home with our very own sofas and beds. I finished studying for my Masters Degree and secured a proper full time job where I had my own desk to sit and an phone extension all of my own. Of course, and to labour the point for those who haven't yet realise just what an achievement this is for me, I learned to drive and became a bona fide legal driver.
Your 30s are, in turn, supposed to be a time when the insecurities disappear and you can, in theory at least, sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labours through those hectic years of yours 20s.
They are supposed to be an era when you grow fond of wrinkle creams and find yourself longing for an ISA or comparing the merits of different pension schemes. It's all supposed to be less complicated in your 30s and you are supposed to feel in control. I guess that is where the feeling like a proper adult comes into it.
But do I feel in control? Well- not really. I'm still not entirely sure of what I want to be when I'm older. Don't get me wrong. I love my job and the opportunities it affords me, but I can't see myself sitting here day and in day out until I'm 65 (or older if the government have their way).
I have no inclination for an ISA and I frequently forget to slap on the eye cream before I go to bed.
There are things which, by their very nature, make me feel older-most notably, when I hear a walking, talking toddler shout 'Maaaaameeeee' and I know he is looking for me- or when I go out to a bar or club (ha! Me at a club! I can't remember the last time!) and see the young ones around me and realise that in all likelihood a decent proportion of them are 12 years younger than I am.
But feeling older and feeling like a proper grown up are two entirely different things, in my opinion.
According to my ever wise Mammy, who celebrates a big birthday herself this year, you never really feel grown up. There will forever be a part of you that feels like that 21 year old dancing the Macarena- I suppose I will cling on to that hope as the next few weeks pass.

All because the lady loves...

I REMEMBER my first chocolate craving very well. I was off school sick one day, laying on the sofa with a blue blanket wrapped around my person when 'This Morning' (in the days with Richard and Judy presented) had a feature on some fancy Belgian chocolatier.

The screen was filled with images of little eeny sweeties rolling along a conveyor belt as sweet, gooey, delicious, melted chocolate was drizzled over them.
I may have been suffering from some weird stomach bug at the time but the effect was powerful. I swear I could smell the chocolate, I craved it, needed it and so when my mother enquired after my health I assured her some of the good stuff would make me all better.
I have not looked back- my love affair with chocolate has flourished and grown ever since and now we are like an old married couple. We get along nicely most of the time. It serves my needs and I help it fulfil its life purpose of making someone happy. Occasionally we have a falling out- when I go on a diet, or try a new variety of Chunky Kit Kat- but we pull together again in the end and I cannot, no matter how I try, ever imagine my life without it.
I am the chocolate makers' dream, the stereotypical woman who puts chocolate on a golden pedestal and can spend many a joyous 15 minutes enjoying that sweetest of treats.
This, of course, may go a lot of the way to explaining my ongoing battle with my weight, but as someone who rarely has the chance to enjoy a drink and who has never smoked, it is my one vice in life. And, in an ironic twist of fate, just like the the demon drink and the evil weed for most people, the only time in my life I found myself capable of giving it up was when I was pregnant. (There was one successful Lenten episode too, circa 1992).
For the final four months of my pregnancy I could not eat chocolate. I could look at it, desire it, smell it even- but eating it was simply out of the question as it brought on the most horrendous heartburn imaginable.
Sadly, growing another human being meant this temporary moratorium on chocolate did not have a positive effect on my waist line and I still ended up with a belly that wobbled like a bowl full of jelly at the end of it all.
As I celebrated the arrival of my son, I also celebrated my ability to once again eat slabs of Galaxy and my post box over flowed with king-size bars sent by well meaning friends. Of course, it would have been rude to shun their kind offers. I had to eat the chocolate, I owed it to them and to myself at a time when I was too tired to cook or prepare proper food.

Resist temptation
I often wonder now if I had only been able to resist that temptation would I, like many a reformed smoker, have turned my back on chocolate for life and would my body now be thanking me for it as I bought clothes in an all together more acceptable size?
You see, the thing is, no one has a recovery programme for chocaholics. You can't walk into a support group and ask for help, nor can you walk into your average chemist shop and buy Cocoa Replacement Patches to help you through that tricky withdrawal period.
Nowhere employs a Chocolate Cessation Counsellor to help you over that bumpy period where you would gladly steal the Magic Stars from the paws of your excited two year old, or who helps you over the 4pm jitters when the sweetie machine comes a calling.
Being a chocaholic is actually deemed to be quite cool- but for some, dare I say it, it is an affliction. Yes, I enjoy chocolate but I do not enjoy the effects it has on my body. Aside from the obvious weight issues it gives me a stupid and false sugar rush followed by periods of lethargy. It does my skin no favours and it lacks nutritional value.
I would love to kiss it goodbye forever- to be one of those disciplined souls who can enjoy a square of Green and Blacks (posh chocolate which is scientifically good for you) and put the rest in a cupboard for another day, as opposed to the girl who wolfs a Snickers (not posh chocolate which isn't awfully good for you) and craves another one 20 minutes later.
I would love to crave the contents of my fruit bowl as opposed to the sweetie shelves but alas, I fear my addiction is for life. I have of course tried the alternatives- the low fat, low sugar varieties but in my opinion when it comes to chocolate you might as well be hung for a Mars as a Milky Way Crispy Roll.
If anyone has a sure fire way to beat the addiction, then I'm open to all offers- but can you just wait until after Easter? There is a Buttons Egg with my name on it.

I am woman- hear me snore!

To read my contribution to the Damsels website, please visit
www.damsels.org/snore.htm

Updated columns will be published tomorrow!

Silence isn't always golden

IT IS one of the most natural instincts in the world to soothe a crying child- Lord only knows I have spent a considerable amount of time over the last two years hushing, cuddling and drying tears.


When my child, or indeed any child, is crying and in pain I get an almost irresistible urge to scoop said child up in my arms, kiss their wee heads and try my very best to make it all better.
I imagine that urge does not make me a freak of nature and that I'm not the only person in the world that feels that way. That is, I guess, the primary reason I won't be swapping my Catholic guilt for a healthy bout of Scientology any time soon.
For the uninitiated, Scientology is the increasingly popular religion favoured by Hollywood hunks and starlets- most notably Tom Cruise and his soon-to-give-birth missus Katie Holmes.
Now generally I'm very much of the opinion that when it comes to religion we are all under the care of the one God anyway and how you choose to believe in his (or her) representation on earth is your own business. I'm a live and let live kind of gal- but not when it comes to the teachings of Scientology.
You see Scientologists believe that if a child is sick or injured you should, of course, tend to their physical needs, but you should not, under any circumstances say anything to them while they are distressed.
Scientologists believe that soothing an injured children- with a hug, a kiss or a simple "I'm here baby"- will leave a negative imprint in their brains- something they call an engram.
This 'negative impact' philosophy is also used to support their policy of maintaining silence during childbirth and, indeed, making sure the newborn baby hears not one sounds in the first hours and days of their lives.
As a woman who has given birth largely without the aid of pain relief (not through choice- I'm just one of the 15% of women who the epidural doesn't work for), I cannot for the life of understand how it can be helpful, productive or even possible to stay silent throughout the experience.
My labour, along with being quite sore, was a time when every emotion possible bubbled up to the surface. I laughed, I cried, I grunted, I moaned, I told my husband I loved him, I chatted with the midwife- I even sang along to a song on the radio. The one thing that I did not do was shut up.

Kiss and hug
Similarly when all 6lb 9oz of babyness was placed in my arms it would have been the most painful and unnatural thing in the world for me not to have acknowledged him with a kiss, an hello, a hug and promises of great things to come.
Apparently over the last week giant billboards have been arriving at the house of Mr. Cruise and Ms. Holmes proclaiming, basically, she is to keep hush while birthing their baby.
Then ickle baby Cruise will reportedly be wrapped in swaddling cloths and taken away to be left in peace for a day without any of that old intrusion from his/her doting parents. There won't be any cuddles, proud pictures or early bonding. Katie will not have the chance to lie awake all night staring at the newborn creature in the cot beside her marvelling to herself that she is now a mother and that wee miracle of life is her own.
God love the poor woman if she then goes on to develop Post Natal Depression because, just like the children who won't be comforted if they fall or get ill, she won't find soothing words from her Scientology friends.
They don't believe in psychology, you see. They don't believe in taking anti-depressants to help make it all better. Apparently if you get really bad, however, you will get a 'Introspection Rundown' which, as far as I can see, involves intensive therapy where, you've guessed it, no one talks to you until you can admit you have a problem and suss out what that problem is.
Now if you use that little Google tool on your internet, and type in the words 'Introspection Rundown'- the name Lisa McPherson will jump out at you. You see Lisa McPherson was a member of the Church of Scientology and had a nervous breakdown. Her 'friends' took her aside and arranged a wee introspection rundown and a mere three weeks later Lisa was dead. It is believed by many her treatment by the compassionate souls in the Church may have directly contributed to her death.
Now I can't help but wonder that if Lisa had been talked to, and listened to, would she still be here today? There are times in all our lives, when we are scared, in pain and vulnerable when the thing we need most of all is simply for someone to listen to us and tell us it will be okay.
If you can't get that kind of comfort from the source of all love- your God- then where can you get it?

Getting my 'R's into gear

THERE ARE a few achievements in my life I am particularly proud of. The first is getting my Masters Degree which was achieved under sufferance and put me off studying for life.

The second is surviving child birth and the first three months of my son's life without becoming a hardened street drinker and third, and most recent, is finally- after four attempts- passing my driving test.
Regular readers of this column will be aware I have a love/ hate relationship with driving. Seven years ago, as a fresh faced cub reporter I first got behind the wheel of a car and drove for a year before failing two tests and giving up.
Earlier this month I faced my demons and sat my third test on a cold and wintry Tuesday morning.
I had been beating the Rescue Remedy and Stressless tablets into me for a week beforehand and had also, I kid ye not, persuaded a hypnotherapist to talk me through relaxation techniques over the phone. In my pocket I had a prescription for Diazepam in case the nerves became unbearable and the Big Man upstairs had taken to avoiding my calls as he was sickened hearing the sound of my novenas.
I woke that morning and it was persisting down with rain (that's the polite way to put it). Venturing out with my long suffering driving instructor (Michael Harkin, if you want to know- he's in the book!) we also encountered reams of road works.
He assured me they would work in my favour and we drove to the Test Centre and I took my seat in the waiting room (aka the Green Mile) and waited to be called- swigging from the Rescue Remedy all the time. (That stuff is stinking by the way).
As it happened I kept my cool. I drove across the Foyle Bridge like a true professional, did my three point turn in record time and my emergency stop was one they should really have filmed to show people how it is done.
And then, it went wrong. I realised I had done it all right. I realised all I had to do was get back to the test centre and that elusive slip of paper would be mine. I relaxed, too much, and crashed ("with a fair whack"-according to the examiner) into the pavement at Myra's shop. (I still give said pavement dirty looks now when we pass).
I knew then I had failed. I think I swore. I know I had to fight back tears and then, of course, I had to continue the drive back to the test centre knowing that I had messed up and it would take at least another one attempt at this test (and another £100 of my hard earned moulah- money I had set aside for my sojourn to Glasgee) before I could get my coveted 'R's on display (no giggles at the back please).
The most disappointing thing about failing a driving test is the notion that you have to do it again. I'm sure somewhere we could make an argument for the abolition of said test using the same argument that has been used against the retention of the 11 Plus. Branding anyone a failure is not conducive to good mental health- even if they have hit a kerbstone a "fair whack" and risked killing a stray pensioner.
Luckily I was able to secure a cancellation, thanks to the persuasive powers of my driving instructor (who also does wedding cars, if you are interested). While I welcomed the chance to get through the test again I dreaded the green mile, the not knowing if I would be tested in the cityside or Waterside, the worry over whether it would be a parallel park or a reversing around a corner that would catch me out.
As it turned out, Lady Luck had another cunning plan up her sleeve which involved some weird gastric flu type bug, a sick child and sleep deprivation. You see, when you are trying not to throw up, or indeed to stop your child from throwing up, you don't have time to work yourself into an absolute frenzy.
Not one Stressless tablet passed my lips (I have an unopened box if you want them). Only two doses of Rescue Remedy were consumed and the Diazepam prescription can now go in the bin.
You see I had come to peace with the fact that I had been so sick there was no way I was passing this test. And when the examiner took me on an unfamiliar route, I was doubly convinced I was on the highway to hell. I was so busy mentally working out how to pay for test number five, I was so convinced that I would fail, that I no longer feared failing- and when you have no fear you don't tend to make stupid mistakes like hitting kerbs a "fair whack".
Weirdly the nerves only started to jangle on my way back to the test centre when it dawned on me I hadn't messed up- yet. The elusive slip of paper was but a few moments away, I prayed that I could hold it together long enough to get into that parking bay in a straight line.
When the examiner told me he was "pleased to say" I had passed I promptly had a little happy cry and had to restrain myself from hugging him. (He looked vaguely terrified at this stage to be honest)
Within a couple of hours I had arranged my insurance, bought some 'R' Plates and gone for a drive down alone in the sunshine singing along to 'Hollaback Girl' in my uniquely squeaky voice.
It may have taken seven years. It may have cost me hundreds of pounds in lessons and Rescue Remedy but now, as the self-proclaimed Queen of the Road I really can say this shit is bananas.

And finally
It is Mother's Day on Sunday, so can I offer a special mention to my lovely Mammy who kindly agreed to get in the car with me just after my test despite her post traumatic stress at accompanying me on the bumper cars when I was a wain.
Much love to you from me. x

If you're Irish, get out of the country

If you're Irish, get out of the country!
I HAVE a confession to make. (And no, before you all start going and making assumptions, I am not pregnant nor do I have intention of being so any time in the immediate future).

My confession is of a more shameful nature because today, while a nation of my peers will be drinking the green beer and singing about those lovely fields just outside of Athenry, I will be taking to the skies and leaving this fair land for the weekend.
I won't be heading into any pub at lunch time nor shall I be wearing a curly wig bedecked in our national colours. I doubt I shall even attach a bunch of withered shamrocks to my lapel or sing a resounding chorus of 'Hail Glorious St. Patrick'.
It's not that I don't have a great love for the land of my birth, or that I'm not terribly grateful to St. Patrick for chasing all those snakes out of the country and introducing a little religion- but I can just think of better things to do with my day that sit in an overcrowded and smokey bar drinking myself into a state of maudlin stupidity.
St. Patrick's Day has never really been much of a big deal for me. As a child I remember getting rather stupidly excited when my mammy would knit me a white cardigan with a shamrock motif, and I would get to show off my new 'style' at Mass.
Beyond that and making coloured cards at school, I can't say it really stood out in my memory all that much. (Although I seem to remember some really godawful film called 'Flight of the Doves' being shown or 'Darby O'Gill' scaring the holy bejaysus out of me with that freaky Banshee).
Moving into adulthood it somehow became nothing more than an opportunity to go to the pub and get that silly kind of drunk you can only get when you drink in the afternoon.
I remember with particular fondness going to the Student's Union after lectures with a few classmates and enjoying my first proper St. Pat's session in 1996. In all honesty though, the bonding with my classmates was much more enjoyable that the inevitable flinging of ourselves round the dancefloor to the 'The Last of the Irish Rovers' in the name of national pride.
The last time I think I even acknowledged the day was three years ago (pre-baby) when myself, my friend and our two husbands met in the pub after work for a quick drink. We joined in half heartedly with the traditional Irish art of Karaoke and stopped off on the way home for that traditional Irish supper of curry chips.
Latterly I've just fallen into the brigade of old farts who go up the town on the day to tut at all the "young ones" off their heads on drink and God knows what else.
You see, I think we should celebrate St. Patrick's Day, but I don't see why we have to use it as an opportunity to make a holy show of ourselves.
Yes, we all love a drink- but do we have to drink to such an extent that we throw up in the street? Or start a fight with each other at the taxi rank?
So, when the opportunity came up to jet off to foreign shores for the weekend (foreign being Scotland), I felt no qualms at leaving behind my native Ireland for the day. Instead I'm looking forward to a day or two with my best Scottish pal, her family, a nice hotel to stay in and a couple of drinks- none of which will be dyed green.
Instead of getting caught up in whatever melee may erupt in town, I will swan around the lobby of my hotel speaking in an exagerated accent, saying "bejaysus" and "begorrah" a lot, and waiting for the offers of drinks from kindly strangers wanting to drown the shamrock with me.
I will gather my friend's children around my feet and tell them magical tales of Leprechauns, the Blarney stone, and Finn McCool (and leave out all references to Banshees- no child need ever fear the howl of the wind in my opinion).
I will tell them of the magical pathway between Ireland and Scotland and promise to take them to the Giant's Causeway some day to see it for themselves (should I ever manage to pass my driving test).
If I'm feeling really adventurous (or slightly drunk) I might even sing a wee chorus of 'Cead Mile Failte' or 'Paddy McGinty's Goat' (In fairness I would have to learn the words to the latter first).
I'm sure, if pushed, I'll even tell them the story of St. Patrick and how he came to Ireland and chased the snakes out. (I find young children more intrigued by snakes than religion these days).
So I won't be here to join in the hijinks and hoolies, but I'll be having a perfectly fine and lovely time all to myself, feeling distinctly Irish without the associated hangover.
No doubt, however, as my plane takes off over Derry and flies across Northern Ireland towards the Irish sea I'll get a little misty eyed at thoughts of home- but what better way to see your home country on its national day than from the skies? On Erin's green valleys, I'll look down with my love.

That's My Goal

That's my goal
REALITY TV is not something which really floats my boat but in a fit of boredom I caught up in 'finals fever' last weekend as 'Dancing on Ice', 'Just the Two of Us' and 'You're a Star' came to their dramatic conclusions.

In my opinion Gaynor Faye was very deserving of the 'Dancing on Ice' accolade, your man from Holby City was robbed on 'Just the Two of Us' and Lucia Evans was, well, the best of a bad bunch on 'You're A Star' (Probably the most embarrassing example of Irish 'talent' ever).
There was something about 'You're a Star' that dragged me in though. A few weeks ago I started watching and sat, jaw slack with disbelief, at what passes for talent in this country. After that I was hooked- waiting for RTE to announce it had all been a big practical joke on the gullible voters of Ireland.
Simon Cowell would have had the 'You're A Star' finalists for breakfast- in fact I'm pretty sure some of them would have shown up in the worst auditions montage should they have appeared on 'The X Factor'.
But regardless of my opinion on their talent, or lack thereof, I have to say I did admire the unfortunate souls who made eejits of themselves at the Helix week in and week out- and that is because at least they were following their personal rainbows and looking to find a pot of gold at the end of them.
In fact, I even shed a sneaky tear when Jeannette Cronin got booted out in the semi final. Even though she always looked like she need a good wash, she genuinely had her heart set on winning the title. When she sang her reprise of the Shane Ward song 'That's My Goal', just after the proverbial goal posts were moved so far from her they were no longer in her sites, she broke down a wee bit and I realised how crushing it must me to have your dreams taken from you.
I'm not a huge one for following my ambitions- not these days anyway. I just get on with life and make plans on an ad hoc basis- so I admire anyone who has the guts to put themselves out there for public scrutiny.
The nearest I have come to finding some get up and go of late is the ongoing trauma I face while endeavouring to get on the road legally. (My hopes of "third time lucky" in my test being cruelly dashed this week thanks to some very poor judgement on my part outside of Myra's Shop).
But as driving is more an acquired skill than a talent, I'm not sure it counts in the life ambition stakes- I mean the only thing stopping me achieving that goal is my own inability to keep my nerve for a silly 40 minute slot (and the fact there are no available dates in the next two months for a retest!).
If I'm pushed to find an ambition for myself- to reveal that secret goal, it is my hope to one day walk into Eason (or any other reputable book shop) and see my name on the cover of a book alongside tomes by the likes of Queen Marian of Keyes, Cathy Kelly and Jane Green.
That would, of course, require a certain amount of sustained commitment and discipline which, believe it or not, I am trying to find for myself.

'The Novel'
I have managed to cobble together 47,000 words of waffle, now known to all in my family as 'The Novel'- with a mere 50,000 words to go, I figure I can expect to finish it circa 2034.
Each evening, after the fruit of my loins has been battered over the head with a rubber hammer and sent to sleep, I sit down at my old and battered keyboard and set up about trying to be creative.
I have to resist the urge to surf t'interweb, phone a friend or do some housework (funnily enough, I find avoiding the housework relatively easy). I now understand that a writer's worst enemy is the blank screen and I've come to hate the blinking of the cursor as my brain goes into melt down as I try to imagine life through the eyes of my protagonist.
Often I'll pour a wee glass of wine, write like my life depended on it and then, when not under the influence of said glass of wine, realise my work is nonsense and hit the delete button.
Having (almost) reached the half way mark- having plotted out every scene, every eventuality and the ending of my masterpiece I'm now getting cold feet (or should that be cold fingers? After all they are doing the typing).
You see I know that if and when I finish 'The Novel', the obvious next step would be to show to it people- to allow them to read it, dissect it and pull it to pieces. In an ideal world they would all sign me up for mega-bucks publishing deals and herald me as the latest Queen of Chick Lit but chances are there will be a fair deal of rejection.
I imagine some witty editor at a publishing company will laugh at what I consider to be my 'talent'- or lack there of. Although they won't put my efforts up for the public vote but they will judge me nonetheless- and I'm not one who likes being judged. I prefer to live in my little bubble of anonymity, eating Galaxy chocolate and bitching about 'You're a Star'.
So to all those who follow their dreams, who put themselves out there and face the wrath of the likes of me- I salute you! What you may lack in talent you more than make up for in bravery.

On my holiberries

I will resume posting later this week and catch up on two weeks of columns!

Just the three of us

A DEBATE is raging in among women the length and breadth of the country at the moment about whether or not a man really has a place in the labour ward supporting his partner through the 'joys' of childbirth.

It's all been kicked off by the announcement by cricket player Andrew Flintoff that he is going to stick it out at some wee poncy cricket game or other rather than fly home to support his long suffering wife through the imminent delivery of their baby.
There are a couple of schools of thought on this one. The first is that a woman will generally be more comfortable giving birth surrounded by other women- given that they will generally have some level of understanding of the hell on earth she is going through.
Certainly this was my initial view point when I was with child. You see my husband, love him and all as I do, is a bit useless when it comes to dealing with people in pain. He either a) goes into a litany of his own ills or b)tries to jolly the situation along with some ill timed humour more often seen as an insult when you are going through the agonies.
So when I was expecting I wanted what every self respecting woman in her late 20s wants when faced with a challenge- I wanted my mammy.
I figured my mother still held certain magical properties last seen during my childhood- most notably the power to reduce all aches and pains with a spoonful of pink medicine and a bottle of Lucozade.
Once, after talking to the sister my mother did accompany into the labour ward, I ascertained this wasn't the case I moved my sights to himself.
Which brings me the second school of thought on the whole men in the labour ward debate; and that is that any man who does not wish to see his child- the fruit of his loins- delivered into this world in the great big miracle of life is a big fat wuss and deserving of nothing but scorn from the fairer sex.
Himself was understandably nervous about the whole thing. He wasn't well versed in the biological process of birthing but he knew it would involve a fair amount of blood, gore and screaming. He also knew it would involve a visit to the hospital and himself holds hospitals in much the same disregard as I hold dark chocolate. (Chocolate shouldn't taste bitter- it should taste sweet, it is a SWEETIE. Point made).

Guilt
So now we move onto the third school of thought on the whole issue which is that if a woman has to actually experience the physical and emotional trauma of child birth, the very least a man can do is be there so that his partner can make him feel horrendously guilty about it all.
You see I had spoken to my friends who had children and each had regaled me with stories of how they had fallen in love with their ickle tiny babies the moment they set eyes on them.
Digging deeper into the whole experience however I found a much darker undercurrent of swearing, biting and general abuse. One friend calmly told her husband, in a voice which made the midwife believe she was possessed, that he was never, and I repeat never going to touch her ever again.
Another left an impressive set of dental imprints on her husband's hand and a third starting plotting her divorce while sucking on the gas an air.
In all cases the husbands forgave the outrageous behaviour and, get this, even bought their wives flowers and/ or jewellery afterwards to thank them for their efforts.
It all seemed like a pretty good deal to me- I mean a get out of jail free card for marital abuse and the promise of presents at the end of it all!
Joking aside though, I did actually want my husband to be there when our son was born. I didn't necessarily want him down the business end, but I wanted the first sight our little man saw to be his mammy and daddy. I wanted to be the first to hold him (I figured it was my right as the one with the torn perineum), but I wanted the second person to hold him to be his daddy.
I had a stupid mental image of himself doing the whole "This time next year we'll be millionaires" speech with the wee man while I had my post-natal needs tended to.
And when I was in labour, I wanted someone there who would stand up for what I wanted. I wanted someone there who had the same interest in this child being born that I did and in my books the only people who truly get how important the birth of any baby is are that baby's parents.
For me the birth experience was the start of our life together as a family. While I'd had nine months to get very closely acquainted with my son, himself only felt the occasional kick and saw me turn into a larger than life emotional timebomb.
i was very conscious of the fact that from the first time we heard our son squeak (he squeaked rather than cried- an occurrence he has more than made up for since), we would be the Allans- a family unit- just the three of us.
So when asked if I think Andrew Flintoff was right to put cricket and country before his family, my answer is no- because no victory on the field can ever be as rewarding as meeting your child for the first time.