The 10 Year Itch

THIS WEEK sees myself and Mr. Allan celebrate both our sixth wedding anniversary and 10 glorious years as a couple.

I figure the ten year mark is as good as any to sit back and regroup because, in hindsight, I was only a bit of wain when we met and I was definitely a child bride by today’s standards when we got married.

In fact, when I was talking to the lovely people at Poolbeg about my book and the age of my heroine Grace, who married at 24, they wondered was it believable that women these days get married so young. “But I was only 24,” I stuttered, and they looked at me aghast. Even colleagues in the ‘Journal’ office who have passed the 24 mark themselves say there is no way they could imagine themselves settlling down so young.

It wasn’t something I planned, however. I was only 20 when I met my other half. It was a curious twist of fate. He was attending my best friend’s 21st birthday party which I couldn’t make as I was glued to my books in Belfast preparing for my final exams. It was a last minute bout of the guilts which got me on the bus back to Derry that night and the rest, as they say, is history.

Our first date was on May 29, 1997, and I still carry in my purse a picture taken of him the following day when we all traipsed to Portrush together. (In hindsight, taking a picture of someone just one day into a relationship was a bit bunny-boilerish but I was young and didn’t know better, and besides, he looks damn fine in the picture!).

When I think of me and Mr. Allan, I think of how we have pretty much grown up together. When you are 20, you think you know it all and it’s only now, looking back, that I do realise how young and naive we were. Our cares back then basically related to where the money was coming from for a carry out to take down to the beach on a sunny day and whether or not I would get a place on a Masters course in Journalism.

We didn’t live in the same country - in some ways I don’t even think we lived on the same planet. We didn’t second guess every decision and plan our lives meticulously, we just went with the flow. We were happy to live in second rate accommodation (him, a dodgy bedsit in Holyhead; me, an even dodgier student flat on the outskirts of Belfast which needed neat bleach to even start shifting the suspect stains off the floor in the kitchen).

Although we thought we were all grown up and very metropolitan, we were actually just living an extended youth. Two years later, just before I started working in the ‘Journal’, Mr. Allan moved to Derry and we set up home together while we saved for our wedding. I’m sure that, no matter what age you are, planning a wedding feels kind of surreal.

A wedding dress is just so removed from your every day apparel that it’s hard not to feel a bit like you are playing dress-up when you try it on and, subsequently, glide down the aisle on your big day. After we got married, we bought our first home, our first car (which is now just about on its last legs) and had our first child.

Those days at the beach, larking about with friends ‘til the wee small hours, are a distant memory. In many ways my gorgeous satin wedding gown is just a memory, too (it wouldn’t fit over my thigh these days, never mind my gargantuan hips), but the life we have now is so far removed from the life we had then.

We are, for the most part, responsible adults getting on with our lives quietly - doing the best we can to raise our son and keep our heads down. We both want the same things - most of the time - but ten years in, I’m sure we both sometimes yearn for that carefree summer of 1997 when we first fell in love.

Quality time

A lot is written of parents needing to make quality time for their children, but surely it is just as important in this fast paced world that couples make quality time for each other. I don’t want the pair of us to become people who no longer hold hands on romantic walks, or chat about things unrelated to our offspring. I might make an effort, when we get the chance, to put the three of us on a train to Portrush soon.

We might make the same embarrassing mistake again of missing the Portrush stop and ending up in Ballymena for an hour instead. (The photo in my purse was taken at Ballymena train station). But, hopefully, we will have a nice day and set ourselves up nicely for the next 10 years of our lives together.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered... a tiny taster

Eejit man walked me home. He even offered to push the pram some of the way, and being that some of the way was up-hill I let him. I suppose to people looking at us, we would have looked very much like a proper family. He would have looked like the proud daddy and me the stunningly beautiful wife and mother. (Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?)
The conversation was easy. We talked about our days - mine cuddling Maggie, his laying a rockery. I left out the bits about the big freeze with mum, the hangover after my night drinking with Beth and of course all that nasty business with Jake.
I don’t know what - if anything - he left out but it wasn’t lost on me that we all have our own secrets that even the people who see us day in and day out know nothing about.
“Hopefully that night air will tired her and she will sleep well for you,” Tom said and I yawned. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to Maggie or me.

I don't feel like dancing...

I think I have lost my ability to dance. I used to be able to throw some pretty impressive moves on the dance floor but lately I’ve lost my sense of rhythm.
I’ve now reverted to, at best, the Primary Seven Shuffle (you know stepping from side to side, clapping in time to the music) or, at worst, the Funky Mammy (dancing with your elbows close to your sides as if holding a young child’s hands).
Part of me has accepted this loss of grace on the dance floor as part of the ageing process and an inevitable consequence of piling on the pounds. But part of me watches in jealous awe as skinny young things shake their groove thang on the dance floor to the latest happening tunes. (As you can tell from my hopeless use of street lingo, I’m not down with the kids.)
Much as I might try, my body just doesn’t move that way anymore. A shake of the hips is more likely to result in a spasm requiring hard core medication rather than a 10 out of 10 from the judges of Strictly Come Dancing.
I used to be a good dancer. Of course when I say good, I mean that I made up for what I lacked in talent with sheer unadulterated enthusiasm. I was perhaps the happiest I have been when I went to salsa classes and spun around the dance floor in a pair of diamonte-studded dance shoes. I felt elegant - which if you know me at all you will know is a rare occurance.
The combination of proper co-ordinated dance steps with flowing scarves and shiny heeled shoes was irresistable to me. I also loved a good boogie on the dances floors of Squires and Earth - but I was definitely more into dancing for the craic rather than to impress anyone. You should have seen my amazing dance routine to ‘I Will Survive’ by Gloria Gaynor.
It was a thing of beauty.
Since I became pregnant (four years ago, doesn’t time fly?) I haven’t really found the urge to put my dancing shoes back on.
The first time I attempted a good boogie was the ‘Journal’ Christmas do of 2004. As I strutted my stuff to ‘The Fairytale of New York’, a certain former editor was heard to remark: “That’s the first time she’s been out since having the wain. Isn’t it?”
Yes, my lack of co-ordination was that impressive.
The second time I managed a good boogie was the ‘Journal’ Christmas do of 2006. I actually really enjoyed myself, and even did that really classy thing of kicking my shoes off towards the end of the night when my feet started to ache so I could lump about in my bare feet.
The next day, however, I suffered. My legs were aching, my sides were sore and my feet had swollen to such a size that the only things I could dare put on them were my oversized slippers from Tesco. And then I had the joyous experience of “the night before” flashbacks. Had I really acted out scenes from Grease and Dirty Dancing with my fellow reporters?
Had I really showed the whole room my long-forgotten salsa moves? Add this to the memory of myself and a certain colleague serenading the taxi driver on the way home with our own particularly unique rendition of ‘The Rose’ and you may see why I vowed never to drink, dance or sing again.
Of course there is something about dancing which gets under my skin. When I went to London recently on my sister’s (aka Bridezilla) hen weekend weekend to see the Dirty Dancing Musical, I felt my legs start to twitch as the dancers took to the stage for their breath-taking dance scenes.
Yes, in the show they do the full final dance (I lost my voice for several days after shouting the “Hey baby” bit a little too loud) and I realised that I was jealous of them.
They could move, they looked good and they were obviously having a great time. I think in that moment I’d have offered up my first-born to have a chance to shine on the stage like that. So when we moved on to a club afterwards I was all set to give ‘Baby’ and ‘Johnny’ a run for their money, but after a large meal and a few drinks I lost my nerve and after a half-hearted attempt I gave up and traipsed back to the hotel for a much more sedate glass of wine and natter with friends.
At least my feet didn’t hurt the next day (well apart from the cuts from running down Drury Lane barefoot in a bid to get to the show on time - but that’s another story.) I’m determined to find my rhythm again, some time, and I’m determined that I’ll do more dancing in the future than just swinging a three year-old around on my hip to the Bob the Builder theme tune.
With Bridezilla’s wedding a mere six weeks away, maybe I’ll be in fine form for the Hokey Cokey at the reception.
I must remember to bring my Tesco Slippers just in case...

Bring her home

I CAN’T watch the news any more (not something which bodes well for a journalist, admittedly). I have had to switch off the TV because it breaks my heart to see pictures of Maddy McCann and wonder if she is still alive.
As I write this, she has been missing for six days. For six days my stomach has lurched each time her picture appears on the TV or in a newspaper and I find it unbearable to watch the grief and worry etched on her parents’ faces as they plead for her safe return.
Maddy is three - the same age as my son. I’m not sure if that makes it more real for me, or if it simply because this is the first big missing child case to hit the news since I became a parent.
Last weekend our biggest trauma was that Joseph did not get into our first choice of nursery school (something he was oblivious too, being more concerned with the Thomas the Tank Engine pool we bought for him.).
The McCann family were going through hell wondering whether their child was. Our problems are nothing in comparison to a family who have lost their precious child and have no indication of whether or not they will see her again, alive or dead.
I look at my son - for all his grown-up chatter he is in many ways still a baby. He still sleeps curled up with his wee chubby hands at either side of his head. He still cries for his mammy when he is hurt, or scared, or has a bad dream. He still needs us.
So I wonder how on earth the parent of any three year-old could leave a child in a hotel room while they went off to have a dinner elsewhere?
Perhaps it was the holiday setting that made the McCann’s complacent. Sure don’t we all relax when we are away from it all and let our hair down a bit? And no one ever, ever expects a child to be snatched from their own bed in a resort which prides itself for providing family-friendly accommodation.
But this is a new world - one where danger exists at every turn for our children. Perhaps I’m over-protective but I can’t bring myself to let my wee man out of my sight (or out of the sight of a responsible adult). Last Friday we had a particulary scary incident in Tesco where I turned my back to lift a T-shirt off a rail and turned around to find him missing.
I imagine most parents know that heart-stopping moment when your child disappears off your radar. Your heart starts thumping, the rational side of your brain tries to calm you down while the adrenalin kicks in which transforms you into a screaming harpee shouting their name at the top of your voice. In total Joseph was missing for all of 10 seconds.
A kindly Tesco employee found him drooling over the Lightning McQueen birthday cakes, while I turned to run to him and fell flat on my face in front of assorted shoppers. When I burst into tears as Joseph walked back towards me I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the humiliation of landing on my proverbial that caused it.
It was simply that two seconds inattention could, in theory, have taken away the most important thing in my life. I was 17 when Jamie Bulger was abducted from a shopping centre in Liverpool and led to his death by two 10 year-olds.
His mother had only turned her back for a few seconds, just as I had done in Tesco on Friday - and just like countless parents do every day.
It reinforces the fragility of life and the fact that a split second can change your life irrevocably. I’m sure I don’t need to heap guilt onto the McCann family now. No matter what the outcome they will live with the knowledge that they left their child and in that time an intruder came in and took her. I doubt they will ever forgive themselves for that, but it makes me wonder about the numerous decisions we make each day never expecting them to end in tragedy.
It also makes me wonder will we change? We don’t have eyes in the back of our heads. There are times a child will wander off (it seems to be what children like to do best). And there are parents who will go on holiday this week, next week or whenever and put what has happened to Maddy to the back of their head as they leave their sleeping children to go for a meal, or a quick drink.
No doubt there are countless parents who have done this in the past and not had anything untoward happen, but I’d ask everyone now to consider whether or not it is worth taking this risk? My life would end if anything happened to my child. It is something I find hard to contemplate. Our children are the most precious gift we can be given and it is our duty to do everything in our power to protect them. For now though I’ll keep my head down and keeping praying that Maddy comes home safely to her family.

You gotta love Oprah

When asked this week if she thought she had managed to keep her feet on the ground since becoming perhaps the most famous woman in the world ever, Oprah Winfrey replied:

"My feet are still on the ground. I'm just wearing better shoes."

Sheer genius. Will keep you posted when I buy my first pair of better shoes!

A positive legacy for our children

It’s a strange day for a parent when you suddenly realise you can have full scale conversations with your child.


What used to be a few passing references to broom brooms, nee naws, woof woofs and din dins has somewhere over the past year evolved into full blown conversations about how our car is driving along the Crescent Link to see Fireman Sam’s house before passing the dogs barking in the street on our way home for some lovely dinner of fishy fingers, potato ‘wobbles’ and peas. While we are at it, we may well pass the police station (PC Plum’s house) and several diggers, oil lorries and assorted modes of transport which the wee man can identify not only by their actual names but also by any corresponding names they may be known as in ‘Bob the Builder’.


From the moment we get in the car until the moment we reach our destination, I have a running commentary from my happy and contented little man.


The only respite we get from his constant chitter chatter is when he sleeps (and even then he has been known to chat in his sleep from time to time). He tends to wake up at full speed and run into our room to launch into detailed retellings of his latest dreams.


More than anything, I think it is this ability of his to talk the hind legs off a donkey that makes me realise just how fast he is growing up.


When he was a wee toot he always loved to gurgle and chat in his babyish way. I guess, much like his mammy, he likes the sound of his own voice. He was a stubborn wee so and so too though (much like his father I suppose, as anyone who knows me will tell you unequivocably that there isn’t a stubborn bone in my body).


For the first 18 months of his life he refused, and I mean blatantly refused, to say the word ‘mammy’. He would daddy me up and down. He knew the names of all his aunties and uncles, his cousins, his grandparents and of course his daddy but mammy was not on the radar.


“It’s a difficult word for them to say,” well meaning friends would soothe. It didn’t cut it with me. The wee man could almost manage Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, so there was no way I was about to believe he couldn’t manage a simple maa- mee.


I was delighted the day he first managed it, but it seems like a blink of an eye since then and now we are discussing the weather, the pros and cons of both Smyths and Toys R Us and Arsenal’s latest form in the football. (Apparantly “Arsenal are the champions”- I’m not sure what of, but being a Liverpool supporter his daddy isn’t too impressed).


Admittedly there are times when I would give my last Rolo for a mute button, just for half an hour to allow me to watch Corrie in peace or make important phonecalls. The constant “mammy, mammy, mammy, mammy” can get a little grating when you are trying to catch up on the latest news on the phone.


But I love that we can communicate on such a nice level, and I’ve developed VPM (Very Proud Mammy) status when it comes to talking about my boy and his linguistic skills. His renditions of “I Love It When You Call” by The Feeling raises many a smile, as do his very special chicken prayers. (He thinks it is hilariously funny to adapt his prayers to his current animal of choice: “Angel of God, my guardian chicken, to whom God’s love commits me chicken, ever this chicken...”)


What all this comes back to though is the fact that we’ve been very lucky that our son has been enrolled on the Lifestart programme since birth. As part of that programme he has attended playgroups (which are a Godsend to his poor harrassed auntie who minds him) and Joe Jingles music classes. When we’ve been concerned with his development (such as his stark refusal to say ‘mammy’ and indeed his stark refusal until relatively recently to use the potty) there has been a friendly listening ear ready to assure us as neurotic first time parents that all is okay. (In fairness, I’m the neurotic one. Himself is so laid back he is almost horizontal).


I’ve seen my child, even though he has no siblings, grow to be a very sociable, content three year old and perhaps of equal importance I’ve seen my own confidence as a parent grow too. Let’s face it folks, becoming a parent is a bloody scary business. (And not only because of the whole birth/ tearing/ stitches aspect).


Suddenly you have responsibility for a wee creature who you want to shape to be the best he can be. Lifestart have helped me do that. Today the ‘Journal’ launches our Lifestart Baby Bursary campaign. We are delighted to support the organistion which has worked with hundreds of families in this city to make a real difference and to feel more content in themselves.


Like many organisations in this city though, Lifestart have to be more creative when it comes to fundraising and the Baby Bursary is a great scheme to invest in the young people of the future. Surely the one thing we all want for this city is a generation growing up happy, confident and well equipped for life.


There is much talk in this town of ‘legacies’- the legacy of the Troubles, the legacy of unemployment and under investment. This is the perfect chance to leave a positive legacy to our children.

"I passed on an email address"

Forget all that fuss I made about "I carried a watermelon"
Last month Keris Stainton and Diane Shipley from website Trashionista (where I guest blog once a month) asked did I have an email address of Queen Marian of Keyes...
"No," said I, "but I know a man who does"... or in fairness, I have an email address which reaches the lovely Tony (aka Mr. Marian Keyes).
So I passed it on and they achieved what I could not- an interview with the indisputed queen of Chick Lit.
Read it, as Mazza would say herself "it's gas". (But she would say it funnier and all, cos she is so wonderful)

Nobody puts Bridezilla in a corner

As you read this (if you read it on a Friday morning) I will be soaring over the skies on my way to a weekend of debauchery and fluffy pink devil horns in London.

This weekend is the weekend of my sister’s (aka Bridezilla) hen weekend in London and as Chief Bridesmaid and ‘hair-holder-backer’ I was ordered to be there with bells on.

I’m fully prepared to be sensible one (see the hair-holder-backer title) and spend my time making sure the bride to be doesn’t get herself into too much trouble and herding the troops on the Tube and back to our hotel.

Now my sister is well known for her planning skills. (Think Monica in ‘Friends’ only a little bit more anally retentive), so there hasn’t been much that has been able to get past her Bridezilla radar. She decided on the venue, the dates, the transport and almost everything else.

It was probably all well and good that she did however, because my organisational skills are minimal. If it was left to me we would have spent a wet weekend in Mamore Gap in a freezing cottage trying desperately to get some heat off the fire. (Yes, you have guessed where my uber exotic hen weekend was....)

I have made a special effort though, simply because my sister, God love her, deserves it. She is the kind of person who goes out of her way to make things memorable for the people she cares about, so I couldn’t really let her down.

I’ve spent the last two months plotting and scheming, spending my hard earned cash on Ebay and in the Party Shop and rallying the troops of 15 women over-excited at the notion of getting a weekend off from their partners/ babies/ work. (As we will have left the country by the time this goes to press, I can reveal few secrets). In my suitcase I have 15 pairs of devils horns and 15 personalised badges declaring it’s Bridezilla’s Hen Weekend.

There is a specially purchased hen weekend disposable camera, flashing L-Plate earrings, sashes galore, a beautifully hand crafted hen weekend memory book and even a thong declaring “Just Married”. The piece de resistance however is 15 tickets to see the stage show of ‘Dirty Dancing’ tomorrow afternoon· (In fairness, my sister knows about this part, in fact it was her idea.)

To women of a certain age ‘Dirty Dancing’ is the ultimate Chick Flick. As a young teenager the film was my first real introduction to love, romance and (let’s call a spade a spade and a swivel of the hips a swivel of the hips) dirty dancing. I think there were thousands of us who wished we were Baby, fell in love with Patrick Swayze and felt a little bit naughty for singing along to some of the songs. (I remember turning a shade of beetroot singing ‘We’re Gonna Make Love’- I doubt it would raise an eyebrow these days).

We all wanted to go to Kellermans on holiday. We all wanted to carry a watermelon and at the end of the day we all wanted Patrick Swayze to tell our parents ‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner’ before whisking us up onto the stage to dance to ‘The Time of My Life’- including the lift.

It was definitely the first 15 Rated film I saw and it was one of the first movies I saw that didn’t involved Kryptonite, Princess Leia, the Muppets or ectoplasm. I remember my mother, who is normally quite open minded, being horrified by the sexy shenanigans on screen. “They might as well be having sex,” she spluttered. “The only difference is they have their clothes on.

Little did she know that within a few years I would witness worse atrocities on the dance floor of Squires.

But it wasn’t the raunchy dancing that enticed me so. It was the love story. The fact that a fairly ordinary, book-wormish type of a girl (which could well have been me) could have a talented, muscular and gorgeous dance instructor fall for her AND teach her the Cha Cha Cha. (I loved dancing and I still do).

And of course there were the shoes - the gorgeous silver strappy dance shoes.

In fact it inspired me so much that in my mid 20s I took up salsa dancing for a time and one of my fondest memories will always be dancing to “The Time of My Life” in the Nerve Centre one sweaty Tuesday night. So tomorrow afternoon will be a treat.

I’m told the musical is very true to the original film and I’m told the actor who plays Johnny Castle is even more gorgeous than Patrick Swayze (who in fairness, hasn’t aged well). And I will be enjoying the way Dirty Dancing is supposed to be enjoyed - with a group of 14 other like minded women who all fell in love with the film the same way I did. I’m sure we will sing. I’m pretty sure there will be some dodgy dance moves to boot and I’m definitely sure we will have a blast. In fact I’m pretty sure we will have the time of our lives.

I've got my new shoes on...

I don't get excited about work shoes often, but these little beauties are the new love of my life.

They are retro and remind me of the shoes I used to wear back in my dancing days AND they are comfy as heck.

I've walked about all day- clip clopping and feeling like a wee girl wearing her mammy's shoes- and my feet don't ache at all.

And best of all they were only £20 in Next!

In honour of Chris Moyles...

...and comedy Dave, I would like to declare to all and sundry

I AM THE MEAT

If this doesn't make sense, which it probably doesn't, then listen in to Chris's show from yesterday on his website

Wanna pee standing up?

I have to say I quite like the genius of Google's targetted ads in your email.
But this one made me roar laughing,
Behold the ShePee

Of course I had rack my brains to figure out what I may have written in emails to warrant an ad for this product and I can only blame Keris for an exchange of emails regarding me peeing my pants with excitement at the prospect of 'Rainy Days and Tuesdays' going on sale.

I actually thinks Keris believes I suffer from light bladder weakness, but my pelvic floor is fine thanks. (Except possibly when doing aerobics, which is why I abstain!).

Anyway, if you fancy peeing into what looks like a paper cup (without spilling any on your jeans) while making that road trip then go ahead...knock yourself out.

Personally I'm a fan of Billy Connolly's patented incontinence pants. (Keep watching, it's worth it)



And just for my dear friend Mandi..

A timely reminder...

Sometimes being a journalist is hard going. Today I attended the inquest of 23 month old Caide Hamill who died when his head became trapped in the cords of the blinds in his bedroom.
I managed to keep my composure- just, because this is something that could happen to any of us. As the mother of a young toddler, I found it particularly difficult. As was said at the inquest, such an incident really would be a parent's worst nightmare.

Anyway, it reminded me to take every day with my son as a blessing and to cherish every inch of him for the perfect cheeky wee imp that he is.

I thought it was about time this old poem came out for a read too.

Just for this morning . . . . .
I am going to smile when I see your face and laugh when I feel like crying.
Just for this morning . . . . .
I will let you choose what you want to wear, and smile and say how perfect it is.
Just for this morning . . . . .
I am going to step over the laundry, and pick you up and take you to the park to play.
Just for this morning . . . . .
I will leave the dishes in the sink, and let you teach me how to put that puzzle of yours together.
Just for this afternoon . . . . .
I will unplug the telephone and keep the computer off, and sit with you in the backyard and blow bubbles.
Just for this afternoon . . . . .
I will not yell once, not even a tiny grumble when you scream and whine for the ice cream truck, and I will buy you one if he comes by.
Just for this afternoon . . . . .
I won't worry about what you are going to be when you grow up, or second guess every decision I have made where you are concerned.
Just for this afternoon . . . . .
I will let you help me bake cookies, and I won't stand over you trying to fix them.
Just for this afternoon . . . . .
I will take us to Mc Donald's and buy us both a Happy Meal so you can have both toys.
Just for this evening . . . . .
I will hold you in my arms and tell you a story about how you were born and how much I love you.
Just for this evening . . . . .
I will let you splash in the tub and not get angry.
Just for this evening . . . . .
I will let you stay up late while we sit on the porch and count all the stars.
Just for this evening . . . . .
I will snuggle beside you for hours, and miss my favorite TV shows.
Just for this evening . . . .
When I run my finger through your hair as you pray, I will simply be grateful that God has given me the greatest gift ever given. I will think about the mothers and fathers who are searching for their missing children, the mothers and fathers who are visiting their children's graves instead of their bedrooms, and mothers and fathers who are in hospital rooms watching their children suffer senselessly, and screaming inside they can't handle it anymore.
And when I kiss you goodnight I will hold you a little tighter, a little longer.
It is then, that I will thank God for you, and ask him for nothing, except one more day .............

Everybody scream!

IT’S WEDNESDAY morning and I have a sore throat. My voice has taken on a husky quality and I’m beating the paracetamol into me like there is no tomorrow.

Do I have a cold? No. Do I have some weird throat infection? No. Did I scream like a 14 year old eejit throughout two hours of a Westlife concert on Sunday night and cause some serious damage to my vocal chords? Yes.

Yes, I admit it. I’m a 30 year old woman, but on Sunday night I regressed to a teenager as I screamed, boogied and sang (badly) throughout a Westlife concert at the Odyssey Arena. The way I see it, I’m making up for lost time. I never got to go to concerts when I was a teenager. I missed the only Belfast Bros concert and by the time I persuaded my mother to pay for tickets for their next tour they had split up amid rumours of bankruptcy.

So, the closest I got to the thrill of seeing the pop idols of the day on stage was the annual trip to the Radio One Roadshow in the Guildhall Square. And Derry rarely got any of the big names. In fact the biggest pull of the Roadshows was the year Philip Schofield was the presenter. I have not so fond memories of standing in the blistering heat from 7am just to get to the front of the crowd for an up close and personal look at the handsome Mr Schofield. Watching ‘This Morning’ still gives me a certain thrill.

Now it might not be cool to admit it, but I kind of like Westlife. Their songs are very catchy and with the risk of sounding like a cradle robber (because they are all bits of wains) they are pretty darned gorgeous. (Especially that Shane one, and Nicky Byrne too.)

The first time I saw them in concert was three years ago. My son was a couple of months old, the hormones were coursing through my body and I sobbed my way through ‘Flying Without Wings’. (It was the ‘some find it in the face of their children’ line that did it). This time I was a little more composed. Until that is, they walked on stage.

I’m not sure if it is just the atmosphere of having several thousand other people screaming that makes it so contagious but I was a like a big wain. I screamed. I bought a light up heart stick thingy (“for the wain to play with”- or so I told myself) and when they sang a line - just one line- of ‘When Will I Be Famous?’ by Bros I thought I was going to faint.

It was escapism in its purest and most innocent form. It didn’t matter one jot that I am exceptionally tuneless or that I only knew half the words to most of the songs. I did not let that stop me from enjoying every moment of the night and switching off from everything else, good and bad, that is happening in the outside world. One of the nicest things about the whole experience (apart from Shane’s dashing good looks) was the fact that I simply didn’t care whether or not I was making an eejit of myself. I spend an inordinate amount of my time worried that I’m not making the right impression on people. I worry I talk too much, or too little and that whatever I say is inappropriate.

I worry about how I look, what way I stand, how my clothes hang on me. I worry about my wonky toothed smile and if my skin is behaving or has decided to have another teen style break out. This week I needed to have my picture taken twice and I worried the whole time because, much like most women, I HATE having my picture taken. I worry that if I sing I will make ears bleed. I’m so overly self conscious so much of the time that generally I find it hard to relax. Thankfully I had no such problems on Sunday night.

I relaxed - and then some. It was a far cry from my recent trip to the Forum to ‘Beauty and the Beast’. Brilliant and all as the show was, I couldn’t chill out as my five year old niece spent the show asking me questions, whispering in my ear and trying to hide at the scary bits. Similarly,my trip to the Tweenies this week lacked that certain something. Perhaps it was trying to persuade my three year old (with limited success) to join in, while dodging (again with limited success) the spokes of his illuminated Tweenie light stick thingie. (The Westlife ones were better. They were less likely to cause an injury).

Instead of joining in and singing along, I spent a decent proportion of the show nursing a wounded eye and thus trying to clap one handed. (I spent the rest of the evening singing ‘Blinded at the Tweenies’ to the tune of ‘Stranded at the Drive in’ from Grease.) I have long come to accept that my days out at concerts and the theatres will generally involve a bag of sweets and assaults by plastic toys for the next few years.

And I’m okay with that. But it’s nice to let my hair down from time to time - even if I do look like a bit of a sad old 30 year old amid a crowd of teenyboppers. I do, however, apologise to the people standing around me who would have been assaulted by my singing. It’s only because I don’t get out much.

And this means I'm a proper writer...

Dig the cheesy author pic! Poolbeg needed pics to accompany the press releases. Anyone who knows me at all knows I HATE getting my picture taken, but thankfully working in a newspaper office there are some very talented photographers on hand to work some magic and make me laugh without doing that awful fake grin thing.

Anyway, this is my mugshot. Enjoy.... or not!

(Many thanks to Stephen Latimer for the pics)

RTE One- Off the Rails

I'm reliably informed (by the TV listings the in Journal) that tomorrow night's 'Off the Rails' (RTE One 8.30pm) features Paula Campbell, the chief publisher at Poolbeg (aka the woman who gave me my break/ bought me Lasagne in May's Cafe).
Paula has three gorgeous kids (I've seen their pictures- it made me exceptionally very broody), all of them under the age of two.
For a woman who gets no sleep and works long hours reading books from the likes of me, I think she looks very glam anyway. At that stage of motherhood I was still confined to trackie bottoms and stained T-shirts (my Derry mammy look as Yaya called it).
Anyway, have a wee watch. Go on, ya will, ya will, ya will.

Women: Know Your Place!

Ranty Claire had gone away for a few weeks there. I was feeling much calmer generally with the world (despite the lack of chocolate), but today she is back. Let me explain. Traditionally on a Wednesday morning I have what is known as a “What the blazes am I going to write ‘Skirting the Issue’ about this week?” panic. This involves pleading with my colleagues for inspiration, emailing friends and family for ideas and mulling over the ups and downs of the last week Chez Allan. It generally also involves a a quick surf of the web to see what is making the news locally, nationally and globally.
While wandering through cyberspace this fine Wednesday morning I fell upon several very interesting debates. If I outline them here, in basic terms, perhaps you will pick up that the one recurring theme and that is we women- well, we’re a bit rubbish really, aren’t we? And if we were to listen to all the studies, social observers and so-called intellectuals churning out their opinions in the wider media then we really would know our place and scuttle back off to the kitchen where we belong. (Which is fine, if you happen to be Nigella Lawson and want to be in a kitchen.)
And it’s not just us working mothers who get it in the neck.
It seems, according to the press this week that everyone born with a uterus is a legitimate target. Single mothers? Devil incarnates. Working mothers? Worse than Hitler. Women who choose not to be mothers? Selfish freaks of nature. Women who read books by the likes of Marian Keyes? Intellectually subnormal. I’ve never really thought myself to be a staunch feminist but there are times when it all just gets a little bit much.
There just seems to be such a pronounced anti-women agenda out there at the moment which I’m finding increasingly hard to ignore. A quick glance of a certain well read news website brings up a study about lone parents. (Which to the average reactionary right-wing reader translates as ‘single mothers’.) Almost half of all children are now born out of wedlock, the article states, and many of those will live in single parent families. There is a distinct lack of comment from organisations which support lone parents such as Gingerbread, but instead reams of twaddle from experts who state that children growing up with one parent are more likely to suffer from depression, commit suicide, not do well at school and take drugs or excessive amounts of alcohol. Underlying these ‘facts’ is a message that women simply cannot parent alone. And there was me foolishly thinking the days of blaming single parents for the roots of all evil where long gone.
I was obviously wrong. Then there was the study which stated that children who spend significant amount of times in childcare, at any age, will suffer in terms of social development. (We’ll ignore the fact that school could technically be classed as childcare). The reporter responsible for the article said such findings were due to cause concern to working mothers. There was no mention of working fathers, which once again enforces the message that it is the mother’s responsibility to care for her children regardless of whether or not there is a father involved. And admittedly the majority of us women are better at rearing children (because we are better at everything, naturally!), but why should be the only people to feel guilty for working? It is enough to make the vein on my temple explode with fury. Reading on I saw that more women these days are choosing not have children. Fair play to them. I appreciate that dealing with colic, toilet training and endless snotters is not something everyone wants to do. But the ‘experts’ and the ‘commentators’ were out in force again.
It’s not natural, they said. It’s selfish, they said- but these are the same people who say Natalie Evans is selfish for not wanting the embryos she had frozen before her cancer treatment destroyed. One delightful creature even went so far to as to say that Ms. Evans appeal in the Grand Chamber of the European Court equated to her trying to ‘rape’ her ex-partner. All this has been backed up with an interesting article from Marian Keyes who won the Popular Fiction Award at the British Book Awards. Delighted as she is with her success (and rightly so), she is a little disgusted that it has been marred by a plethora of attacks in the press about the state of literature today. You see, Chick Lit as it is known can’t possible be taken seriously because it is written for women- and it has pretty covers. Never mind that it deals with some pretty serious issues. (Ms. Keyes’ own books dealing with drug abuse, cancer, depression, bereavement, infertility to name but a few). In her article she wrote: “I have nothing but contempt for those men and sometimes women (I call them collaborators) who write articles undermining what women like and enjoy, intending to unsettle women enough that they won’t ask for things. Like equal pay. And decent child-care. And money for refuges for victims of domestic violence. And an end to joke sentences for convicted rapists.” And there is the crux of the matter. So I’m very ranty and generally fed up this week because for years while I was at school I studied the feminist movement as if it were a thing of the past and I was led to believe that I was equal to anyone else. Perhaps it is about time we set about burning our bras again? (But then again, I need the support these days) or maybe we should just stop listening to the nonsense that is being peddled to us by so-called experts claiming to speak for us.

A woman's touch and the guilt factor

DEAR GRANNY, please read no further if you don’t want to disown me, because I have a very serious confession to make. I’ve organised a cleaner to keep my house in order.
Although I know it will make my life 101 times easier I am experiencing a degree of guilt over the whole shebang because my granny managed to keep her house like a new pin with 10 wains running under her feet. In theory, having only the one wain, I have no excuse. (Although in terms of mess creation my other half counts for at least three wains and, apart from washing the odd cup and the occasional wheeling of the blue bin to the pavement, does not contribute to the overall maintenance of Chez Allan).
But over the past few months the task of keeping my house looking half decent has become somewhat of a burden. It’s no secret I have dreams of having a house that would look perfect in the pages of the Next Directory, but at the the moment it bears more of a resemblance to the before shots of an episode of ‘How Clean is Your House’ with Kim and Aggie. * I can manage to keep it tidy.
On occasion I do a blitz and it looks great. We’ve just repainted the two living rooms (My preferred form of cleaning- just paint over the dirt rather than clean) and done a few other home improvements. I have even decluttered the understairs cupboard which bore more than a passing resemblance to Monica’s ‘cupboard of shame’ in ‘Friends’. The wee man’s toys have been tidied, sorted and those which he has grown out of have been shipped off to the charity shop or dump and yet my house seems to have been rebelling against my attempts to make it ship shape. It has developed a Forth Bridge mentality in that no sooner have I reached the end of my cleaning efforts that I find a film of dust on top of the TV and a suspicious juice/ milk/ water/ pee pees** type stain on the laminate flooring and I have to start all over again.
Perhaps I am copping out by hiring a cleaner. I mean, if my granny with 10 wains managed it, and my mammy with four wains managed it and almost everyone I know (with or without wains) manages it, then why can’t I? The answer, as I see it, is simple. (And no, it’s not that I’m bone lazy and would prefer to spend my free time drooling over Mike and Tom in ‘Desperate Housewives’ *** ). I work hard, and I work long hours. When I get home the last thing I want to do is throw a mop around the floors. I want to spend time with my son. I want to chat with him about his day. I want to sit down on the floor and play lorries with him. I want to read to him, brush his teeth and say his prayers and snuggle him before bed time.
And then, when that is done I want to sit down with my laptop and write without noticing a new cobweb in the light fitting, or that the hearth needs a dust. When the weekends come I want to load us all in the car and head out for the day without worrying about the pile of ironing in the Chinese laundry that my kitchen has become or about whether or not the toilet needs bleached. There are those who have said I don’t need to justify my decision, but somehow I can’t help it and I think, looking at it properly, it all comes down to that faithful friend - guilt. I feel guilty that my house isn’t perfect. But then if I make it perfect, I feel guilty that I’m not spending time with my son.
But if I spend the requisite quality time with my son AND make my house perfect, I feel guilty that I’m not writing the way I should, and that my agents/ publishers /bosses at the ‘Journal’ will cast me out of the flock and we will lose our house and have to take up residence under the bridge in a cardboard box. **** Essentially, I feel guilty a lot and I figure that the guilt at hiring a cleaner can’t possibly be as bad as the guilt of being a substandard parent. However, nothing is simple in my life and on Sunday I announced to my husband that there was “no way a cleaner is coming into this house in this state”. Suddenly every smudge and mark seemed magnified 100 fold and I set off to Tesco to stock up on cleaning products. First of all I decluttered and cleaned my cleaning cupboard. Having found and dealt with the source of the foul and mysterious odour at the back of the cupboard, I rearranged my bottles and powders neatly and then set about decluttering the rest of the kitchen. Three bin bags of clutter later, my kitchen was gleaming and now ready for inspection by a cleaning lady. I’ve been told our cleaning lady will start next week, and as I have a few days off over the Easter break, I’m sure that I’ll be able to tackle a few of the other rooms before she arrives. My husband has stood and looked on with bewilderment at my antics, but no Derry woman wants to be shamed by the state of her coving.
I’m sure, however, that I will learn to relax as the weeks pass and maybe, just maybe, the guilt will subside just that little bit.
*It’s not that bad. Honest. I’m exaggerating. If our cleaner is reading this, please don’t let it put you off.
** The pees pees are only very occasional. The wee man is almost entirely potty trained now. Best not to do a taste test though, just in case.
*** Well, again, that’s not entirely true. I do like to drool over Mike and Tom... and Ian too, while we are it. **** Which, in fairness, would be easier to clean than a three bedroomed terraced house.

Cars, damn cars and alternators

Last year I was sold a lemon in the form of a Vauxhall Corsa which (probably to the delight of the person who sold it to me) has given me nothing but trouble.
On day one of my proud car ownership, it spilled petrol all over the forecourt of the garage when I tried to fill it.
One new petrol tank and service later (and a war of words with the nasty previous owner) I was on the road.
Until the day it overheated in the McDonald's drive-thru, or the time the brakes went, or the time it leaked petrol all over my street, or the second time it leaked petrol all over my street or today- when the both the battery and handbrake light flashed on coinciding with a thunk that mad my heart sink to my boots.
Of course being the hols, there are no garages open. And I'm now contemplating getting rid of the nasty horrible Corsa and getting a newer version. Only problem is, I'm skint...and cars don't come cheap (or free for that matter- which would be more in my price range).

I may be back to taxis and buses after all.
Ach well, I could do with the exercise.

Go on ya girl ye!

Marian Keyes, this is why I love you.
After having similar discussions lately with family and associates, here is Ms. Keyes speaking for all us 'fluffy' writers everywhere.

I feel a rant coming on. Just sick – BORED, BORED, BORED – mes amies, of being attacked for being a pink fluffy writer by a load of fuckheads with a misogynistic agenda, who have never read my books or the great reviews they get. There’s been a lot of it lately and although it doesn’t upset me the way it would have 10 years ago – because I have nothing but contempt for those men and sometimes women (I call them collaborators) who write articles undermining what women like and enjoy, intending to unsettle women enough that they won’t ask for things. Like equal pay. And decent child-care. And money for refuges for victims of domestic violence. And an end to joke sentences for convicted rapists. I could go on… Right yes, like I said they don’t upset me the way it would have before I understood what they were up to, but mes amies, I’m so tremendously bored of it.
(And can I also say, because if I don’t, the fuckheads will, that I don’t expect everyone to like my books. I am simply asking for 2 things. 1) Don’t judge my books if you haven’t read them. 2) Leave women alone. We don’t try to make you feel ashamed for the things you like, like Kate Moss’s arse and expensive hifi’s. Please return the favour.)

A big fecking box of books!

I'm so chuffed I could burst!

The wisdom of Maya Angelou

My friend Jann sent me a gorgeous email today filled with wise and wonderful quotes from Maya Angelou.
I haven't read much of Aneglou's work, but when I see her talk I'm always entranced by her way with her words- her almost poetic pearls of wisdom. I could list to her talk for hours and I think for when you want to define 'inspirational' you should look directly to this wonderful woman.
It was so good I had to share...

Maya Angelou said this: "I've learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow."

"I've learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights."

"I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life."

"I've learned that making a "living" is not the same thing as "making a life."

"I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance."

"I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw some things back."

"I've learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision."

"I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one."

"I've learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back."

"I've learned that I still have a lot to learn."

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

Going cold turkey

I NEVER thought I would be one of those people who longs for a couple of extra hours in the day or complains about the weather on a regular basis or generally turns into a right grumpy drawers.
But lately I’ve found myself in the most miserable and grumpy of moods. If it moves, chances are I’ll tut at it/ fire a dirty look in its general direction or beep my horn at it at least once a day. My days seem lately to be spent chasing my tail and wondering where my tolerance levels for anything out of the ordinary have gone.
Trust me you don’t want to get me started on poor customer service, people who speed across the Foyle Bridge or shops which don’t stock anything above a size 14.
The reason for my grouchiness? I’ve given up chocolate. No half measures for me this time, I’ve gone cold turkey and it’s making me unbearable.
You see things were reaching crisis levels. I had found that my occasional bar of chocolate was turning into one bar a day and when the wee man got a Milky Way or packet of Magic Stars, Mammy (that’s me) would have to have a wee taste first just to make sure ‘they weren’t poisoned’. (In fact my five year old niece thinks adults are immune to all sorts of nasties, after her grandad repeatedly tasted a chip off her plate ‘because it was poisoned’)
I am slightly ashamed to admit, my name is Claire and I’m a chocoholic. After successfully losing a stone in weight before Christmas I was scunnered to step on the scales recently and see a few (okay four) pounds back on and when my fat jeans started to feel like my tight jeans again I knew it was time for action.
This was all compounded on Saturday night when I was watching Casualty with Joseph and a rather large lady appeared on screen. “Mammy, that’s you in the hostibel,” the wee man piped up. I (ever the optimist) asked him was he referring to the “ambliance” lady standing at the side of the bed.
“No mammy, that’s you in the bed, you are sick.”
And sick I nearly was. I thought all sons (three year old ones at least) where supposed to think mammy was gorgeous and perfect in every way. My son, it seems, sees me as Jabba the Hut lookalike (albeit a friendly one who gives cuddles). So knowing that Mother’s Day may well bring some chocolate and wine my way, I decided to set Monday as D-Day.
I’ve never smoked (well there was one drunken attempt at inhaling a cigarette a few years back which led to a rather embarrassing coughing, spluttering and near vomiting incident) so I’ve never experienced the pain of withdrawing from nicotine- but if my chocolate experience is anything to go by I can kind of understand why people never give up the dreaded weed.
I purposely gorged myself on Galaxy over the weekend in an attempt to sicken myself, but in hindsight it has just made the withdrawal all the harder.
I did okay up to mid-afternoon. The worst thing the ‘Journal’ has ever done is put not one, but two, vending machines in our staff canteen. These wonderful machines are filled with Bounty bars, Mars, Snickers, Chunky Kit Kats and Twirls. They are there, calling me every day at around 3.30 and they refuse to be silenced.
And so began the battle with my inner demons. Surely, they said, one wee bar of chocolate wouldn’t hurt? Sure couldn’t I count it into my points and be done with it? And once the craving was satisfied then I would be grand, wouldn’t I?
But I know it doesn’t work like that with me. If I gave in to those demons once I would be giving into them all the time and then I would be back to square one and Joseph would be shaking his head at me as I tried to wrestle the Magic Stars from his grubby wee paws in a chocolate fuelled hysteria.
No I have to steer clear (even though I’ve been informed Milky Way Crispy Rolls are only 1pt- and sure they only have a wee bit of chocolate on them) because it’s a slippery slope until I become an Augustus Gloop from ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ lookalike.
Physically it has been tough. I’ve had headaches from the withdrawal and my afternoons already missed their sugar rush. As I’ve said I’ve become exceptionally grumpy and short tempered. It’s true that chocolate contains certain Endorphins which create a happy state of mind and I’m lost without my daily dose- but it has to get easier, doesn’t it?
They say it takes three weeks to make a habit and three weeks to break a habit. I’m five days down, so if I can last another 16 days I’ll be free of my demons. As long as I don’t kill anybody between now and then, it should all work out grand.

Chicken Soup for the soul

This brings back memories of my childhood, of my pregnancy and sums up how I should feel about life and how I feel about my father and my son- two of the most important men in my life.
Nice to get a bit tacky on it and shamelessly enjoy a bit of JD- who I was lucky enough to see in concert just a few months before he died.
Give it a chance, trust me, you may just like the words.

ouchee!

Remember those seven dwarves of the apocalypse?
They've been quite good and stayed away for a while, but I'm sick today and a little worn out.
I think my burning of the candle at both ends (and a wee bit in the middle too) has finally caught up with me and I'm officially out of fuel.
I have a horrible headache which is making me want to take my left eyeball out and scratch my brain, and I'm ever so slightly nauseous.

It's time for a rethink. I still have to work full time (need the dosh) and I still have to write my books (need the creative outlet) and I'm kind of stuck with the mammy thing... so what can give?
Well I've made an executive decision and booked a cleaner. I feel like a bit of a superwife let down to be honest, because you know my granny managed with ten wains and not a cleaner in site but I have reached the stage where I just can't cope with the average day any more.

Hopefully once the headache lifts and the cleaner starts, I'll start to feel brighter and more settled in myself and my writing word count will go through the rood again!
Til then, lots of chicken soup for me.

Right to reply

ONE of the best (and worst) things about writing an opinion column for a newspaper is that you open yourself up for a right of reply from your readers.
Who would have thought that a column about the trials and tribulations of being a working mother would have generated such a vitriolic response?
To use the Derry venacular I’ll take my oil. At the end of the day if people take the time to pick up a pen and write a letter expressing their views on what I’ve written then I’m doing my job properly. But the other side of the story is that if people want to write and express those views they have to, at some level, expect me to express mine back. The writer, you see, has the same right of reply as the reader.
So first of all, can I address the ‘Co. Tyrone Female’ who told me that if she could, she would rid her department of all working mothers? The lady in question went on to describe us as unreliable, moaners and (the piece de resistance) ‘users’.
To top it all off she suggested that I simply give up my work if I’m unhappy. I think she may just have missed the point. I doubt there are many working women out there (regardless of marital or parental status) who can just wake up in the morning and say “Feck this for a game of soldiers, I’m packing in the day job.”
Secondly, in the article I stated very clearly that working mothers work hard and do a great job. I’ve been a single person. I’ve been an employee before I was a mother. I’ve worked in workplaces where other colleagues had children and I never looked down on them for it.
With the power of hindsight, I can see it’s a bit like when you were at school and you thought life was never going to get tougher than studying for your GCSEs or A Levels and that the trauma of whether or not that wee lad from St. Columb’s fancied you back. And then you went out in the big, bad world and realised your school days really were the best days of your life.
That’s not to say I would change my life. I have a gorgeous son, a job which gives me a decent degree of satisfaction and I have to say I’m very blessed to work within a supportive company. Unlike the staff of the Co. Tyrone Female, I’m not working under the added pressure of knowing my boss would gladly sack me tomorrow and sees me as a liability.
I was not born a mother- so I have seen this debate from both sides of the fence and I still stand by my comments that discrimination against us working parents must stop. If anything the letter from this particular reader re-inforced that belief.
The second letter I received made me think a little more. From a reader calling her ‘Unstressed Woman’, she said that my focus in this column on working mothers excluded those women out there who are single, or who don’t work, or who don’t have children.
To be honest, while I write this column hoping to resonate with other women out there I will admit my column does hold a certain bias towards women in similar positions to myself.
The reason for that is that I always endeavour to be as honest as possible (sometimes brutally so) because there is no point in me patronising readers by pretending to know what they are going through if I don’t.
What it does not mean, and this is a charge I will refute entirely, is that I think the only ‘worthy’ women out there are those who have completed an education, got married and work their socks off.
I would have hoped a recurrent theme of this column is that we women should not be expected any more to ‘have it all’ if we don’t want it all. I would go as far as to say that, as someone who has it all on paper, that having it all is not all it’s cracked up to be. (Have I used the word ‘all’ too much in that sentence?)
It is my firm belief that women out there make a difference every day. (In fact just several weeks ago I wrote a column highlighting unsung heroes in our society- only one of whom had children and I seriously don’t know or care which of them had a university education. It was completely and utterly irrelevant to the story.)
I’ve come from a family of strong women- women who have been single parents, who have been unemployed, who have raised their families on a diet of custard and bread because there was no money in the pot for ‘proper food’. I come from a family of women who have raised children with disabilities without grumbling or complaining. I come from a family of women who face illness on a daily basis.
All of them- each and everyone of them- is a high achiever and a hero in my eyes.
My final point on this issue is that there is no way one columnist can address all of the issues women face in their lives. It’s a little along the lines of you can’t please all of the people all of the time.
So you’ll forgive my self indulgence this week with this right of reply. I hope no one can accuse me of ‘shirking the issue’ after this.

Funniest thing I've seen in aaaaages

Oh, I needed a laugh tonight so I checked You Tube for Friends and got this classic gag reel

Size matters

CAN I get all ranty again this week? I know it’s getting to be a bit of a habit- blame the hormones, the pressure to re-edit a book for what feels like the millionth time and the inability to be satisfied by even the largest quantity of chocolate. Nonetheless, I feel the need to let off a bit of steam.
You see Top Shop (you know that shop up the town which sells clothes for impossibly skinny people) have decided to hire a new size 26 model. Beth Ditto, as she is known, is a singer and she is going to model clothes for larger ladies.
I was quite pleased to read of the development; after all it wasn’t today nor yesterday I fitted into a size 14. I was definitely built for comfort and not speed. It is refreshing to see a High Street store acknowledge that not all women are built like Barbie Dolls and offer us some more choice. As it stands in Derry the choice available to larger ladies is laughable.
I don’t really want to dress like my mammy or my granny (no offence intended) but it’s not always easy to find the latest fashions in larger sizes. Admittedly a size 26 is a far from ideal weight and I’m sure even Beth Ditto wouldn’t mind losing a couple of pounds.But this is the real world and why shouldn’t larger ladies get to see someone their size looking and feeling good in clothes designed with them in mind? It seems, however, that not everyone feels the same way I do.
There are those out there who say that Top Shop’s decision to hire a plus size model is glorifying obesity and encouraging young women with weight problems to sit back on their considerable behinds and stuff their face with yet more burgers while enjoying the fact they can now wear fashionable clothes.
That argument saddens me, and angers me. It is tantamount to saying that no woman above a size 16 (and let’s face it, 50% of the female population is above a size 16) has the right to wear nice clothes in case she dares get too comfortable with her size. The sad fact is, you could dress me (as one of those largest ladies) in the finest clothes Monsoon or Principles have to offer.
You can wedge me into control pants and body shaping tights, minimiser bras and corsets of all descriptions but I can tell you now that I will never feel entirely comfortable with my size. And while I’m uncomfortable - while I’m wondering who that day has described me as a ‘grand big girl’ to someone else - I would at least like to wear modern, fashionable and funky clothes.
The long and the short of it (and the thick and the thin of it) those of us who aren’t a perfect 10 or 12 should be allowed to dress well. We should not be forced to wear baggy, shapeless tents of things like sackcloth and ashes with a scarlet O for obese stitched across our gargantuan bosoms. Weight problem I’m not for one second dismissing the concerns which exist with our health professionals about the growing obesity problem in this country.
Despite my own bad example, I hate seeing children with weight problems and I do my best to make sure my wee man has a varied and healthy diet without falling into the same bad habits as his mammy. I also try to make sure he stays nice and active and the boy never sits still. He walks everywhere he can and loves to go swimming. I think all parents should be encouraged not only to try and help their children eat a more healthy diet, and also to stay active. With the risk of sounding about 350 years old, when I was wee there was no such thing as plonking ourselves in front of computers or DVDs for hours on end.
We were out running the streets til night fall. For those of us who have already developed a weight problem the answer is not to stigmatise us further or brow beat us into submission. It is simplistic to say that weight problems are solely related to an over consumption of calories without considering the self esteem issues that surround them. It may well be a chicken and egg type of question (or a burger and big butt kind of question if you prefer), but there is no doubt that people with weight problems are likely to have substantial self esteem issues to match their substantial clothes sizes. Therefore the absolute worst thing you can do to someone who has a weight problem is single them out for scorn and abuse.
With the exception of the like of Dawn French, the majority of us want to change and are actively trying to change. So I’m quite happy to have Beth Ditto model clothes and I’m quite happy to have Top Shop provide clothes in larger sizes so that we slowly start to become happier and more confident with who we are on the outside, which, in my experience, always has a direct knock on effect to how we feel on the inside. And a happier, more confident woman is more likely to be active about getting fit and healthy than one who feels too ashamed to step outside the front door.

A woman's work

THE OLD argument regarding whether or not working mothers are evil incarnate and a drain on the workforce has reared its ugly head again this week.
It was no surprise to me to read that women with young children fare the worst when it comes to career progression. Apparantly those of us with functioning uteri (or is it uteruses?) are a liability in the workplace. We may get pregnant and then, when that messy procreation business is done and dusted, we will no doubt have our mind on the wains and silly little things like calpol, teething, potty training and drool.
When it comes to promotion we are at the bottom of the pile, regardless of our qualifications, experience and ability. You see we working mothers, it would seem, are just not reliable. If our children fall and break a limb we could be so bold as to clear out of the office for an afternoon to take them to A&E and God forbid the wee mites take sick and we need a day off to clean up vomit and crusty snot.
On top of that knowledge that we are now no longer valulable members of the work force, we also have to deal with the guilt at working in the first place. Because those people who don’t think we are rubbish at our jobs instead like to think we are rubbish at our parenting. A woman’s place, did we not know, is in the house.
The ills of society - all those ASBOs and illiterate wains are precisely down to the fact that we women go out and work and leave our children in the care of virtual strangers. It has even been argued that a woman should not have children unless she is prepared to stay at home and raise them. Yes, the working mother is both incompetent AND selfish.
And people wonder why growing numbers of us are beating the Prozac down our necks and taking to drink in the evenings?
If you think I’m exaggerating, think again. Have a wee gander over at the BBC ‘Have Your Say’ website on its news pages. They stop just short of getting the ducking stools out and giving the likes of me a good drowning for my troubles. The thing all these creators of studies and social studies seem to ignore time and time again is that the vast majority of working mothers do so because they have no choice.
Most of us could not keep a roof over our family’s head or clothes on their back without bringing that second income into the house. I for one am certainly not working to finance a glamorous lifestyle where I’m swanning off on fancy holidays or clothing myself in designer clothes while my son sits in a creche pining for some affection. Perhaps, however I shouldn’t be so hard on those people who would have me hung, drawn and quartered.
When I was younger I used to think that having children wouldn’t alter my outlook on my working life one wee iota. I would argue with my mother incessantly that I wasn’t going to university for the good of my health and that there was no way I was going to turn my back on years of study for the sake of staying home up to my eyes in Play Doh and Thomas the Tank Engine trains. Being a stay at home mammy would, I firmly believed drive me to distraction. But then I became a mammy myself and I enjoyed it.
I love spending time with my son reliving those wee innocent joys of childhood and it does at times pain me to leave him. In an ideal world I would be at home reading to him, drawing with him and kissing away his tears when he stubs his toe on a building block. Multi-task But this isn’t an ideal world.
For financial reasons I have to work. (Contrary to popular belief I did not earn millions of pounds from selling my book) but yes, becoming a parent has intrinsically changed my perception of the world. My focus is now very different, but that does not mean I’m rubbish at my job or don’t give it 100% while I’m at work.
Like many working mothers, I have become adept at turning off the mammy head within five minutes of hitting the office and switching into work mode. That’s the thing with us women, we can multi-task. To say we are unreliable as workers is laughable. I’ll guarantee that as a working mother I’m more likely to be at my desk on any given day than single office workers the world over who are sleeping off a hangover or taking a sickie just for the craic.
At least when I’m not at my desk it’s for a good reason. We are masters of organisation, efficiency and the afore-mentioned muilti-tasking. The thing is, give a woman a job - especially a mother, and you can guarantee it will be done.
As I’ve said, it doesn’t surprise me that this argument has raised its head again, but it does disgust me. It’s time we woman stood up to demand an end to this discrimination.

Proper dot com

If the notion takes you, you can now read all about me and my book at

www.claireallan.com

There is a wee blog there too, but it's not as good as this one... honest

Mammy Dearest

THEY SAY it comes to us all and this week I realised I have finally morphed into my darling mother. I’m not sure when or how it started, but the transformation is all but complete.
All that is missing is a wee vodka on a Friday night and an addiction to Corrie. You may asked how this realisation hit me and the answer is simple- it started the day I gave birth and has rumbled on ever since, growing and taking over right up to the point where I am now saying and doing things I swore I never, ever would.
Last weekend I found myself in the middle of a discipline crisis with the wee man. Having walked out in front of a car on Chapel Road and saved only by the grace of God and my (for once) lightning quick reactions, he was already on a warning about road safety. Being three, (although he tells anyone who will listen that he is six) I really think it is high time Joseph was aware that a battle between a young child and car doing 30mph is never going to end in favour of the child. He seems to disagree. He is thran like that. (Takes after his father with the thranness - I am a model of patience and flexibility).
Later on the same day, as we were walking through the car park at Homebase the wee man decided once again to make a bid for freedom and once again it was only the grace of God and my (for the second time ever) lightning quick reaction that saved him.
I was shocked and scared and I’ll admit that even though it goes against my principles as a parent, I gave him a wee smack on the bum and told him he was never to run out in front of cars again. Being at a age where he is prone to over-dramatising things (again a trait he gets from his father- I NEVER exaggerate), he went into fits of tears telling me “Mammy, you made me sad.” And there it was, the minute my mother’s voice came out of my mouth and told him (in as broad a Derry accent as I could muster) “I’d rather make you sad than bury you.”
He looked at me, mouthly slightly agape, not one bit impressed with my excuse and I realised my transition to mammyhood was complete. It had been creeping up for a while. I should have read the warning signs.
Things got a bit suss when, after coming in to the house after work, I found I was no longer happy to traipse about in my fancy heels for the remainder of the evening. I now it find it much more comfortable to sit down and make a soothing “Aaaah” sound as I peel my boots off and slip my feet into my furry slippers.
Then it went one step further. I was no longer happy to wander about the house in my work clothes post 7pm. No, now I put on my jammies- complete with elasticated waistband and relax. Life is too short not to enjoy the pleasures of an elasticated waistband.
Of course my house has also become mammy-fied. I’ve developed a sad little love affair with the Betterware catalogue, suddenly seeing the benefit of all that stuff I’d previously dismissed as a wee bit tacky. I got a great wee broom that fits into corners and tight spaces and I’m very happy with it. My love for it is right up there with my love for my fancy bagless hoover which shows us up for the dirty clats we really are. (Seriously, I’m shamed every time I hoover).
I’ve also taken to wandering around Tesco on a Sunday sniffing the scented candles to see which one would give my living room a lift. When I’m not doing that I’m comparing washing powders and fabric softeners or looking for a decent cut of meat to make a nice casserole with.
In theory I have no problem with turning into my mammy. I quite like her. In fact I kind of love her and I have no complaints about how she raised me. (Well I do in fact have two complaints: the first relating to a miscarriage of justice over who drank the last of the milk and the second over her persistant singing of ‘Who’s At The Window, Who?’ which scared the bejaysus out of me.)
In practice though, the fact that I’m turning into my mother means that I’m becoming a proper grown up. I’ve made my peace with the fact I’m now on the wrong side of 30, but I don’t think I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’m no longer a wee young thing who is down with the kids. It’s sad to think that in terms of ‘cool’ I’m on a hiding to nothing. It’s only a matter of time before I start whinging that they don’t make proper pop songs anymore and opt for a pair of comfortable, flat shoes for work.
That said, my mother- who is now 50- seems to be enjoying somewhat of a second youth. While I’m in my bed for 11 every night, she can sit up yapping with her friends til the wee hours and not die of exhaustion the next day. Maybe if I wait another 20 years I might find that I’ve gone full circle and am officially trendy again. And hopefully when I get to that stage Joseph will think his old mammy is pretty cool.

Why do you have to be a heartbreaker?

THANK CRUNCHIE that Valentine’s Day has come and gone. I can’t stand the utter commercialism of it. I can handle the arrival of Christmas decorations in the shops in September or Easter Eggs popping into the shop windows on Boxing Day, but I have no stomach for the plethora of pink, red and fluff that swamps our shops for first six weeks of each year.
Visiting Tesco last weekend, I found- alongside the rows upon rows of cards to beloved husbands, wives, fiances, fiancees, girlfriends, boyfriends, mothers, fathers and even friends- heart shaped lights, candle sets, heart shaped ice cube trays, chocolates by the bucketloads and questionable thong style underwear; not to mention the flowers (real AND fake) and the food marketed to be a natural aphrodisiac.
I hate to sound like a Valentine’s Scrouge but why, oh why, should we or do we need a designated day of the year to tell someone we love them? And let’s face it the idea of an anonymous Valentine is not as appealing as it once was in years gone by. Fifteen years ago it was cool to have a secret admirer- but nowadays the average single white female might be more inclined to fear a stalker is on the loose.
That’s not to say I’m not a romantic at heart. My idea of heaven is a nice meal out with Mr Allan, followed by a couple of glasses of wine at home in front of the fire while we chatter about everything and anything. In a similar vein I am addicted to romantic comedies.
Forget scary movies and thrillers, give me something with Hugh Grant, Sandra Bullock and perhaps a song on the soundtrack by Ronan Keating and Bob’s your uncle. In fact I have often been the subject of much ribbing in the past because of my penchant for slush, sappiness and hearts and flowers. My back catalogue of tapes (which now reside in my car because it’s so old it doesn’t have a CD player) include choice power ballads from the likes of Mariah Carey and Celine Dion.
Even my very best friend, who probably knows me even better than my husband and my mother put together, was shocked - nay disgusted- to find a copy of Lionel Ritchie’s Greatest Hits in the tape player. I’m a great fan of singing in the shower- of crooning a tuneless rendition of ‘Endless Love’ or ‘Truly’ to my heart’s content. I’ve been known to send the odd romantic text and cry at weddings. But my love for love stops short of over commercialised Hallmark occasions. I think Valentine’s Day makes more people miserable than happy.
Single people by and large spend the day feeling lonely and isolated from some great ‘in love’ club, while those of us who are paired off spend the day jumping at the opening of the door or the clattering of a letterbox waiting for a token of our partner’s esteem.
There is a pressure to be happy and content on Valentine’s Day that is cloying. When I finish work on a Wednesday I don’t want to have dress up to pay for over priced food in an overcrowded restaurant . I don’t want a three course home cooked dinner with champagne and strawberries because I know I’ll be the one doing the dishes come the following morning.
As for making the effort with thong underwear and push up bras- I’ll spare you the mental image and myself the discomfort, if you don’t mind. Give me my furry slippers, my super comfy dressing gown that makes me look like the abominable snowman but feel as if I’m enveloped in a gorgeous big hug. On a Wednesday evening, I don’t want high romance.
I want to sit down and watch ‘Location, Location, Location’ with my laptop on my knee as I batter out another chapter and sip some ice cold Pinot Grigio. And then I want to go to bed- to sleep! I’d rather any acts of romance or affection from my other half where spontaneous and unexpected. I
prefer someone to say they love me because in that moment they really, truly love me not because some company who make a fortune out of our love affair with love tell them they should love me. So this year we banned the big day in our house. There was no talk of flowers or cards- no romantic repast waiting for me when I came home.
We may make it out for dinner at the weekend, if the notion takes us and we are planning a romantic break for later in the year. I’m happy enough to accept that my husband still loves me after 10 years together, and maybe one day in a couple of weeks I’ll get a bunch of flowers out of the blue to prove it. But Cupid can keep his bows for someone else, and someone else can get my card. And as for the thongs, go for it if you feel brave enough.

Amazon woman!

Rainy Days and Tuesdays is now available for pre-order on Amazon!

CLICK THIS LINK!

For a short time only...

Posting this only for Valentine's Night! How excited am I?

Sorry if you missed it! I promise the cover will reappear closer to the launch!

Thanks for the kind words and the page views.

A hard hitting issue

IT’S NO secret that I’m a big fan of Fern Britton. I think the ‘This Morning’ presenter is just so damn likeable that I would love to meet her for a cup of coffee, a glass of wine and good old fashioned girlie chat.

She seems to be quite genuinely happy and content in her own skin and she isn’t one of these celebs who constantly professes to being content with their size and appearance before half killing themselves on a crash diet every six months.

As a television presenter she has a natural warmth and grace which make her very watchable and I can’t help but double over in kinks when she takes a giggling fit with co-presenter Philip Schofield. (My one time obsession with Philip will no doubt merit a column of its own one of these fine days.)

I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m her celebrity stalker, but if I see her on the telly or in a magazine I’ll most probably make a point of checking it out.

It was precisely because she seems a genuinely happy and positive person that it was a bit of a shock to uncover a picture of her displaying domestic violence injuries while surfing the internet this week. The picture made me sit up and take notice- which was exactly what it was meant to do. Thankfully for Fern the images weren’t real.

They were created by very clever make up artists working on the new campaign by Women’s Aid to highlight the fact that domestic violence can happen to any woman, any time and any where. Fern is just one of a number of a celebrities who have agreed to endorse the campaign and raise awareness of domestic violence by allowing themselves to be portrayed with graphic injuries.

Of course the campaign has its begrudgers and complainers. There are those who say Fern and co are concerned primarily with raising their own profiles and that people who are truly affected by domestic violence will not draw any benefit from campaigns such as these. I have to say I think that is a cynical and unwarranted attitude.

Yes, research shows that if a woman (or indeed a man) is a victim of domestic violence it is rare that any amount of prodding from well meaning celebrities or anyone else will encourage them to leave a relationship unless they are ready to walk out themselves. But those facts don’t mean we should brush it under the carpet or steer clear of awareness raining campaigns.

I don’t think Fern Britton clattering herself in make up to look as though she has had the life battered out of her will make an abused woman sit up and take notice, but it might just make the rest of us realise that real and horrifying acts of cruelty are happening right under our noses on a daily basis. I know people who have been subjected to domestic violence. They aren’t always the quiet wee mouse cowering in the corner. Some of these women are beautiful, successful and seemingly confident women who to the casual observer would look as though they had it all.

But domestic violence has a way of seeping into your consciousness or zapping you of the strength to walk out the door and admit that something is very, very wrong. Some women sadly will see the acts of violence meeted out to them by their partners as somehow reflecting a weakness on their part.

For those women admitting that they are being subjected to physical, emotional and mental abuse is admiting a weakness on their part and so it is hushed up. Others, of course, may have become so used to the abuse that dare I say they are almost immune to it.

Sadly abuse can be so sustained and intense that it no longer seems abnormal. Some women will even feel they deserve to be treated that way. Despite figures which were released this week revealing that domestic violence rates have dropped considerably in the Derry area, Marie Brown of Foyle Women’s Aid has said that the majority of women subjected to violence in the home will never report the crimes against them.

We have to wonder why then the issue remains such a taboo that it takes such a hard hitting (no pun intended) campaign to bring it back into the public consciousness. It’s only right that issues such as these are forced upon us- that we have our eyes opened to the reality of life in this city, this country and throughout the world for some women.

We may like to think we live in an era of gender equality and in a place where sisters are always doing it for themselves but the reality is that even in your own street some woman- somebody’s mother, sister, friend, cousin, aunt or granny- is living in a state of fear.

So I applaud Fern Britton and everyone involved in the campaign. If it makes just one person sit up and think about domestic violence, and if it makes just one person say enough is enough then that’s good enough for me.

My Novel Journey

‘JOURNAL’ reporter Claire Allan, in a new monthly column, charts her journey to becoming a published author. Her first novel, ‘Rainy Days and Tuesdays’ will be published by Poolbeg in August 07.

IT’S HARD to believe that in six months I’ll be able to walk into Eason in Foyleside and pick up a copy of my own book. I’m sure I’ll probably be too embarrassed to buy it in case the girl at the till thinks I’m full of myself, but if I wear a pair of sunglasses and a wig I may well just be able to get away with standing and staring at it lovingly for an hour or two.
For me, getting published really is a lifelong dream come true. I’ve always loved writing- churning out tacky short stories and dodgy poetry regularly when I was a teenager.
When I started working as a journalist however I did let my little hobby slide a bit. Having spent all day sat in front of a computer writing news stories, the last thing I wanted to do in evening was switch on my home PC and write some more. But last year, something in me snapped.
I always said I wanted to write and as I was fast approaching 30, I developed a now or never attitude to the process. Stories which had been bubbling away in my subconscious for years started to fight to get out and when I did make the decision and sit down to write I found I couldn’t stop. Words started to spill out. The story started to take on a life of it’s own and I would find myself working through scenes in my head as I drove to work, or tried to get to sleep, or did the shopping. It became a bit of an obsession and an addiction, if I’m honest.
I finished my book, which back then was called ‘This Little Piggy’ last June. Or at least I thought I had finished it. I didn’t realise just what kind of a journey I would have over the following months as I tried to get an agent, worked on her suggested rewrites, submitted it to publishers and prayed someone would believe in it, and me, enough to take me on.
I was lucky by industry standards in that I was picked up by an agent pretty quickly and without having to resort to hysterics, bribery or blackmail.
Being hopelessly impatient that particular process was not good for my general mental health. I became obsessional about checking my emails and each time I answered the phone, I didn’t allow myself breathe out until I had ascertained whether or not the person on the other end had a Dublin accent and could in fact be an agent coming to me with good news.
But that wait was nothing compared to the wait to hear back from publishers. My nails were chewed down to the bone, my nerves were in tatters and I spent an inordinate amount of time promising the Big Man upstairs the sun, moon and stars if only this wee dream were to come true.
And it did. To be accepted by a publisher is amazing. To be accepted by Poolbeg, who publish some of my great heroes, was beyond amazing. Again though, it only marked the start of another journey- one where I have to continually push myself beyond my comfort zone. First of all we had to change the name- which was fair enough because the original title did make me cringe a bit. Then I had to increase the word count by a mere 4,000, as well as set to work on book number two because yes, one book just isn’t enough. I’ve found it when it comes to writing, I’m like a tube of Pringles. Once I pop, I can’t stop.
Now though, it is starting to get really exciting. It is starting to feel real and I’m beginning to allow myself to believe it is really is happening. Last week I travelled to Dublin to meet the team at Poolbeg and the two PR consultants who will be working with me at the time of the launch. I felt sick to my stomach as I got the taxi out to Howth and when I arrived at the Poolbeg offices and saw that famous red lighthouse logo I almost, almost, asked the taxi man to turn back. Of course I needn’t have worried. The team are lovely and I mean that genuinely and not simply in a “I must keep in their good books” kind of way.
We discussed the book, and what press I would be willing to do come the summer. They mentioned possible TV interviews and once the smelling salts had worked, I agreed to do whatever I could to get my career up and running. Although I admit it will definitely feel a little weird to be at the receiving end of a journalist’s questions.
Most importantly I managed not to make a holy show of myself. I have a rather unfortunate habit of unwittingly adopting other people’s accents and mannerisms so I was afraid I would start saying ‘eejit’ and ‘it was gas’ in a thick Dublin brogue and they would think I was taking the proverbial. Thankfully I remained a true Derry woman from start to finish.
And then it was off to a wee cafe nearby for lunch. It wasn’t big or fancy, but the food was great and Paula Campbell, the publisher, assured me that everyone who is anyone in the Irish publishing world has had lasagne and chips from May’s cafe.
If it’s good enough for Marian Keyes, it’s sure as hell good enough for me.

The next step will be seeing the cover of my book. I’ve been told that many authors have a good cry when they see their name on a book cover for the first time- I’ll keep you posted.

Tackfest Tuesday- Whyyyyyyy do you build me up?

I'm in remarkably chipper form today. It's something to do with booking a weekend away with Mr. Allan and relaxing after the boy's third birthday.
My creative juices are flowing with Signed, Sealed, Delivered and tonight I will hit the 50,000 word mark. So all in all, it's a good day.
So today's tacky song reflects that mood. Even though it is actually quite a sad sony lyrically, it always makes me grin like a buck eejit. It reminds me most of all my aunt's 50th birthday party and my own 30th...
So everybody, I give you 'Why Do You Build Me Up?'

Why do you build me up (build me up) Buttercup, baby
Just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around
And then worst of all (worst of all) you never call, baby
When you say you will (say you will)
but I love you still
I need you (I need you)
more than anyone, darlin'
You know that I have from the start
So build me up (build me up) Buttercup,
don't break my heart"

Month 36- All growed up

DEAR JOSEPH,

It is very difficult to express in words just how I feel about you turning three. I'm so utterly proud of you, so completely in love with you and so totally in awe of you.

You rock my world.

You'll forgive my lack of words this month, but here, for you to always see, is what life has been like for the last three years.

I love you,

Mammy