What's in a name?

My sister is currently winding her way towards the end of what seems like the longest pregnancy in history ever and even though the end is now in sight, she has a problem.
Her baby is as yet without a name. She’s knows the gender but has not been able to decided on a name befitting of the bump that has become known to us all as Peanut.
Naming a child, you see, is a pretty big deal. I had umpteen sleepless nights when I was expecting the boy as we tried to find (read that as agree on) a name that would suit our baby. I made my mind up very early on that should young baby Allan appear as a girl, she would be called Grace. However my husband, with his warped male logic, turned that down as it reminded him of John Innman in ‘Are You Being Served?’ (which was set in the fictional Grace Brothers’ Department Store).
Much as I tried to convince him his logic was, at best, completely illogical, he would not budge from his position and very soon we had to abandon the name Grace altogether. Which, in fairness, became less of a problem as I grew to suspect that the baby in my tummy was a boy anyway.
Now, no matter how you try and pretend, boys’ names are generally quite boring. It seemed that with a daughter there were a wealth of possibilities from Phoebe to Faith, Aoife to Niamh. When it came to boys’ names we were utterly stumped. (Being stumped of course being code for “the husband was so blinking fussy we couldn’t agree on anything”).
Eventually, about 10 weeks before he was due, I had a moment of inspiration. A friend suggested thinking of a name which had meaning to me and I just thought it would be lovely to name our baby after my late grandad - who was my childhood hero. Of course his first name was Ernest and we decided that would verging on child abuse so we opted for his middle name which is of course Joseph.
It was lovely, two weeks later, when a scan indeed reveal I was having a boy to have a name ready and waiting. (Although I had a minor hysteria induced moment in the labour ward when I made my husband promise that if the sonographer had been wrong we could in fact call the baby Grace as “she” would be born on a Tuesday).
The sonographer, however, had been right and we soon welcomed Joseph - with the middle names Peter (after my daddy) and David (after the husband’s daddy) into the fold.
Now people’s reactions to the name were mixed. I had one lady tell me off (yes, seriously, tell me off) in a shop for giving my child a name which could be shortened. I just nodded at her before making my escape from her shop without buying anything. My sister (she of the longest pregnancy in the world, ever) declared the name old-fashioned and decided she would be calling him Joe or Joey. (He is so not a Joey, for the record).
A nun visiting the hospital however declared it was lovely to see a baby with a proper name which would she would have no problem spelling or pronouncing.
We knew that we weren’t choosing a name that wasn’t as popular or trendy as Dylan or Jack or Ben but that it would always have meaning for us and that worked. This week (which is still very much part of the silly season as far as news reports go) there have been newspaper reports warning against the possible “extinction” of certain older names which have all but disappeared off the record books.
In fact, Ernest (sorry Grandad) is one of those which has lost popularity, alongside Percy, Herbert, Clifford, Stanley and Fred. For the girls, it seems we have lost favour with Annie, Gertrude, Margaret and Lilian. But if I think of the names of some of my friends’ children there are plenty of more traditional names in the mix.
There’s Lily, Charlotte, Maisie, Elizabeth, Matthew, Harry, Fred and of course Joseph.
A few years ago people would have considered any of these names a little out of favour. So I don’t think we really have anything to worry about. Names come and go in popularity. I swear the year I was born every second girl was called Claire. (I was named after the song ‘Claire’ - the moment I met you I swear...’ for the record). Okay, I don’t think my sister will be rushing out to call her new baby Herbert or Gertrude (see, I’m being very coy and not revealing which gender the peanut is) but that’s not to say that in 20 years time the names won’t see a resurgence in popularity.
And as for me, when the time comes to have another baby, I’m already preparing a plethora of reasons to knock down the husband’s wonky reasoning. I could get a Grace after all.

Dear American readers...

Do you think my sense of humour is too dark for your fellow countrymen?
Thus goes the rejection from a major US publisher today.
While they loved the work *happy dance* and thought I had a great energy *happier dance* they just weren't sure the Northern Ireland sense of humour would translate to the US market and that my humour was too dark.
I suppose we northerners have a certain darkness to us (years of living under the threat of paramilitaries etc will do that to a gal)... but surely someone wants to take a chance on me?
Will keep you posted.

Bizarre places you get your fashion inspiration

Okay, I'm a tacky magazine addict. I like to read my Take a Break (Tik a Brik) every week. It's trashy but it takes little effort when I've no energy for diving into a novel.
So anyway I'm flicking through Tik a Brik last night and come across a picture of a lady wearing a lovely purple dress with even lovelier purple knee high boots.
"Hmmm," I think, "I like that. I'd love something just like that for my book signing. If not the dress, then definitely the boots. Oh yes, I love the boots."
So I glance up and notice that the outfit of my coveting is from an ad for Always Envive - which for the non initiated are basically incontinence pads. (Or aids for bladder sensitivity, if we are being pc).
Which leaves me with two problems. The first is that I am no further forward as to where the boots can be purchased from. Should I therefore email Always not about their fine feminine hygiene products but about their ads and ask them nicely where I can get the boots? Would that make me look slightly insane?
The second problem of course if that if I tracked down the boots, and the dress, and dared to wear them would people look at me and say "She's the Always Envive girl. She has bladder weakness! Ha ha ha!"
You can see my dilemma.

It is just so typical of me to be excited by outfits designed to promote people who leak urine.

Good grief the comedian's my brother

My brother is a very funny guy. Seriously. A bit mad cap and not at all traditional, but very, very funny.
Anyway, he is the main writer for a group called 'Love the Concept' who are also all very funny.
So I'm sharing this moment with you, from their live show.
It's an Irish traditional rendition of MC Hammer's U Can't Touch This.
It makes me snort in a very indignified manner!

(My brother is the eejit in the Val Doonican stylee jumper on the left, btw)

Thus goes the big edit....

100 pages down, 265 to go (plus additions).

It's quite a good book, actually.

A funny thing happened on the way to my blog...

It's still early days as these things go... but here is the big reveal (For those who haven't guessed, which I think is no one).

Click on the link to discover my deepest, darkest, secret!

The way things are...

My husband and I (does that sound all posh and proper?) have had a nightmare of a year.
I can't begin to describe how hard things have been for us - and in particular for him for the last 12 months.
This time last year we heard the company he was working for was "restructuring" (make of that what you will) and he started to look for alternative employment.
He found some, albeit with a four hour commute each day, and settled in. Things were looking good and then in early November his father took seriously ill. We knew that David had been ill for a while but being that he was 81 and stubborn as a goat we kind of thought he would always be there.
It was a shock for us that my husband was called over to his bedside (in England) while I was left holding the fort and caring for the boy at home. It broke my heart more than words can say that I could not be with my husband and comfort him during his father's last days.
And it broke my heart more when he phoned me, in his matter of fact way, to tell me David had passed away.
I travelled over the following week for the funeral - where my husband gave the most impressive eulogy and made me proud beyond words.
We returned home and business being what it was, and the property market crashing, we soon realised the new dream job with the four hour commute was a nightmare. So my husband started looking for work again - taking time to grieve, I suppose in his stoic fashion, and to spend time with our son.
We didn't expect to wait long and things were getting hairy when 5 months down the line he still wasn't working. But he has surpassed himself. Three months ago he set up his own business which is growing nicely (I'm always afraid to say "huge success" for fear that it will fall down round our ears, but we are doing okay.) He works hard to provide for us.
But through all this, there have been times when I've felt like an observer on our life together. My mother in law died just before the two of us met. My husband never really showed that he was upset (I know he was, but he was very much of the stuff upper lip school of thought).
I suppose I just assumed he was the same with his dad died and his career hit a wall.
I know now he wasn't and a lot of that hurt, anger and grief is coming out now and it's up to me to be there and ride out the storm with him.
So I'm publicly promising him, here, that I'll do that. As the song says, Come What May.

The terrible four and a halfs...

I should preface this week’s column by saying I love my son.
He is the light of my life and generally speaking he makes me proud and happy more than he makes me want to tear my hair out and sit rocking in a corner having a wee cry. However at the moment we are experiencing a phase that few and far between parenting manuals warn you about.
We have landed, huffing, puffing and back-chatting into the terrible four-and-a-halfs and boy it makes it terrible twos look like a fun filled afternoon in Bananas.
The child - the son who I have always been impeccably proud of - has turned into a three and a half foot version of Victor Meldrew meets Kevin the Teenager.
Generally I consider myself to be well up on parenting matters, but I was so not prepared for this. I was expecting a glorious final summer with the boy before he started at big school and instead we’ve been spending more and more time issuing warnings, becoming familar with the naughty step and sticking stars on reward charts (or not, as the case quite frequently is).
I’ve had to zip my mouth closed not to make mention that this kind of behaviour won’t be tolerated at primary school as we have been warned not to use the big school as a threat - but the result is that I’m at the end of my tether.
Now when the boy is good - he is very, very good. He remains one of the most affectionate children on the planet who heaps kisses and cuddles on those he loves and is always ready to offer a hug is someone looks upset. He can also contentedly while away happy hours playing with his toys or his friends with not so much as a hint of a whinge.
But when he is bad.... well you know the rest. I wasn’t expecting to deal with the surly response of “Don’t want to. Don’t have to. Not going to. N. O. spells no” just yet. I was hoping to have at least nine years of a nice, lovely, respectable son to look after until that hit.
Nor was I prepared to hear phrases such as “Because I said so” or “Stop whining before I give you something to whine about” coming out of my mouth just yet. I imagined I would stay on my floaty (mostly) calm mammy cloud for another wee while and that we would have spent all spare time this summer skipping hand in hand along the sandy shores of Buncrana Beach or laughing madly as he hurtled down a slide in the playpark.
I suppose I was living in a happy parenting bubble where there were occasional flashes of tantrums and huffs but we more or less got on just fine.
Now I’m told it’s natural and just one of those phase things. I’m told that it’s common for children, just before they start at the big school, to have one major flurry of boldness to push the boundaries and come back from it all feeling reassured that you still love them. I’m told this - but I’ve only been told this in the last week or so.
It seems that this particular phase is yet another one of those parenting secrets that is only divulged on a need to know basis. In fairness if someone had sat me down at the start of this whole foray into the world of parenting and told me exactly, and in graphic detail, what I was letting myself in for I would have run screaming for the hills. Parenthood offers so many surprises that it is most certainly not for the faint hearted.
And yes while it is, for the most part, one of those life choices where the good outweighs the bad there are times when you seriously start to fantasize about it being a job you can take a holiday from. However these joyful little phases, it seems, are something you just have to ride out. But it has given me a glimpse into the teenage years to come and heart is filled with a sort of cold dread.
I remember so well when he was a little tiny baby and mad with colic and generally quite grumpy and I was like the living dead. “You think it’s hard now,” one well meaning ‘friend’ commented, “wait ‘til he’s older. That’s when the real hard work starts.” At the time I resisted the urge to point my puking baby in her direction, but now I think she might have had a point.
With all that in mind, however, it is my job as a parent to guide my child through these storms and remind him, even when he is doing my head in, that I do still love and I will forgive his tantrums and huffs because that is what mammies’ do.
And I knew that before signing up to the whole parenting deal. As many a good Derry mum has done before me, I’m just going to have to take my oil and get my happy child back on track.

It's not often the Daily Mail makes me whoop with joy

But it did today - thanks to this amazing, wonderful, positive article from Ulrika Johnson about her post-baby body.
What a refreshingly wonderful read. I personally want to jump to my feet and give Ulrika a standing ovation.

Think, live, dream... blog

This is stolen from Keris who linked it from Alex Beauchamp.
I'm sharing it because it has a message for everyone and especially for me.
I think sometimes we stop believing that we have a voice worth sharing and that we can make a difference. It feels arrogant sometimes to raise a hand and say "Yup, that's me, touching people's lives", but why should it be?
Anyway, enjoy this please.


Please go out there and do. Live. Don't be the same as yesterday. Don't live vicariously online. Don't use language that has no meaning or talk ideas you don't really live. Don't hide. Don't copy others or live their ideas or life. Don't fear doing your thing. Don't fear doing.
Instead of reading a decorating magazine, paint that room. Instead of thinking of baking, do up a cake. Run, walk, bike. Put that self help book down and pick up yourself.
Let go of the snark, your worries, your anger and fear and give into possibility, action, joy and life. Do. Do some more. Stop thinking about you. Stop blogging about just you and your kid and your pet.
There's a world out there to connect to, really connect to. Being of use is more important than being popular. Think about the lady down the street, the person at the drive through, the man fallen in the street, about politics, the environment, healthcare, another country and then do something about it. Never stop at thinking.
Dream big, work harder. Have lots of fun, lift a finger, do something for someone else. Cheer your friends on. Cheer yourself up. Celebrate as much as possible. Enjoy everything. Right now. It's OK to want more and do more but be present with where you are or who you are with. Don't rush the situation - even if it's bad. Move on when you can. Don't settle. Try everything you can and get over everything holding you back.
Go outside. Go outside yourself. Make a difference, make some change. Don't complain about someone unless you're talking to that someone. Don't complain about a situation you're not willing to make better. They don't have it better and you don't have it worse. Don't make excuses. You'll never see possibility if you do. And you're smart and worth more than settling for a life of complaining and limitation.
Hope. Hope more. Give someone else hope. Get healthy and contribute to a healthy environment. Think about everything you do, you buy, you say. Only be lazy on Sunday and even then, be conscious. Rest is useful, giving up is not.
Play. Remember what it's like to be seven. Remember to listen to a seven year old because you just have more words and life experience, not necessarily more wisdom. Have more questions than answers and don't put everything into words. Sometimes just feel things and be. Be quiet more often, listen harder, talk exactly as you mean to.
Strive for your best and not what you think someone elses' best is. Follow through. Don't let others down. Don't let yourself down. You are better than your circumstances. Ask for what you're worth. Make magic happen don't wish for it. Don't envy others' lives, envy yours. Live it fully. Teach by example how to live well, how to be treated, how to be kind, how to be alive.
Do. I can't stress that one enough. Take action on your life. Make the change. No more sulking, waiting, thinking, reading, talking about.


It's time. You're ready.

I think I'm going to call her Annie...

My new MC, that is.
I think it could work - although it's neither funky or Irish. It does however allow me to reference John Denver again which will keep my daddy happy.
The first chapter is forming nicely in my head - just have to do the actual physical work and write the damn thing.
Am hoping one of these days someone will invent some sort of brain reading machine which will allow you think your book and it magically appear on the screen.
However, I know that's likely to be hard - because my brain is a bit distracted generally and I'd probably get three lines of book, one line of random thought about dinner, one line about how Joseph is growing up, a weird thought about how my back/ legs/ tummy/ head is aching and then three more lines of book.
The edit might just kill me on that one.
(And of course I'm not avoiding the edit on Book 3 by thinking of Book 4... not at all).

Starting the big edit

The joy at having finished book 3 is seeping away as the task of editing the thing kicks in.
It's a strange mix of emotions - reading, editing, adding to a manuscript you have ceremoniously declared "Finis" not a week before.
First of all as you read it you weep tears of joy at the bits that work - at the dialogue, sense of place and lovely things you have basically forgotten writing. I some times think the good writer genie has come in and fiddled with my work in my absence like the wee elves from the Elves and Shoemaker. (I loved that book when I was little, by the way - all the fancy shoes with the fancy buckles...).
You also do a fair share of cringing too - at the mistakes, the bad sentence structure, the typos. (I drop small words a lot. I think it's a shorthand thing) Sometimes I read a sentence and wonder what the feckity feck I was thinking. It makes no sense. It has a joyful randomness. I can only think I battered down a line from whatever was on the telly at the time.
And sometimes you just want to cry when you realise there is a glaring plot hole that requires major surgery.

Still I promise myself that when this is done, I get to write the next one - and it's going to be a lot of fun.

Friday funny...

What happens when Ben 10 meets PC Plum, meets Bob the Builder?

Shock, horror! Nadine is human!

So Nadine Coyle has cellulite. Stop the presses. It seems that our lovely local lass’s legs are once again headline news - but the truth is, do we really care?
And do newspaper editors really think that we really care?
The Daily Mail this week (I know I shouldn’t read it, but it helps give me a focus for my anger) published one of those “shock, horror” type exposes about the 23 year old’s “losing battle with the dreaded dimple thighs”.
It makes it sound oh so serious, doesn’t it? There is something in the Mail’s reporting which puts the dreaded dimple thighs up there with Rabies, the Ebola Virus and Bird Flu.
We have to wonder how the stunningly beautiful, successful and talented young Derry wan gets out of bed in the morning. Surely the weight of her dimply thighs weigh her down to the bed? Surely, as she wanders about in her hot pants and designer Uggs the only thought going through her head should be the godawful state of her legs. The shame of it.
Of course when you look at the “shocking” photos of our Nadine, her “dimply thighs” look just fine. She may or may not have the eeniest bit of cellulite or it might just be a bruise.
Either way, I doubt she is losing much sleep over it. She is a fit, healthy and attractive young woman at the top of her game. She is among one of our most successful exports and has achieved the adoration and admiration of thousands of fans.
The pictures of her a week before performing at the Isle of Wight would have the average Derry woman turning green with envy. There wouldn’t be a chance in hell that I would ever, or will ever, fit into any of the figure hugging outfits La Coyle has been wearing, nor is there any chance that even nipping out to the shops I would look half as glam.
If The Mail want to see what real cellulite looks like they should stop off at Buncrana Road some morning where they will be able to see a harassed mammy/journalist/ author with dreaded dimple thighs that could make a grown man weep. (Or indeed a grown woman). W
e’re not likely to be shocked that Nadine has (possibly) some dimples on her thighs. If the average observer is anything like me they will be staring at their own definitely dimpled legs and wishing for a good dose of dysentry to shift a few pounds (or stone) and a year with a personal trainer to sort themselves out.
A few of us may even have started to look at the vacuum cleaner with a keen eye wondering if it would be at all possible to perform a DIY liposuction job.
Now I’m a journalist and I know that the summer season is a quiet one. It has long since been known as the “silly season” when stories which wouldn’t normally make the news seems to find their way to the front of the paper - but I don’t get how - even on the silliest of silly days, one little patch of imperfection on a singer’s legs is newsworthy.
Then again, in the same edition the paper debates whether Catherine Zeta Jones has gotten too skinny, discusses the £11,000 Britney has spent to get back in shape and lambasts Desperate Housewives star Nicolette Sheridan for her bingo wings. Radio One DJ Chris Moyles had an accident with some hair clippers too - so you know the paper has proved they can give men a touch as well.
But I do wish with all my heart that people just didn’t care who had cellulite, or who has lost a bit of weight or put on a few pounds. It’s just boring and all smacks a bit of the school bullies who sit at the edge of the playground trying to look tough and cool by slagging everyone else off.
I didn’t like those kind of girls in school and I don’t like them now as an adult. Surely there is nothing noble about spending your working day spotting imperfections in others and holding them up for the world to see. (By the way, before you write in, I’m aware I’m doing the same - but what I’m criticising here is lazy journalism - what they are criticising is ordinary women with imperfect bodies.)
There are few if any women out there who are flawless and I’m of the firm belief that she without wrinkles should cast the first jar of body firming cream.
I suppose, however, I should be envious - not only of Nadine and her designer pins - but also of those people out there in newspaper land who have nothing more substantial to worry about than which celeb has exposed a tiny flaw that day.

My new addiction

is 'Last Choir Standing' on BBC1 on Saturday evenings and last week I love, love, loved 'Revelation'.
Enjoy.



And



You don't get much of that passion around these parts - but to me it just sent shivers down my spine.
It is one of my biggest bugbears that I can't sing - really, really, can't sing.
And I wish I could get singing and dancing with this crowd - amazing.

Thinking of Siobhan

Are you one of those people who always, always reads the dedications in books and wonders what the story is?
Rainy Days and Tuesdays is dedicated to my friend, and former deputy editor, Siobhan McEleney.
Siobhan died almost three years ago, at the age of 47, leaving behind four beautiful daughters and a heartbroken family. It's fair to say that life in the Derry Journal has never been the same since she left us.
Today would have been Siobhan's 50th birthday (and she would have been raging that I'm telling you that).
Anyway, Siobhan pushed me on in so many ways - encouraging me to write, to find a voice, to get a book out there. I started writing Rainy Days and Tuesdays shortly after her death - her last words to me echoing in my ears: "Write something good for me".
Even now it's hard to believe she is gone - and when I walk into our office I still expect to see her at her desk. I still hear her voice echo around these walls and hear her encouragement when I need it (and bollocking when I need it too - she wasn't afraid to put you in your place if you deserved it).

So today, I'm pausing for a moment and remembering Siobhan and the strange twists of fate which bring us where we need to go.

Buy one... get one free

As a (weak) apology for not posting so much lately, here's a wee meme, stolen from Penelope.
I thought it was a leetle bit different.

I want to: take a deep breath, accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative
I want to make a difference to people I care about.
I want to think: a bit like Pollyanna and not always expect the worst.
I want to learn: all the words to 'American Pie' without having to use makey up words half way through.
I want to see: my dreams come true
I want to try: ski-ing, at some stage
I want to tell: the world my secret, which is apparantly the worst kept secret ever as my brother's ex guessed it and I've not seen her in about seven years!
I want to touch: the cool fresh sheets on my bed and have a wee sleep
I want to smell: nothing. I am nauseated.
I want to feel: as confidant as I make people think I am. (and I stole that answer from Penelope as it is just the same as mine)
I want to stop: worrying all the time.
I want to let go of: the paranoia which gets on my proverbials.

Right - back to business

I've just had two weeks off work. Not a fun kind of two weeks mind - two weeks of sick leave where I've been lying on the sofa watching Sex and the City and Doris Day movies which, admittedly, sounds kind of fun.
But I've also been sick and on proper doctor's orders to rest up and everything.
So yes, the blogging has suffered (says you, "It has suffered for the last month. You fly by night blogger who is no longer reliable") and for that I apologise. But I'm back at work today - feeling a little shaky and a little nervous and wondering how I'm going to manage without my mid afternoon snooze on the sofa.
I'm also back to the business of writing.
Book three - c'est finis in first draft form but now I'm hitting the rewrites already before submitting and I'm also starting book four.
Now what I need is a really kooky name for my MC in book four. I would have gone with Lola but Marian Keyes has done that already in 'This Charming Man' but I need something young, funky, vibrant and that would suit a 31 year old control freak.
Answers on a postcard - or blog comment below!

C'est finis

At 106,000 words - with a last line that actually made me cry - my third book 'Jumping in Puddles' was finished tonight.
There will be more work on it, before it hits the shelves (that's if Poolbeg accept it and agree to publish it - oh yes, they are allowed to say no, even now, after a year of hard work).
But this is my moment to sit back, cry and feel accomplished.

Oh, and in the spirit of my brain not working...

... and me posting links from blogs which have been my laugh, please enjoy this from Karen, a librarian and writer and general book friendly person.
I guarantee it will raise a smile!

The Wheels on the Bus Have Fallen Off

And it's almost, almost there...

Book three - almost done.
Be still my heart. I know what it happening now and when as I hit the last 5000 words. I just need to write the damn thing and hope it doesn't come across as fake or cheesy.
Still... nearly done... just a little further

Weird dreams you have approaching a book launch...

Okay so the countdown is on to the release of my second book which is called FEELS LIKE MAYBE and is really, really very good.
The official release date, according to Amazon in August 25 - with it filtering out to the shops in the week after that.

As with al great events in life once you start thinking about something a lot you start to have weird dreams about it.
Last night I dreamt Feels Like Maybe was launched in Villa Martin, Spain. The cast of Emmerdale (which I don't even watch) were there as guests of honour and Paula Campbell (Poolbeg boss lady and supermum) presented me with one of those toy rings you buy in the chemist for 99p as a thank you for my hard work. Oh, and she gave me a copy of my book signed by the local priest.
Now if that isn't an indication of just how fecked up my mind is, then I don't know what is.

It obviously a men in white coats kind of thing...

A while back I developed a rather unhealthy obsession with Dr Wilson from House aka Robert Sean Leonard. Now I've never found RSL attractive before - not even as a teenager when everyone and I mean EVERYONE in my class in an all girl convent school was mad about him after 'Dead Poet's Society' - but there is something about his deadpan humour against Hugh Laurie's devine House which makes me go weak at the knees.

Now for a long time I was fine with it - me and Wilson were getting along quite fine in our little fantasy world.

But now, House isn't on anymore on Channel 5 and my obsession has moved on. Now I'm a little late to the show with this one, but Patrick Dempsey as McDreamy in Grey's Anatomy is just divine.

I don't even mind watching Enchanted for the jillionth time (and it is a good film) just for that little scene where he makes Giselle angry and he's wearing a bathrobe and his chest hair is just peaking over... swoon.

How come every time I go to the hospital locally though, the doctors are not a bit as sexy?

Seems it's just not fair - but then again must remind myself that RSL and Patrick Dempsey are not actually real doctors but actors.

Although if they were real doctors there is a very high chance I would be a bigger hypochrondiac than I am already.

Okay - so here is (not quite) the deal

There is something going on in my personal life right - something fairly major that hopefully I'll be able to share with you all soon.
But at the minute I need as many good and positive vibes to wing their way to me.
If I've not been posting as much, or won't be over the next week, this is why. It's just that while this is happening I can't think of anything else.
It is there morning, noon and night. It doesn't go away.
So please, whatever you believe in, whatever way you have of sending good and positive vibes out there then please send them my way.
All donations gratefully received.

My so-called life

It's been hard to write about my life lately because nothing much has really happened.
Well, not much that is for public consumption anyway.
So I was thinking, if this was my dream life (and it's a nice life I have, by the way, just kind of uneventful) it would go something like this...

Hello darling reader, welcome to my blog post today.
I'm writing this from my day bed. Does that sound terribly glam? I hope so, because it is. Unfortunately it's a little too warm here today but thankfully George doesn't mind waving that big fan for me. He is such a darling!
Well, what to report? Can you believe it? The bidding war for my latest novel has reached epic proportions. They say there has never been anything like it before and there isn't likely to be anything like it again. One publishing house has told me "this is as near to perfection as it comes". I was a bit annoyed by the use of the word "near" but then opened another bottle of champers and forgot all about it.
George (Clooney, btw, in case you wondered) and I have chartered a private plane for later. We're off to meet with Brad and Ang and the twins. I'm going to be godmammy, isn't that delicious? I've ordered them a couple of cars and some diamonds for a welcome present. Not sure about the name Knox, but I'm sure it will grow on me.
When we're done with the babies, we're coming back to our island retreat. Westlife (don't mock!) are flying in later to perform a private concert and they have promised not to sing that Bye Bye Baby shite song. I'm going to join in for "Total Eclipse of the Heart" though - I've bought a big wig and everything. What fun!
Anyway, til tomorrow, stay classy.

45 rules of life

I read this post yesterday on Learning to Live with the Hassle and I loved it. (I also thought it a very Fionnuala type thing to post, so I'm getting in there first.

1. Life isn’t fair, but it's still good.
2. When in doubt, just take the next small step. (Except when you're standing on the edge of a cliff)
3. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. (Or being jealous for that matter - cheesy as it sounds, everyone - even Jimmy Carr - has a redeeming feature)
4. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.
5. Pay off your credit cards every month. (This is the joke answer? Right?)
6. You don’t have to win every argument. Agree to disagree.
7. Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone.
8. It's OK to get angry with God. He can take it.
9. Save for retirement starting with your first paycheck. (No, okay, I take back what I said about number 5 - this is the joke one)
10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile.
11. Make peace with your past so it won’t screw up the present. (What's done is done and what's won is one and what's lost is lost and gone forever - as Phil Coulter would say)
12. It's OK to let your children see you cry
13. Don't compare your life to others'. You have no idea what their journey is all about. (Or where they have been or where they are going.)
14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it.
15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye. But don't worry; God never blinks.
16. Take a deep breath. It calms the mind.
17. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.
18. Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.
19. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up to you and no one else.
20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don't take no for an answer.
21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, and wear the fancy lingerie. Don't save it for a special occasion. Today is special.
22. Over prepare, and then go with the flow.
23. Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple.
24. The most important sex organ is the brain.
25. No one is in charge of your happiness, except you.
26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words: 'In five years, will this matter?'
27. Always choose life.
28. Forgive everyone everything. (Except perhaps your best friend for not telling you about that ladder in your tights...)
29. What other people think of you is none of your business.
30. Time heals almost everything. Give time, time. Sometimes it just takes a lot longer than you think it will.
31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change.
32. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends will. Stay in touch.
33. Believe in miracles.
34. God loves you because of whom God is, not because of anything you did or didn't do.
35. Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.
36. Growing old beats the alternative--dying young.
37. Your children get only one childhood. Make it memorable. (And make it memorable in a good way)
38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved.
39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere.
40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we'd grab ours back.
41. Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need.
42. The best is yet to come.
43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.
44. Yield.
45. Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift

Okay be warned...

It's a picture of a big fecking scary fish.

I might have to avoid my own blog for a while now - just ya know, cos it's so scary.

Can you imagine the trauma of that fecker swimming up beside you while your out for a wee paddle with your rubber ring and arm bands?

Irrational fears I have had

I hate fish. I mean, I really, really hate fish.
They scare me with their scaly skin and beady wee eyes and feathery fins and they are not my friends.
Now I know that as a child I choked on a fishbone which required a mercy dash to A&E - but I have no conscious memory of that event so I can't really blame it for my phobia. But still, fish freak me out.
There is nothing as guaranteed to make my stomach flip in an act of stomach churning bokingness as a wee sliver of fish skin on a fish supper from the chippy. Except of course one of those dirty big plates of Paella the husband insisted on eating in Spain. Why anyone needs actual shells in their dinner is beyond me.
So today, at work, you can imagine my horror at seeing a story and indeed picture in our system of a 15 stone (FIFTEEN FECKING STONE) halibut caught in Donegal this weekend.
I feel all swoony and weak and yet my eye is drawn to the picture like a moth to a flame.
There is a reason I have a phobia of the sea and refuse to go further than ankle deep into Donegal's fine coastal waters and that is it.
I may need a wee lie down.
(If enough people ask, by the way, I will publish the picture)

Remember, remember the 12 of July

It's all gone very quiet round these here parts today.
The reason is that it is the 12th of July and official marching day of the Orange Order and public holiday largely celebrated by the Unionist community.
I don't like the 12th of July and there are reasons thus.
Everything closes down - even shops which only ever close on Christmas Day. They do this in case there is "trouble".
Which brings me to the second reason I don't like the 12th of July - sometimes there is trouble. Now there hasn't been trouble in a couple of years close to where I live - or at least the trouble there has been has been relatively low key. (Few burnt out cars, wee fecking hoods pegging stones).
But it's just the whole old fashioned, bigotry fired, flag waving, triumphalism of it all that really gets on my tits.
Yes, I get that a community has a right to celebrate dates which are important to them but this does, from my perspective, feel intimidating. The bang of the drum, the flying of the flag, the wee hoods (from both side of the community, I hasten to add) stood out in their respective Celtic or Rangers tops waiting for trouble.
The marching season is what reminds me that Northern Ireland really hasn't moved on that far at all.

Och aye the noooo!

Am very sorry not to have posted recently but was away in Scotland having a verily lovely time with my friend Vicki.
The weather mostly held out and we enjoyed some glorious sunshine - and some nice chats with and without the kiddiewinkles.
Have come back very tired, and nicely chilled and now am setting about the rest of my week.
All being well I pick up my new car tomorrow. Mr Allan has purchased me a lovely new (to us) Suzuki Liana and it's only three years old!
Considering the current car outside my house is 368 years old and I have to power it by running really, reall fast through the holes in the rusty bottom* I am excited. The new vehicle has power steering - the sheer luxury of it. I'll be all affected with myself and talking in a posh voice while I get used to the electric windows and ABS.
Knowing me I'll crash the fecker on the way home from the garage.
Anyway, will update more tomorrow when I'm not so utterly knackered but sorry for leaving y'all hanging.
If you want something worth reading, nip over to Keris' blog where she is posting gorgeous pictures of dream houses. She is also sharing my obsession with that new choir show on BBC One - and indeed the renditions of Shackles by two of the choirs. I agree with all she has said, so you might as well just read her stuff as my ability to form coherent sentences is fecked.

~Oh, and the OCD is back. Watching Big Brother tonight my only thought was "If I lived there, I would HAVE to clean that luxury bedroom." How do they live like that?





*Only very mild exaggeration, promise!

Sometimes, it's hard to be a woman

I’ve always considered myself a feminist. I am a woman, therefore I am in favour of the promotion of equal rights for women. It seems very much like a no-brainer for me.
Now I know there is a view out there that us feminists are scary creatures who don’t shave our armpits and wander about bra-less plotting ways to do away with the male sex. The truth is really quite different. For one, I do shave my arm pits and I need the structure of and support of a good bra. I’m not getting any younger and gravity is taking its toll.
And secondly I don’t hate all men - a select few drive me to distraction - but then again so do a select few women.
What feminism, to me, is about is women having rights to make choices. If we want to work, we work - but we get paid the same as our male colleagues for it. If we want to stay at home, we are supported to do so and our role as a mother is valued. It’s also about the most basic of human rights.
Without the feminist movement it would still be legal for rape to occur within a marriage. A woman would not be able to apply for a mortgage or credit without a male relative’s signature. We would not be able to control our fertility on our terms. We would not have access to education in the way we do now and it would still be acceptable for a male colleague to act inappropriately towards us and get away with it.
Again, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a no brainer that women - all women - should be in support of such rights. I don’t think it makes any of us hairy legged hippies who are expecting the unreasonable.
But still there are a lot of people who don’t like the word. There are also a scary amount of people out there who think that feminism won its battle in the 60s and 70s. An article I read this week showed that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Are you a fan of Dragon’s Den? Do you admire the great minds who dole out the money and business advice week in and week out? I have to admit I quite like it - it’s a bit of entertainment but when I read the comments of one of the judges, Theo Paphitis, this week the red mist descended. He commented that women "get themselves bloody pregnant and ... they always argue that they'll be working until the day before, have the baby, go down to the river, wash it off, give it to the nanny and be back at work the following day, but sure enough, their brains turn to mush, and then after the birth the maternal instincts kick in, they take three months off, get it out of their system and are back to normal".
Worse still is Sir Alan Sugar - you know that man we are all supposed to look up to who commented on legislation regarding asking women about their marital status or plans to have children saying: "You're not allowed to ask, so it's easy," said Sugar, "just don't employ them."
And they say the feminist cause is old hat? If you ask me it’s more relevant now than it ever was.
Further on in the article, which appeared in this week’s Guardian, it reported that rape convictions in Britain have plummeted from 33% in the 70s to just 5.7% today, and that the 14,000 rapes reported each year are thought to be the tip of the iceberg.
Women’s bodies are objectified now more than ever - and what is most worrying is that it seems we women are the one’s doing the objectifying. Each and every one of us, I imagine, has poured over the gossip mags commenting on how fat one celeb is and how thin another is. We comment on what they wear, if their tan is over done, their latest hair styles and the cellulite on their bodies as if it actually our business. It’s not, of course, but somehow we think it is.
We don’t do the same with men and there is not the same interest in the media in a man who has piled on the pounds or worn a less than flattering outfit. And while all this happening, the feminist movement is being pilloried or ridiculed or just pushed to one side not only by men but also by women. There is a real apathy out there to women’s rights which worries me and which should worry. I’m not suggesting we run out and burn our bras (as I’ve said, I need the support) but perhaps it is time we starting making our voice heard.
If Theo Paphitis and Alan Sugar have such an obvious anti-women attititude then do we really want them on our TV? Do we really consider that brand of mysgonist oafishness entertainment? Is it about time we started asking questions regarding the successful prosecution of rapists and abusers? Surely there is a reason numbers have dropped so dramatically and surely we have a right to know what that reason is. We also have an obligation to question a media which puts so much focus on a woman’s physical appearance.
Feminism isn’t done and dusted - not by a long shot. If anything, it is only just beginning.

Random songs from a newspaper office...

Was going to do Random Conversations today, but honestly most of what is said on a pre-publication day is unrepeatable.
But at least we are happy in our work. We like to have a wee sing on a Thursday. (Not in a Kumbaya, all round the campfire way - more in a random bursting into a line of a song now and again way).
Today we've had quite a few, most notable "My Lovely Horse" from Father Ted.
This has been followed by "All Kinds of Everything" by Dana - Derry's Eurovision winner and an occasional burst of "Listen to the Rhythm of the Falling Rain" by Jason Donovan.
It's almost 4pm so just about time for our Inishowen editor to clap his hands together and sing the first line of "Summertime".

As I said, you don't have to be crazy to work here...

Nearly there...

Book three - I'm so close to finishing I can almost feel it!
I'm getting ready to finish that book, have a wee cry and smash a glass into the fire ala Kathleen Turner in "Romancing the Stone" (except that we cant light a fire due to a collapsing chimney incident and I can't drink at the moment). Pouring a half drunk glass of Diet Coke down the sink doesn't have the same class does it? Even if I am crying into the kitchen roll while I do it.
I promise I'll post more once I have that bloody thing finished - honestly.

So while we're waiting for normal service to resume, here's a book MeMe...

1) Which book do you irrationally cringe away from reading, despite seeing only positive reviews?
The new Cecelia Ahern - sorry Cecelia. I just disliked the last book so much I can't bring myself to try again. i'm assured "PS I Love You" is brilliant though and I might try it one of these days.

2) If you could bring three characters to life for a social event (afternoon tea, a night of clubbing, perhaps a world cruise), who would they be and what would the event be?
Rachel from Rachel's Holiday, Auntie Anna from my next book 'Feels Like Maybe' and Mags from Sharon Owens "Revenge of the Wedding Planner" and we would all have a liquid lunch in a nice city centre bar and laugh til we peed.

3) (Borrowing shamelessly from the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde): you are told you can’t die until you read the most boring novel on the planet. While this immortality is great for a while, eventually you realise it’s past time to die. Which book would you expect to get you a nice grave?
Oooh this is a tough one. (Always mildly in awe of anyone who has written a book) but shamed as I am to admit it, because I've read it and think it is the most overrated book of all time it would have to be "Catcher in the Rye". Oprah recommended it and I bought it thinking Oprah could do no wrong. Turns out she can. It's rubbish and Holden Caulfield needs a good slap.

4) Come on, we’ve all been there. Which book have you pretended, or at least hinted, that you’ve read, when in fact you’ve been nowhere near it?
I tend to be honest about what I've read, or not, but I have a huge "to read" pile building up.

5) You’re interviewing for the post of Official Book Advisor to some VIP (who’s not a big reader). What’s the first book you’d recommend and why?
Well, duh, Rainy Days and Tuesdays. One more reader always helps.

6) A mischievous fairy comes and says that you must choose one book that you will reread once a year for the rest of your life (you can read other books as well). Which book would you pick?
Rachel's Holiday, by Marian Keyes - the only book I've been able to reread over and over.

8) That good fairy is back for one final visit. Now, she’s granting you your dream library! Describe it. Is everything leather bound? Is it full of first edition hardcovers? Pristine trade paperbacks? Perhaps a few favourite authors have inscribed their works? Go ahead-let your imagination run free.
I have had this dream! It's a pale blue room in an old house with huge bay sash windows, the frames painted white. I have floor to ceiling shelves in dark wood along one wall, filled with my favourite reads (and yes, I love Trade Paperbacks, so let's go with that!). On the opposite wall, there is an old fashioned fire place and decorating that wall are framed posters advertising my books.
There is a dark leather seat and footstool - just the one - where I sit and read and a music system is piped in. The room gets the light in the evening and no one else in the whole world is ever allowed in.
*sigh*

Summer, summer where for art thou summer?

It's raining again, but I've developed a bizarre stubborness against it.

I REFUSE to wear a coat. It's very childish and not at all helfpful but damn it, it's July. I reserve the right to leave my jacket in the car even if it does mean I'm walking into the office like a drowned rat.

My hair, which was cut and then straightened beautifully on Saturday has now gone into a poodle head formation not unlike that sported by Gail Platt in Coronation Street.

My feet, in my new silver pumps designed not to send me running for the chiropractor every three seconds, are saturated and squish when I walk.
It's JULY people. JULY. Just a dry day! It doesn't have to be particularly warm. It doesn't have to be hot. But for the love of God people can we get some dry? Just a little?

You know how people have their dirty little secrets...

Mine is that as a teenager I was obsessed.. and I mean obsessed... with Bros. Not as much as Keris was, in fairness but that's only because she lived closer and could take her stalking to a whole new level.
I just admired from a far, and it was the saddest regret of my teenage years that I never saw them in concert.
Now, however, it seems as if my dreams could come true.
I received this email from a friend today..

We've had the return of New Kids On The Block, Take That and Boyzone - and now a Bros comeback could be on the cards.Former lead singer Matt Goss has revealed the three members of the former boyband have been discussing a reunion tour: "Being in a band is like being a politician, you've got to make sure everyone is happy. But Luke, Craig and definitely myself - we're all up for it."Speaking at the premiere of his twin brother Luke's latest film Hellboy II: The Golden Army, Matt explained it's mainly a question of getting everyone's schedules in sync: "If we can make the numbers work and the venues work, then we're all up for it."The group had 11 Top 40 singles and three Top 20 albums in the UK, with songs including I Owe You Nothing, When Will I Be Famous? and Cat Among Pigeons - and Matt reckons it'd be fun to play the songs live again."I had the best time," he revealed. "I think everyone that went to see Bros gigs had the best time and that's the one reason we all agreed it'd be a good laugh if we did it."He added that their army of passionate teenage fans may have grown up now, but they aren't any less crazy."They're still pretty insane," he said. "They weren't too cool for the room, they knew how to have a good time. That's the way I feel."

So Penelope, I see your Neil Diamond obsession and I raise you two bottle tops and a paisley patterned bandana.
I'm practising my husky "oooooaaaaahhhss" as we speak.

Apologies for the lack of posting

You know how sometimes you reach the stage where even though you aren't actually saying anything out loud your brain is going into overdrive all the time so it feels as if you are chatting nine to the dozen?
It's been one of those weeks so even though I've not been blogging as much as usual it feels very much as if I have gabbing non-stop to you all and filling you in on all the useless little details of life chez Allan.
Anyway, we bade (bid? Bidded?) the nursery school a fond farewell on Friday. It was a highly charged moment, saying goodbye to the teachers. His key worker hugged both me and him and then started to cry, which started me to crying all the same.
I'd like to think her tears were of sadness at saying goodbye rather than relief.
I'm now trying to explain to the boy what it means to have eight weeks of summer holidays where he won't have to go to school once. He doesn't get it. He is all set for P1 on Monday - it's going to be a long eight weeks.
I'm now counting down til the start of next week when I go to bonny Scotland for two days to see my gorgeous friend Vicki. I am stupidly excited, but mildly dreading the faff that is Ryanair. I tell you cheap flights are a thing of the past. The boy is going with me, and is also very excited - because Vicki is the owner of a surly cat. The boy likes all animals - surly or not - which is probably why he gets along so well with me.
Anyway, sorry this is boring, and random and all - but as soon as the voices in my head shut up, I'll tell you my potentially very exciting news in glorious technicolour.

Just when I thought life was getting too tough...

I discovered that my local Sainsbury's sell the answers to all my prayers.

While in there today perusing the aisles for suitable gifts for the boy's teachers I happened upon the chocolate aisle.

While I was getting dizzily excited at the big old boxes of Green and Blacks, I found this little beauty staring out at me.

Now I've posted before about how Wednesday afternoon is a bit nuts around my workplace, so this was the perfect thing to bring back.

I'll let you know how long it lasts...

So anyway.... back at the ranch

The damned fireman song is still stuck in my head - on a very annoying loop of NEENAWS. I don't even know all the words. I just make them up and the boy looks at me with a strange - and mildly disappointed - look as if I really should know better.
I went home from work last night after vay vay stressful day (will tell you all about it when I'm done with Therapy and written my bestselling book 'The Journal Years - How to Stay Sane in the Workplace').
You know that old sign you see in dodgy taxi offices and greasy spoon cafes which states "You Don't Have to Be Crazy To Work Here, But It Helps..." - well that's really, really true here.
Anyway - sorry have done Billy Connolly style tangent thang there - I went home from work yesterday to the smell (read that as stench) of sick. The boy clambered on my knee and told me he had a wee bug in his tummy which had climbed up and out of his mouth and he wanted only his "mama" to watch him. The boy does this you see, reverts to baby status when he is ill. He wants only his "mama" and he puts on a pathetic little voice with occasional whimpering and barking. (He refers to himself as the puppy, or pupster - should I be worried?).
I was delighted when he eventually went to bed but was less delighted when two hours last he puked all over his bed - and I mean ALL OVER his bed.
Now, I'm not good with puke. I don't handle it well, but since becoming a mum I've developed a little more of a tolerance. Generally I can manage to clean up the vilest smelling vomit without retching my guts out - last night?...Not so much.
I had to beg the husband to deal with situation while I tended to the child. It was him who had to (don't read on if you are of a sensitive disposition) shake the lumps off the bedsheets and sort the washing machine out. I was grateful beyond words to him - although he has quite rightly developed the hump over it. I may have to ply him with beer and expensive cuts of meat.
So today the pupster said he was okay to go to school, so I took him. There have been no reports of mass vomitings since. Although I do still feel quite queasy at the thought.

So everyone join in... NEENAW, NEENAW, NEENAW, down the pole we go...

Random things stuck in my head

I am a firefighter
I wear a yellow hat
And when I hear the alarm bell ring
I know there's a fire to put out
So I down the pole I slide so fast
And into my engine I go
Driving through the traffic with my siren going so..
NEENAW NEENAW NEENAW, down the pole I go
NEENAW NEENAW NEENAW, up the ladder I go
NEENAW NEENAW NEENAW, spray the water on
Rescue all the people, until the fire's gone.


I may be losing my mind. So if you see me, muttering to myself today, or rocking gently - don't worry. I'm just singing my song.

Slow down, you're moving too fast

I went into the boy's nursery this morning and they were packing up.
We have five days left and yet they were handing out the spare changes of clothes, toothbrushes and library bags and telling us to take them away on home with ourselves.
Do they not know it is emotional enough for us parents? (See how I'm thinking of us and not the kids - who seem most non-bothered by the whole thing).

Fasten your seatbelts blogland, we're in for a bumpy week.

Moving on

On Wednesday of this week I sat through my son’s farewell concert at Nursery School and left feeling not only immensely proud of him but also immensely proud of myself.

I didn’t cry, or gurn, or make a complete eejit of myself and I had been quite seriously concerned that I would. For the last year I have dropped him off each morning trusting the staff will care for him, educate him, treat him with respect and - if I’m honest - love him.

Letting your child take the first faltering steps into any school setting is daunting - especially when you are a control freak like me. From the minute and hour he was born I was able to, more or less, control his environment.

I looked after him the way I wanted him looked after and when I went back to work I made sure there was someone I trusted implicitly to shower him with as much love as I had.So when it came to choosing a school - picking teachers who would start him on his road to big school - I was utterly daunted.

You see, you can’t really interview a teacher. You can’t send them buckets of information on your child and then test them to see how much they remember before you offer them the gig. Yes, you can have a look around the school and talk to a few different parents but all the while a small voice in your head is shouting “but they’ve never looked after my child before”. I sat night after night and thought of all his quirks and wondered how could they ever know just how to soothe him, reassure him and encourage him the way I do.

A very sick and selfish part of me wanted them to fail - wanted him to cling to my legs and tell me that he wanted me and only me because no one looked after him as well as I did. And while I was glad that particular (and very, very small) wish didn’t come true it took a degree of restraint on the day I left him there for the first time - and watched him run through the doors without glancing back - to stop me from running after him and clinging to his legs instead.

The day my child started nursery was the day I realised he doesn’t need me quite so much as I need him.

That stung a bit and it took a leap of faith to leave him in the care of relative strangers. I was in serious danger of coming over all Gollum-like and cradling him to me whispering “my precious” over and over again in a creepy voice.

But he started to thrive there - he loved almost everything about it and would get annoyed at weekends because there was no school. (Yet again another blow to the fragile maternal ego). He would come home and explain his day to me and if I’m honest teach me a few things too.When I dropped him off in the mornings the teachers would talk to me and keep me informed as to how he was getting on.

They would laugh at his little quirks (Joseph has a habit of speaking ever so politely when he doesn’t want to do something eg: “No thanks, I don’t think I’ll bother with that today.”) and constantly ask me if I had any questions or concerns. I had a sense all the time that they did actually love him, and the rest of the 56 children in the school.So fast forward a year and it’s time to say goodbye.

I’ve been stupidly emotional about it, just as I have been about him starting “big school”. I have already, to my shame, cried at his induction meeting and had a mild meltdown buying his school jumper and tie.IndependentThis was all made that little bit more emotional when I met with his nursery teachers to discuss his progress over the year. It dawned on me, as they spoke, that he has learned a myriad of things over the past year and not only the educational basics like how to hold a pencil and how to count to 10.

He has learned how to be a more independent, caring and confident little boy. He is far removed now from the babyish, slightly spoiled, wee boy who walked in the doors of Galliagh Nursery School in September.I feel confident that he will move on and excel in his new school just as much - but parting is not easy, and again I think in many ways it will harder for me than for him. I have an urge to cling to the legs of his teachers and beg them to keep looking after him. I’ve got used to walking in the gates every morning and chatting with the other mummies.

Over the year I’ve learned how every toy in the place has an educational purpose and every activity has been pushing him on.When his teacher told me that letting go is difficult from their side too - that they in many ways like they have been gifted your child for a year - I was a lost cause.

My other half had to mop me out of the school car park and assure me it will all be fine.I never realised before how moving schools could be just as emotional for the parent as for the child. It’s fair to say that for me too it has been a steep learning curve, but I’ll always be grateful to the staff of Galliagh Nursery School for how they cared for that which is most precious to me. And I just hope his new school will do the same.

It's time to bring Ouiser out again

Meet Ouiser. Ouiser is the woman I'm going to be in 30 years. Heck, today I AM Ouiser.

She is that very famous character from Steel Magnolias who said "I'm not crazy, I've just been in a bad mood for the last 60 years" (Or whatever that figure is, can't remember and can't be arsed to check because I'm in a Ouiser mood).

When I'm in one of these moods everything irritates me - and I mean everything. People breathe too loud. They talk rubbish when I just want some quiet. The price of petrol irritates me, as does the fact that the air conditioning is shite in my workplace. Keira fecking Knightly irritates me with all that "I'm not sick, this is my natural frame" bollocks. It is no-one's natural frame to look as if they might actually snap in two at a moment's notice. Eat some fecking Ben and Jerry's love - you can afford it.

It's almost Friday - House is on the telly tonight as is Gray's Anatomy but I'm so bubbling over with mad GRRRRRness I don't care.

I think I might just have to stop off at the off-licence on the way home, and some chocolate and maybe a chippy tea. Feck the diet - Ouiser would.

The saga of the chicken continues...

So last night I finished work at a more Christian hour and decided it would be the night for marinading the damn chicken. I set to work toasting my coriander seeds and crushing them, all the while wondering I couldn't just use damned coriander powder and save myself the trauma of hot, smelly seeds bouncing all over my kitchen.
Marinade made, and chicken soaking nicely, I put the boy to bed and set about preparing the rest of the meal. Himself was much impressed with the smell of it, but looked dubious about the physical appearance.
He was even more dubious when he saw the diet sized portion of rice I was offering him.
My "made for two" portion was smaller than his usual single effort.
After much toiling and using every utensil in the house I sat down to eat my dinner.

It was horrible.

Back to the drawing board.

Do you ever get one of those days?

When you just didn't know what to write about?
My brain is just so all over the place in a completely floopy stylee that no matter how hard I've tried to think of a witty and interesting blog post - it's just not happening.
I think I might be weak from the lack of food (see chicken rissotto experience below). Either that or I just have to admit to myself that my life is actually very boring and nothing much happens on a day to basis.
I could write what last night entailed, but honestly you would shed tears of sheer boredom. More likely though I'm in the end stages of book three and it's just about all my brain can contemplate at the moment - yesterday I was obsessed with linear structure, even though I'm not entirely sure what that means.
But the book is wrapping up and all four characters are dancing around in my head like mad things shouting "my turn, my turn, my turn" while I'm sitting with my hands over my ears shouting "la la la la la, can't hear you" over and over again.
Normal service will resume shortly - I promise.

A healthy eating rant for today...

Yesterday I went back to my GI roots. I've been reading The Amazing Adventures of Diet Girl and have been inspired to start treating my body nicely.
I've been fairly good the last few weeks but now, well, it's serious.
So last night I was armed with all the necessary ingredients to make the Tesco Diets approved Spicy Chicken and Rice. It was 7pm and I was STARVING. (Although not actually starving - just very hungry. Am always telling Joseph he is not "starving" and starving is much, much worse than not having eaten in five hours...)
So weigh out my ingredients, chop my onion, get my cumin and coriander out and a variety of pots and pans.
It's 7.10 now.
Read instructions (or constructions as my niece calls them) - yadda yadda make sauce, yadda yadda marinade chicken in sauce for ONE HOUR!
There was no way my tummy was waiting one hour, plus cooking time for raw chicken, for dinner.
Scrap that.
It's 7.15.
Decide to cook Chicken stuffed with Mozarella - put away Spicy chicken ingredients and start to sort out new ingredients- quickly realise have no fresh basil. The basil that sat on my windowsill has long since withered and died.
Scrap that.
Now have pile of dishes of ingredients which need packed away, cleaned etc. So do dishes.
Start again.
It's 7.25pm.
Realise (Hurrah!) I have all the necessary ingredients to make chicken rissotto in low fat stylee - including fancy Arborio rice. In our house rice usually comes in either white or brown.
Start cooking - gently heat onions, garlic, thyme and then chicken - brown it nicely.
Then start with the stock.
Pouring a small measure (let's call it a spit) at a time into the pan until it is absorbed in the rice.
Am not convinced it is being absorbed at all - believe it is simply evaporating despite pan being on a low heat.
Whole process should (that's *should*) take 15 minutes.
It's 8.10pm.
It's still not ready.
My spicy chicken would have been marinaded by now.
Meanwhile the child is going wild on You Tube watching Ben 10 videos - one of which I discover is named "Ben 10 porn". Have to, between stirring in the spit of stock, encourage him to watch Cbeebies or play with his toys while woefully neglecting our "quality time".
8.20 - it's ready.
Is Arborio rice supposed to be mildly crunchy? Perhaps it is. Am philistine and only know that white and brown is not crunchy. Actually don't care any more. Have started to eye up raw chicken with a fervently hungry glint.
Serve it onto plate... one of the boy's little eeny Thomas the Tank Engine Plates under the misguided notion that a fuller small plate is more psychologically rewarding than a empty bigger plate.
Plate is still empty - there is a small (about half a plate) lump of crunchy, browny, gloop staring back at me.
Eat it anyway.

It's 8.30.

Who said healthy eating was easy?

Back from a short break...

Sorry for not blogging on Friday - I was doing something very exciting. (Not that blogging isn't exciting, ya know... but drinking and having a night off from being a mummy is marginally more exciting).
On Friday I travelled to Belfast to meet with some writer friends. These are the ladies I've been chatting to through the Write On Irish Girls site, Write Words and just on email and we had been promising for a long time together for food and drink.
And indeed there was food and drink (and lots of both).
End result is that on Saturday I was reduced to a snoring heap trying to wake up and not eat my body weight in Kentucky Fried Chicken. (I resisted - hurrah!).
It was deeply refreshing and lovely to get together with girls who chatted about all the same things I did - who's eyes didn't glaze over at the mention of edits and POVs. And while writing took up a lot of our conversation time, we also just had a damn good giggle.
Which was good really because I'm not very giggly today. I'm not all floored with depression either - just feeling mildly emotional as I've just bought the boy's school uniform. Surely he is too young? Much, much too young?

In other news I've written my "About the Author" for Feels Like Maybe... which will be released in two months!

Claire Allan was born and raised in Derry, where she still lives with her husband Neil and their four year old son Joseph. She is a self confessed homebird and spends more time with her parents than is normal for a grown woman.
She has worked as a reporter with the Derry Journal since 1999.
In her (very limited) spare time she loves reading, watching films with happy endings and drinking cold wine with friends.
Claire remains addicted to buying inexpensive handbags and shoes from Tesco and Next. She is actively seeking a 12 step programme to deal with her chocolate addiction.
Feels Like Maybe' is her second novel. You can visit her website at www.claireallan.com

Don't I just sound lovely?

Ranty meme

Shamelessly stolen from Keris - this one is easy (esp when I'm in a grump already) - list your pet peeves... I'm going to enjoy this one!

1) People who do not use their indicators when driving. This especially relates to people driving Volkswagon Passats who seem to think that they own the road and that all other drivers (especially nervous almost 32 year old Corsa drivers) are psychic. If I pull out in front of you because you have NOT indicated that you were coming my way then do not beep your horn at me. YOU MADE THE MISTAKE, BOYO!

2) Now this is a good one - the whole bottlefeeding is poison issue. Stop ranting about ads on TV for follow-on milk. They are not bad and evil and the work of satan. They are advertising baby food. Not everyone wants to or can breastfeed. Fair play to you if can. I sincerely from the bottom of my heart am delighted for you. Breastfeed until your child is 23 for all I care, but shut the feckity feck up about how bottlefeeding is wrong. It's not perfect but it's NOT WRONG. Phew!

3) People who use the phrase "depressed" when they are just feeling a little down. For example "The Apprentice is over, I'm so depressed". No you are not depressed. You are fed up maybe, or a little sad. You are not depressed. Your misuse of the word depression devalues the seriousness of the actual condition and Lord forbid you are ever actually really depressed in your life - because then you would be... well.... depressed!
(I know I'm verging on not making any sense here, but that's what ranting is about).

4) Similarly anyone below a size 14 who complains of being "so fat". It's never just fat, it's "so fat". Get a grip.

5) People who do not say thank you when you hold open a door for them. Now I'm not expecting anyone to bow down before me and shower me with their gratitude - but please just a short "thanks". You don't even have to make eye contact. Just acknowledge that I'm not an employee of any shopping centre/ restaurant/ train station and I'm doing you a favour.

6) People who say "Everyone has a book in them". Like it's the easiest thing in the whole world to write a book. It's not. That's like saying "everyone could win Wimbledon", or "everyone has the cure for cancer" in them. Some people just don't. Accept it and move on.

7) Bank charges.

8) People who say "it could be worse" or "cheer up" or the double whammy "cheer up, it could be worse". You deserve a smack - or several of them. How do you know that it's not already worse?

9) The Daily Mail and the people who comment on the Daily Mail website.

10) Ditto the right wing eejits who comment on the BBC news website and bleat on about Gordon Broon and Rip Off Britain. Shut up and get on with it.

11) Jimmy Carr - go away.

12) Ditto the presenters of T4. You are trying too hard to be funny. You are fooling no one.

Now, that feels better...

Whatever gets you through the day

Thursdays are my busiest day of the week and sometimes when you are up to your eyes in designing pages, writing copy and planning your weekend (which is going to be REALLY good this week... will report later) you have to take a few steps to keep you sane.
For me that is plugging my earphones into my computer and listening to the selection of cheesy songs I have saved onto the system.
When it comes to Thursdays, this is my favourite. Just have to stop myself from singing along tunelessly around the office.

Happy birthday VBF!

*Before I start quick disclaimer - the photo above was taken last year before I lost weight. Yes, I know I'm a bloater in it. Yes, I know it's shocking. Yes, I was the fattest bridesmaid in Derry.. etc.

BUT that aside...

Today is my VBF's birthday. Her name is Vicki and she's Scottish. (Hence my knowledge of certain Glaswegian turns of phrases in RD&T)
Now I "met" Vicki four and some years ago when I was pregnant and she was also pregnant with her third child. (I know, she doesn't look old enough to have one never mind three!). We "met" on an internet forum and quickly clicked. She was very lovely when I was a snottery awful mess after having Joseph and then I was lovely when she was getting used to baby Dylan after only having previous experience of little girls.
We met proper that summer and we try to meet up several times a year. I go to Scotland or she comes to Ireland, or we both go to England.
She is the one person in this world who knows me inside out. She can make me laugh til I want to puke, but will hold my hand when all I want to do is cry. She understands when I just want to have some time to myself and there are no pretences. Even when we have done our Bert and Ernie impressions in twin beds in hotels, I feel comfortable enough that I can just have a wee lie down while she reads or vice versa. That doesn't sound very rock and roll but the fact that I can relax, entirely and without reservation, in her company means so much to me.
She is my cheerleader, my counsellor, my personal comedienne and I feel utterly, utterly bless to have her in my life.
When I have been going through the ringer with depression she has hauled me back out again. It is fair to say she has saved my life.
So Vicki - here's to you - my VBF. I glad fate brought us together. Happy birthday chick.
xxx

Well that was a disaster...

Just back from the school.

Almost too traumatised to speak.

Visit fine.

School grand. Little F was a star and little F's mummy assured me that she is not child prodigy and my child a dunce. My child is fine. Little F just older.

Escaped unscathed.

Left J back at my aunts.

Tantrum commenced.

Hysterical, snottery "mammydon'tgobacktoworkIloveyouandwantogotoworkwithyouandpleasedon'tleaveme" tantrum.

Aunt peeled child off me and I drove away... slightly snottery myself.

I don't know who's more nervous

Well, actually I lie. I'm more nervous. I'm as a nervous as a nervous thing on annual nervous day.
Today at 1.30 I will stroll with my son into his big primary one classroom for the first time and introduce him to the teacher who will guide him through his first year at big school.
He'll be asked to draw a picture and write his name. He's not particularly good at writing his name - his writing is hugely big and the s is always backwards and the e looks a little mental so I'll be mentally weighing up his ability in comparison to the other kids in his class. And I know for a fact that little F from his nursery is going there too and her writing is amazing (seriously, I think she must get extra lessons)...
But of course what I should be doing is reminding myself he is FOUR - and a young four at that. He can read all his letters and numbers. He can read small words, recognise names of all his classmates and count really well. He can even do basic math. He is obsessed with books, and trains and cars. He can identify the make of a car at 50 yards. He is articulate, sensitive, loving, dramatic and hilariously funny. He is a great dancer, a brilliant wee cyclist and loves to sing. He has a remarkable imagination.
And yet here I am, nutty mum, obsessing about a backwards s. It's as if that backwards s symbolises to the entire world that I am a BAD MUM. And of course, I'm a working mum. (Even though F's mummy is also a working mum - we do that working mum's smile of solidarity at the school gates every morning).
So am I afraid of the teacher judging Joseph or the teacher judging me - I think probably the latter

Monday funny

Donna at Barefoot in the Country always posts something funny on a Monday because, let's face it girls... Mondays are shite. (*Edited to remove dodgy apostrophe... sorry! It's a Monday).

Anyway, I got this tagged onto an email from my friend Fionnuala this morning and it did make me snort very loudly.

A recent scientific study found that women find different male faces attractive depending on where they are in their menstrual cycle.
For example, when a woman is ovulating she will prefer a man with rugged, masculine features.
However when she is menstruating, she prefers a man doused in petrol and set on fire, with scissors stuck in his eye and a cricket stump shoved up his backside.

Three random things..

From my house that make me happy....

1: My "Sunshine on my Shoulders" book - based on the John Denver song of the same name. My daddy bought this for me when I was pregnant (well, it was for the baby too) and it has pride of place on the shelf in his room. The song is so simply beautiful, it makes me cry.

2) My sister frame. That's my big sister on the left and me on the right. I think I was about four then and she would have been five. She gave me that frame on my hen weekend seven years ago. We've been through some ups and downs (living together as adults was a BAD idea) but we are best friends now.

3) My "Mummy You're So Beautiful" wall hanging. From the boy (via my sister) and since I've never (not even on my wedding day) considered myself beautiful, I like to remind myself that someone loves me unconditionally.

Anyone want to share?

(I know these are lazy blog posts by the way but my copy editing brain can cope with no more...)

Cliched in the city

Okay- hands up, I'm a walking cliche.
I went to see Sex and the City last night and I loved it. Predictable? Moi? Of course.
But then what is not to love? It's a story of four friends growing up and getting on with life. And there are nice shoes and gorgeous wedding dresses (some rotten wedding dresses too, and some dodgy shoes while we are it - but what the hey?)
I laughed - I cried - I laughed some more - and I cried some more and I felt utterly, utterly empowered as a woman as I walked out because even though there was Big, Harry, Steve and Smith - the primary relationship in all these girls lives was still their friends.
And the friendship made me bawl and I wanted to call up my bestest girl friends and tell them I loved them. I wanted to get on a plane and fly to see my VBF and tell her I loved her and laugh til we nearly pee. (One month til I see her woohooo!).
It was the ultimate feel good movie and today I feel good. So good in fact I might just go and see it again - with my friends.

Wordcount woohooo!

90,000 words of current WIP (called Jumping in Puddles - so JIP if you prefer) are now written.
Actually it's closer to 91,000 if we are being picky and it's all getting very exciting.
I'm sure I've blogged about this book before and what it is about but it has without a doubt been the toughest journey I've taken as a writer. I've loved it, but God it has been a challenge and one which, I hope, I've met with gusto.

Anyway, the WIP that is JIP deals with four lone parents in a small coastal village in Donegal.
They are brought together when the mysterious Bernie sets up a support group for them and they meet each Tuesday night in the musty community centre for tea, letter writing and chocolate biscuits.
Our parents are

1) Niamh - a widowed yummy mummy of two twins. She lived the picture perfect life - big house, flash car, designer shoes until her husband crashed his car into a ditch and died. Stupid bastard. As she tries to piece her life back together she uncovers a secret that will change her forever.

2) Ruth is a definitely not yummy mummy of three. She married young and remained devoted to her husband - despite his violent tendencies and general arse-wipeness- until he ran off with Laura Cunningham.

3) Liam Cunningham is the husband of the aforementioned Laura Cunningham and is utterly devastated that the love of his life has run off leaving him heartbroken and with sole care of their 10 year old daughter Poppy. He's determined to do everything he can to get her back - but is this a case of rose tinted glasses?

4) Ciara is a teenage mum who refuses to tell anyone in the village who the father of her baby is. Will she find the strength to speak up, clear her name and take the shine off the village's golden boy (and the smirk off her boss' face!).

So yes, book three - quite the challenge (and here is the writer speak bit) four POVs, all third person (not done that before) including a man and a teenager - trying to make sure all the strands work together while trying to do justice to the issues of grief and domestic violence and still trying to be funny.

Random Conversations from a Newspaper Office

So we're sitting doing our work and it's all gone a bit Wednesday afternoon-ish. (We go to press on a Thursday - Wednesday afternoon is when things start to get interesting... cue hysteria, laughter and slightly manic banter).
From out of of nowhere we hear a blood curdling scream.
Of course, being cutting edge journalists we should investigate but a colleague just pipes up

"Where on earth is that coming from?"
to which my other colleague replies...

"So that's real? I thought that was just the voice inside my head".

Genius.

My desk

I'm such a copy cat, I've stolen this from Donna and Penelope and I'm sorry but you don't get the full impact of the desk as I was taking this in my break at work and didn't want people to think I was a total loon - but I feel I have captured the essence of me.
I would show you my home desk except that himself has hijacked it entirely and most of my writing is now done on my laptop, on the sofa in my living room, propped up by cushions.

Anyway behold, the hub of my work.
You see before you, from left to right, my purse. I have no idea why it is sat on my desk except that I was at the shop earlier and was probably too lazy to put it back in my bag. It is sat on the top of an envelope which contained a press release which as you can see has been filed under "sit there for a week" as I'm in a lazy mode.
Behind that is my phone. I love my phone. It makes me feel very professional and important. Yes, I am that sad.
Now beside the phone is the obligatory "I love my mummy" photo frame - a necessary accessory for all working mothers to either heap on the guilt or remind us why we are working depending on our mood. I like to think of the episode of the Simpsons where Homer makes a little shrine in Maggie in his work to remind himself he is doing it for her.
In front of the obligatory frame is my Willow Tree woman - who represents courage. My colleage Erin bought her to me when I got my book deal. It means an awful lot.
And then we have the Diet Coke can. Yes, I'm addicted. I'm trying to cut down for caffeine over load reasons - honestly I am.
And then we have my work computer.. complete with model butterfly made by my gorgeous niece and two stones to represent the two stone I've lost (although I've put some of that back on - but hush... say nothing).
What you can't see is a pile of newspapers, a mug with my name on, a Matalan press pack, a copy holder crammed with press releases, books, sellotape and a spork and a signed note from an author friend. Nor can you see my sunglasses folded neatly beside my Primrose doll, some Clarins handcream (free sample!) and some of that Forehead stuff for tension headaches.

I'm having a day off...

Generally I'm a very chatty person. I love email, gabbing on the phone, sending texts, blogging whatever.
But occasionally, about once a month if truth be told, I retreat into myself and say nothing. I don't answer emails the way I should, I don't reply to texts and if you get me to answer the phone you are onto something.
And it's not that I don't care/ have something better to do / am an ignorant baggage - it's just that once a month I lose my belief in my ability to say anything at all worthwhile.
So I shut up.
Today I'm shutting up.

*Steam from ears*

Okay, in the words of Primrose from Fifi and the Flowertots, "I'm not having a very good day" (I have that wee doll on my desk in work, by the way... to remind me to laugh at myself when I'm being overly dramatic... which I am a lot).

Anyway..Took a sickie from work as I literally am wheezing like a fecker and went to the docs convinced I had a chest infection/ TB/ cancer and was told I most probably have hay fever!!! HAY FEVER for feck sake! I'm almost 32!

Who gets hay fever for the first time at 32?
Anyway I've enough pills and sprays to make me rattle and I'm home feeling like a gom for taking a day off sick with hay fever, but in fairness walk any further than the length of myself and I'm huffing like an old woman in an iron lung.

To top it off have discovered the boy wants to be an ancient egyptian and has created hieroglyphic drawings all up my (freshly painted) stair walls! They have great artistic merit, but holy Jesus! I can' t be coping.

And THEN we have the chimney sweep come out because oil is getting so damned dear who can afford it, and he tells us the fecking chimney is blocked with bricks and brings two of the feckers down for us to look at.

Hubby didn't think to ask does that now make our chimney structurally unsound (we paid to have the damn thing rebuilt 5 years ago) and the chimney sweep boy seems to think the house would require major surgery to fix.

Have just eaten three medicinal caramel squares to cope with it all (and ranted to the lovely Sharon Owens who didn't tell me I was cracked and should feck off).

And even though I'm now sprayed, medicined and anti-histamined up to my forehead I'm still wheezing and sneezing because of all the crap cleaned out of the chimney. (Clean job these days... my arse!)

Tag, I'm it!

I've been tagged by the lovely Karen at Fresh as a Daisy to fill in this author me me. (Have you seen the logo on her site - gorgeous. I'm not a bit creative so vay jealous!).

1. Who is your all-time favourite author, and why?
Anyone who reads this blog regularly will already know the answer. Marian Keyes is my favourite author. Her books inspired me to start writing again and made me see chick lit in a whole new light. However I do also have some emerging favourites and having actually written the guts of three books myself I now have admiration for ANYONE who puts pen to paper.


2. Who was your first favourite author, and why? Do you still consider him or her among your favourites?
My answer is basically the same as Karens. When we were growing up we were raised on a diet of Roald Dahl. The first book I bought with my very own money was 'Fantastic Mr Fox'. Roald Dahl could fire the imagination of children like no one else - and he was always able to bring you to the edge of disgust and then haul you right back. My boy is four now and it won't be long til we start reading Roald Dahl as a bedtime story.


3. Who’s the most recent addition to your list of favourite authors, and why?
There are a few. I really can't get enough of Melissa Hill at the moment and having read two of her books and finding "Revenge of the Wedding Planner" pant wettingly funny I have to say Sharon Owens.

4. If someone asked you who your favourite authors were right now, which authors would first pop out of your mouth? Are there any you’d add on a moment of further reflection?
Pretty similar to the above, Melissa Hill, Sharon Owens. Also Josie Lloyd and Emlyn Hughes - esp the "Come Together" trilogy. Have also recently read Carole Matthews 'Chocolate Lover" books and thoroughly enjoyed them. Oh and Kate Long's "Queen Mum" is amazing.

5. Tagged
Rules: Link to the person that tagged you, post the rules somewhere in your meme, answer the Author questions, tag some people in your post, let the tagees know they’ve been chosen by leaving a comment on their blog, let the tagger know your entry is posted.
Here are my tagees…

Keris at Keris Stainton
Fionnuala at Manic Muse
Penelope at It's Me Penelope