Dumpsville- Population me...

I've kind of promised I won't use this blog for little whinges and whines because, contrary to popular opinion, a lot of the time I'm quite happy person. (Well on the outside - inside I'm generally crying over my weight and my skin and my son's lack of desire to lstop losing the bap at regular intervals just for the craic.)
But I'm feeling a little low this week. Perhaps it is the come down from the last number of weeks - bridezilla's wedding which, yes, I know I've not posted pictures of yet- Nora's gorgeous new baby boy arriving (my uterus skipped a beat when I held him and he did that delicious snuggling into my neck thing that new borns do) and of course the small matter of becoming (for a week anyway) a top ten best-selling author.
For the past year I have had something to look forward to and now, while I'm loving looking back at it, it feels a bit empty now. Of course there is 'Signed, Sealed, Delivered' which please God the publishers will love as much as I love, but apart from that it's work and the day to day routine which seem to be calling.
I have become so eager to have something to look forward to that I'm even (someone stop me) getting broody- not helped by the fact that everywhere I look these days are gorgeous, blooming pregnant women or ickle, tiny, beautiful babbies like wee Finn.
I don't actually 'do' pregnancy very well at all, so why I would look forward to it is beyond me. Maybe it is the thought that my 'baby' is starting pre-school in about six weeks and is riding a big boy bike and forsaking his rather girly coloured Balamory Trike. (Anyone need a Balamory Trike?), or maybe it is that my other baby (Rainy Days and Tuesdays) has flown the nest and no longer needs me to primp and preen it and care for it tenderly?
Then again, I could forget it all and get a wriggle on with writing my third book which so far pays homage to Pea and Ham Soup and not much else.

Leave the Mum Lit writers alone please...

My friend and colleague Erin recently showed me an article from a national paper complaining about the current glut of ‘Mum Lit’ hitting the shelves in Ireland.
Being part of that glut I felt somewhat personally aggrieved. It seems the writer in question thinks it’s all a bit too formulaic and boring.
And it doesn’t really offer women any real sustenance in terms of good reading.
And besides, it’s all done before. Sure in Marian Keyes’ first novel ‘Watermelon’ the main character has a baby and sure isn’t that book just gas... (And it is, in case you wondered... I admit it's bloody brilliant).
But the fact is that there are very few original stories still out there - but there are original ways to tell them. That’s what every writer, from Queen Marian to yours truly tries to achieve each time we sit down and batter out something on our laptops.
And what we are all (well perhaps not Marian as she is at the tippity top of her game) trying to do is be accepted as writers, as valid contributors to society. We are trying to get a foothold in a competitive and harsh business. I think that is pretty damn admirable.
What said writer was doing was throwing the same old well rehearsed criticisms at Mum Lit as have been traditionally and predictably thrown at Chick Lit and the most frustrating thing about the whole damned thing is that said writer is a woman (and, I believe, a mother to boot).
I could wax lyrical about why this makes me angry, but since this writer clearly thinks Marian Keyes is the better woman (and hell, so do I), I’ll leave it to her to make my point.

“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. ... 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… 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.)”

Excuse me.... but do I know you?

I've been stopped three times by random strangers in the past two days to congratulate me on the book.
It's been lovely, if a little scary. On one occasion Joseph was clinging to me whining because he wanted to go to the car and open the toy car I'd bought him (bribery and corruption being frequent themes in this house) and on another in a restaurant toilets while I had "words" with Mr. Allan on the phone about Joseph's reluctance to go to sleep without me being in the house.

Faced with such circumstances I tend to turn an attractive puce colour and thank people profusely before walking away. Hope no one thinks I'm getting ideas above my station!

Two weeks in...

Or is it closer to three?
I've kind of lost track... things have been mad... and by mad I mean totallly mind-alteringly mental, like nothing I've ever experienced before.
This morning I found myself, at 7.30am sat on a sofa drinking tea having a wee chat with Frank 'It's a cracker' Carson at the studios of TV3.
Last week I sat on the hallowed sofas of UTV and on Saturday past I spent two hours sitting at a desk in the middle of Eason signing books for the lovely and very supportive people of Derry.
In between times I've been traipsing around Dublin with the very funky Lynda from Poolbeg, and having dinner with supermum Paula Campbell and the lovely Niamh.
Today the lovely Niamh made herself seem even more lovely my eyes by phoning me and telling me RD&T has reached number 9 in the original fiction chart!
Aside from chart positions though, I had a number of women tell me how the book has moved them to laughter and tears and how it has in some way made them re-evaluate their lives.
You can't get better than that!

One week in....

What a mad ride!
It's one week since RD&T was released from the depths of Baldoyle onto the world and it's has been insanely emotional, scary, wonderful and surreal all at the same time.
The real big moment for me was on Saturday of last week when - while I was sat with my head wrapped in tinfoil for a much needed pre-wedding roots touch up - my work colleague Catherine Spence called me to say the book was in Eason and she had just bought it.
I admit that I've been quite cool about the whole shebang on the outside but I could not hold back the tears at this news. I managed, thankfully, to wait til I got back to my car and then sat weeping like a looney behind the wheel. Christ knows what the car park attendant thought.
And then my two aunties phoned to say they too had seen it, so it was only right that I made my way up myself.
Now, it's a bit strange to see your book on the shelves of a proper book shop. I didn't want to look like "Mrs Precious Author" so I admired from a far and thought I was doing well until my sister arrived at the scene and insisted on taking my picture beside the display..
My cover was blown.

On Monday I received some posters from Poolbeg from the Lovely Niamh who said I could hang them on the wall of fame, but instead I persuaded the powers that be at the Journal to let me hang one at our main entrance. It's all about sales people.
Catherine Spence then came over to tell me the book made her cry and she was now in love with Aidan (Grace's other half) and then I took a phone call from my PR lady who said a reporter in Dublin had also had a good gurn over the whole thing.
Not to mention the fact that Pamela Ballentine off of UTV is now reading it and I've to go one LIVE TV next week. Feck!
On Wednesday Lovely Niamh (I actually think I'll call her Lovely Niamh from now on..) emailed me to say that after just Friday and Saturday of sales the book was number 51 in the Nielson BookScan Original Fiction chart thingummies which is apparantly a very promising start. (And Kate Long who is a vay famous author said it was too- and she knows stuff).

So anyway... mad. I'm sitting here in my jammies- stinking and in need of a shower but waiting for another phone interview call...
It's glamour all the way!

I've only gone and done it...

Rainy Days and Tuesdays. OUT NOW

Check it out

Amazon.co.uk: Rainy Days and Tuesdays: Books: Claire Allan

21st of June...

21st of June...

That's my birthday that is...

I realise that the closer we get to publication the more these posts become rambling and gibberish-y but that is only because I am living in a surreal little world where it all seems to totally, totally mad.

Oh for the love of God...

I tried to think of a wittier headline for today’s column. I sat and played with words for a good two minutes (it’s close to deadline for this column and I’m very, very busy) but nothing was forthcoming. Or at least nothing that could be printed in a newspaper read by those who may be easily offended by gutter language.
You see despite my ranting last week that the media need to make a concerted effort to try and say positive things about women who are larger than a size double zero, no one seems to have taken a blind bit of notice. On Wednesday my attention was drawn to an article in the Daily Mail about Kate Winslet and her appearance at the Lancome launch party in Paris. (Ms Winslet is the new face of Tresor perfume)
Now to the average person Kate Winslet looked amazing at the Lancome party. She looked toned, healthy but curvaceous. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination did she look overweight but this is what the Daily Mail reporter chose to comment on.
Currently no more than a size 10, Ms. Winslet looked “as though she had put on a few pounds” and the dress “showed off her wide hips”.
I can only hope and pray that one day my hips would be as wide as Kate Winslet and I can only assume the ‘journalist’ Nick McDermott (and I use the term journalist very, very loosely) responsible for the piece was having a particularly bad day or was under the influence of some form of hallucinogenic drugs to come to such a conclusion. Either that or Kate Winslet scorned his advances in a previous life and he hasn’t quite gotten over it.
I’ve always liked Kate Winslet. I think she looks amazing as a woman who isn’t afraid to show off her curves. Although she has toned up and lost some weight in recent years, she has never fallen into the waif trap and always looks healthy and happy (unlike the Victoria Beckhams of this world.). It’s all more remarkable when you think she has had a couple of children. I still, sadly, look as though I’m about seven months gone even though my ‘baby’ is nearly three and a half. (I live in fear of the day where I will be asked when the baby is due and I’ll have to blush and respond: “February 2004”).
And let’s face facts, even if Kate Winslet did put on “a few pounds” she would still be on the skinny end of the weight scales. She’s a size 10 for the love of God. I don’t think I’ve ever been that size in my life (both child and adult)!
What chance do us mere mortals have when we open newspapers and see rubbish like that spouted from sour faced columnists? What does it do for our self esteem? As someone who has had to have her photo taken much too often for my liking recently, and who hopefully will have her photo taken many more times over the coming months, I dread to think what Nick McDermott and his ilk would have to say about me. (As I write this the Daily Mail have just offered to do a photoshoot with me - I kid ye not).
Perhaps it was just a chance remark by him, but the damage it will have done to women struggling with their weight and self esteem will be immeasurable.
He could do well to take a leaf out of Gok Wan’s book and start to focus on making women - no matter what their shape or size - feel better about themselves.
I’ll admit I’m a little bit addicted to his programme ‘How to Look Good Naked’. To say that he transforms how these women look is an understatement but what is most impressive is how he transforms how they think about themselves. He takes women with wobbly tummies, wide bums, childbearing hips and saggy boobs and makes them feel like gorgeous goddesses. He persuades them to go on national TV in their undercrackers (I wouldn’t even walk down my hallway in mine for fear of scaring a passing bird) and by the end of the programme they love themselves.
Gok Wan seems to believe that if you feel good about yourself, the looking good follows naturally. Confidence and beauty comes from within and is not solely based on the size of your waist, the firmness of your hips or whether or not your dress ruches at the side.
I’d very much like to get Gok Wan and Nick McDermott in a room together and have Mr Wan give Mr McDermott a good talking too about how to create positive images of women and how to promote a healthy physical and mental attitude.
And for the powers that be in the Daily Mail, please think about what you publish in the interests of the mental health of all of us.

My boy is so very, very cute

I've done a shamelessly I'm-so-in-love-with-my-son post in a while, but I took this picture recently and it totally captures his cheekiness.

He really does just make me laugh so much these days...

He's the baby, gotta love him.

On the radio.. la la la

It's getting closer...
11 days until publication (or seven if you're going by Poolbeg's website).

Paula Campbell (Poolbeg boss lady and supermum) sent me an email today with my radio ad for Today FM attached.

Now we don't have sound cards in our work computers so I emailed the email (stay with me) to my husband and got him to play it down the phone.

It's fabulous and very surreal.

Anyway it's going to be on Today FM in Ireland from June 27.

Rainy Days and Tuesdays... literally...

Well yesterday was a Tuesday and I was invited by the lovely people at Poolbeg Press to travel to Belfast to have lunch with them and Alyson Wilson from Waterstones.
After a week of glorious sunshine, the weather broke yesterday and my bus ride to Belfast was through torrential rain.
When I arrived, I made my way to Altos on Fountain Street and ordered a glass of wine to steady my nerves.
According to the lovely Lynda from Poolbeg I've nothing to be nervous about but, as I tried to explain to her, us Derry weemin are born worriers and constantly nervous about something.
The craic was great. Alyson from Waterstones was lovely and didn't freak me out. She must be used to dealing with emotional and highly strung authors.
Mostly however I was proud of not falling into a mad faux Dublin accent. (See my previous posts about my fear of saying 'eejit' and 'gas' a lot).
Anyway, it's 8 days now til Poolbeg release the book from their glorious premises in Baldoyle - which just about ties up with my 31st birthday. What a difference a year makes.

Well slap my ass and call me Gracie...

Had a quiet few minutes in work this morning so did what every self respecting woman would do in the same position and googled my book...
Then decided that since I'm having lunch on Tuesday with one buyers from Waterstones I'd have a wee look-see on their website.
And guess what it said?

SEVENTEEN DAYS UNTIL PUBLICATION.

SEVENTEEN. DAYS.

:)

Woman of the Year? Aye right!

Victoria Beckham has been named the UK Woman of the Year. If ever there was a sentence that screamed “What were the judges on?”, there it is.
I know Mrs Beckham has her fair share of fans but I fail to see the appeal. She was famous once for being in the Spice Girls, but what is she famous for now? Being married to a famous hubby? Wearing increasingly ridiculous outfits? Proving that women can survive with absolutely no body fat whatsoever? Making David Dickinson look a wee bit pale?
I hate to bitchy (no, actually that’s untrue, like most women I love a good bitch) but for the love of every thing pure what is it that inspired anyone to name the walking Twiglet their ‘Woman of the Year’?
You see, to me the title of ‘Woman of the Year’ should denote something of substance. It should refer to a woman who has made a positive difference to others. She doesn’t have to be some high and mighty intellectial creature who has brought about world peace, championed the battle against breast cancer or single-handedly saved the NHS from ruin. But surely she has to be something more than a woman who is most famous for wearing a slightly disturbing pout most of the time?
Then again, I’m not sure what I expected from the likes of ‘Glamour’ magazine. I, like many others, enjoy a wee bit of celebrity gossip and if you are going to find out who is doing what, and to whom, you could do worse than pick up a copy of ‘Glamour’.
But their lists of winners at this year’s awards does make painful reading. These are the women that they have deemed worthy of reward and recognition and they include a bag designer, Doctor Who’s assistant and Angelina Jolie for a special ‘Inspiration Award’. (Trust me I am rolling my eyes in an exaggerated “What the fudge is that about’ manner here).
What kind of an example are we giving to women and teenage girls? What are we telling them about what it takes to be successful and/ or popular. Trust me the feelings of inadequacy such awards generate stretch far beyond the remit of teenage girls struggling to find their identity. There are many women of all ages who look at these awards and wonder how on earth they bear any relevance to their lives.
For example Teri Hatcher was named ‘Writer of the Year’. Now I’ve gone on record before as saying I love the bones of Teri Hatcher. I wanted to be her when she was in ‘Lois and Clarke- The New Adventures of Superman’. I had the same bobbed hair cut and based my shoe buying decisions almost entirely on what I thought she would like. If I could swap my mundane existence in Derry for an hour or two on Wysteria Lane in the arms of the gorgeous Milke in ‘Desperate Housewives’ I would jump at the chance.
But the woman can’t write books. I bought her autobiography/ self-help book ‘Burnt Toast’ expecting it to be a funny, moving and scandal laden tome which would inspire further hair cuts, shoe buying expeditions and perhaps contain Dean Cain’s phone number.
It was one of only three books in my life which I have thrown across the room in disgust as I have been so disappointed with it’s content. It was just so mind numbingly bland that I gave up the will to live by chapter 6. It seems Ms Hatcher can’t do witty and quirky unless she has a team of ‘Desperate Housewives’ writers behind her.
There are reams of writers out there worthy of the accolade more than this former Lois Lane. The wonderfully talented Kate Long, the hilarious Marian Keyes - proper writers who’s life ambition and trade is to write, not to throw a book together between love scenes with the gorgeous Mike. But perhaps neither of those women fit into the lollipop headed mould of Ms Hatcher. (Me? Bitter and overweight? You betcha!).
Where were the ‘real’ women in these awards? Was it a pre-requisite to be a size double zero? Against the plethora of aneroxically thin nominees the six months pregnant and curvaceous Charlotte Church looked like an oversized Womble.
Being a part of the media I tend to shy away from arguments which state that our fine institution is solely responsible for a generation of anorexic and/or bulemic girls with low self esteem issues. In this case however, the facts speak for themselves. The women ‘Glamour’ magazine believes we should aspire too are all hold an unhealthy Body Mass Index and their claims to fame are questionable to say the least.
As a woman I demand we get some real heroines. I demand that we have women we can look up to without feeling insecure about ourselves, be it our physical appearance or our intellectual prowess. Where is the UK and Ireland’s answer to Oprah Winfrey- a woman who makes real differences every day between her charitable foundations, book clubs and emphasis on building self esteem?
It’s a sad reflection that the best we can muster up as a nation is Victoria Beckham. So as far as I’m concerned Glamour magazine can keep their Women of the Year Awards. It’s time for some changes.

It's out this month people!

News from Poolbeg is that Rainy Days and Tuesdays should be in the shops circa June 26 or 27, with an official instore date of July 2!

But anyway, this month people! THIS MONTH!!!

Moi? Freaking out? You betcha!

(Oh, and I'm now for sale on the Poolbeg website)

The Battle of the Mammies

A reader forwarded me an article this week about the new war being fought at school gates all over the country. As I started to read, my heart sank because again dear reader we were entering the domain of women fighting in a rather undignified manner between themselves as to who is the better parent. I
t seems, according to Lauren Booth (you know that one who was on I’m a Celebrity... and is a sister of Cherie Blair and.... well....nothing else really) the battle lines are now drawn between the Alpha Mummies and the Beta Mummies.
For those unfamiliar with the phenomenon an Alpha Mummy is the working mother who dashes between work, home and her off-spring’s many extra-curricular activities with military precision. Her children are raised on organic food and designer toys shunning the Tellytubbies and Tweenies for ‘Baby Einstein’ and classical music. She is always perfectly groomed and her children are dressed from the likes of Bennetton and speak several languages before pre-school.
According to Ms Booth the Alpha Mummy sees the home environment as a hot house for raising highly educated, well turned out children and mess has no place in her life. The Beta Mummy on the other hand doesn’t work. Nope she has chosen to stay at home with her children because she believes childhood should be about having fun and (of course) children can’t possibly have fun unless they are hanging off their mammy’s legs the whole time.
The Beta Mummy is wonderfully creative and the walls of her house are adorned with the brightly coloured masterpieces of her free spirit children. Lauren Booth likes to argue that it’s unsightly that parents seem to be arguing amongst themselves about who is the better of the two- but at the same time she shows quite clearly which side her bread is buttered on.
She is a Beta mummy and proud. Her daughter Alex is a free spirit and a “caring, loving child”- those children raised by working mothers on the other hand are destined to be “grade-obsessed, moneymaking machines”. What galls me most about the whole thing is that it’s obvious to everyone that not all stay at home mummies are free spirits who let their children do whatever they want - and not all working mothers are only interested in having perfect children who are prodigies in the making.
I, like many others, fall somewhere between the two. I work full time through necessity but that doesn’t mean I hot house my son or am only interested (as Ms Booth suggested) in having him as a status symbol or fashion accessory. (Which is a damn good thing given that usually he is kitted out in Tesco clothes covered in tomato sauce.)
It most certainly does not mean that I work because I “actually don’t want to spend time at home”. Yes, he did have a Baby Einstein DVD when he was wee, which incidentally he hated and I subsequently sold for a tidy sum on Ebay and yes, getting him out of the house in the morning requires a degree of meticulous planning but that doesn’t mean I don’t spend time with him painting silly paintings, jumping around the back garden or running along the beach letting him enjoy every ounce of his childhood.
I don’t think the fact that I encourage him to read books with me (well I read, he points and asks a thousand questions) means that I am impacting on his childhood in a negative way. If anything, it’s quite the opposite - our storytime is our favourite time of the day when we cuddle together and I get to make a plethora of funny voices without anyone looking at me as if I’ve completely lost the plot.
People seem very, very keen these days to box parents (and mothers in particular) off and call label them bad or good, dedicated or not, selfish or selfless. The reality is that very few of us fit into these neat wee boxes. There are days when I’m in uber mammy mode and I feel virtuous. Those are the days I take the wee man to ‘Toys R Us’ AND swimming, not to mention sitting down and letting him paint my kitchen floor, table, walls and encourage his free expression.
And then there are times when I’m just a normal mammy who raises her voice the odd time, threatens the naughty step, sticks ‘Cars’ on the DVD player for the jillionth time and melts to mush when he gives me a bedtime cuddle.
Through it all, be it a good mammy day or a normal mammy day the one common thread is that I am doing the best that I can. That, I would say, is true of all mothers. Some of us work out of necessity, some stay at home because they have no choice. Some are lucky to be able to make the choice that best suits them but very few of us set out to have a child without intending to love and nurture him or her the very best we can.
I would like Ms. Booth to know that there is no rule book for a happy childhood. A parent staying at home does not necessarily make for a more interested and loving parent, nor does a working parent mean that the child is not loved utterly and without reservation.

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