Silence isn't always golden

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


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

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

Getting my 'R's into gear

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

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

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

If you're Irish, get out of the country

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

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

That's My Goal

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

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

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

On my holiberries

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

Just the three of us

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

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

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

Keep young and beautiful

THEY SAY time waits for no man but as I have found in the last week that is also arguably true for the female of the species.

It’s no secret that in just under four months time I celebrate a very special birthday. I mention it often not because I am, unlike most of my friends of a similar age, having heart staggers at the very thought- but more because I figure if I keep mentioning himself might remember to start saving up for that present now.

You see, turning 30 doesn’t really bother me. Yes there are ambitions I still have for my life which I’d kind of hoped would have been achieved by now, but this isn’t really a time of regret for me- in fact it is a time of celebration.

If the glossy women’s magazines are to be believed (you know, the dear ones that cost a couple of quid), your 30s are destined to be your most enjoyable decade to date. Apparently women in their 30s develop a certain devil may care attitude to life, finding themselves more comfortable and confident in their own skins. This all sounds pretty damned appealing to me, as I have never experienced a moment of confidence in my skin in that last 29 years.

But in the last week I’ve noticed a certain ageing process setting in, which makes me wonder if the glossy magazines are either a) telling us a big bunch of fibs, or b) in league with some big Retinol/ Vitamin A/ Botox wielding conglomerate in the hope of selling us enough lotions and potions to keep the beauty industry going for the next 50 years.

First of all on close inspection of the “delicate eye area” I discovered the very distinct and un-ignorable arrival of my first fine lines. You may scoff at my vanity- fine lines are inevitable- but I was horrified because for the first time in my not so tender years I was looking in the mirror and seeing a proper, grown up adult face staring back at me.
I’m not a vain person as such, I certainly don’t have a reputation for wearing the finest make up or slathering myself in expensive creams (as previously stated my skincare regime generally involves a baby wipe and a splash of water)- but the fine lines bothered me.

They bothered me even more when I noticed that about three inches or so above them a smattering of grey hair had started to permeate my chestnut locks. The ageing process, it seems, has well and truly taken hold.

The upshot of these discoveries in that I found myself in Boots last Saturday morning looking for the solution to my problems. Handing over a significant amount of my hard earned cash to the sales assistant in return for the eeniest pot of eye cream in the world ever and a box of Clairol Essences Hair Dye which promises excellent coverage of grey, I felt strangely elated- as if I was tricking old Mother Nature. (As a rather embarrassing side note, when I was a child I was convinced I would become a world famous purveyor of perfumes and other such smelly stuff (you know the kind you make in the bathroom sink with half a bottle of baby powder and some roses from the garden?)- and my company would be called Clairol (geddit?) Imagine my disgust when I realised the name was already taken!).

With my purchases in hand (along with a free gift with purchase make up bag from No.7 which I am very delighted with) I visited my mother and it was then that I realised that creams and potions may delay the signs of the inevitable but there is more to getting older than noticing a few straggly grey hairs.

You see the Kleeneze catalogue was there and whereas I used to look through it and laugh at the ridiculous products (you know, the hair cutting bib and the ear protectors for when you are washing your hair…that kind of thing), on Saturday I found myself thinking “My, my, that looks like a handy wee number. Order me one of those bad boys please”.

A shocking £25 later and I have, winging their way to me, a special squeedgy for cleaning the inside of the windows, a brush which promises to reach all those nooks and crannies and a drain cover that doubles as a planter (I kid you not). I haven’t received my goodies yet, but I’m stupidly excited at the prospect (especially as the outside of my house is being painted and my new planter will look just fabulous in my newly decorated rear terrace (aka the back yard)!

It dawned on me then that not only was my skin ageing that wee bit- but my mind was too. I am getting, drum roll please, sensible. Now I’ve never been particularly wild but there is being responsible and being overly sensible and, dare I say it, a tad boring. I’m wondering if my Kleeneze purchases, even though I already love them more than life, have forced me into the latter category? Could it be that I am now hurtling at break-hip speed towards sensible shoes and a blue rinse?

To counter the balance I bought myself some impossibly uncomfortable but very pretty shoes, some funky costume jewellery and a funky pair of pinstripe trousers for work.

Now I’m perfectly willing to accept that my panic of the last week or so is quite possibly a late 20s crisis of sorts, so let’s hope that those magazines are right and by the time June rolls around I’ve found a degree of comfort in being who I am- dodgy drain covers and all.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore...

VALENTINE'S DAY was a bit of a non-event this year in the Allan household.

While previously we have celebrated with a nice home-cooked meal or a delivered bunch of flowers, this year we somehow managed to forget the whole thing- despite the plethora of red hearts and roses in every shop window.
As the most romantic day of the year dawned, we sat side by in the side in the car on the way to work and laughed when we realised we were both as bad as each other in the romance stakes.
In a show of extreme non-bitterness I serenaded himself with a dazzling rendition of "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" and went about my way, only occasionally staring at the office door longing for a special delivery.
When work ended I went home to my wee man (himself being up the country working) and the closest I got to mad romance was a snuggle with a two year old who offered me one of his mad open mouthed slabbery kisses.
Himself came home a few hours later, bearing a shiny new Tesco bag which contained, or so I hoped, a box of expensive chocolates, some champagne and a perhaps a single red rose. Sadly my hopes were shattered when I found it merely to contain a Pot Noodle for his tea- not the most obvious gesture of love and affection.
Having officially moved out of the newlywed category (we married five years ago in May), I wondered if the magic is simply slipping from our relationship?
After all a survey this week said, rather gloomily I hasten to add, that married bliss lasts a mere 12 months. After that the embers cool, the magic fades and all that awaits is a lifetime of drudgery and complaining about her or him indoors.
Even more worrying is that, according to the authors, somewhere between year three and five (so slap bang where me and the Mr. are right now) we are supposed to experience a final resurgence of love before it all heads downhill again- this time for keeps.
I dread to think what's ahead of me next year then if this year was to be our final flurry at love- Perhaps some supernoodles or a cup-a-soup?
Then again I'm not quite sure those responsible for the report are right. After all, if marriage is a big old disappointment after year one then how do you explain those millions of couples who make it to their Silver weddings anniversaries and beyond?

Friendship
Being the old romantic that I am, I believe that love- and marriage in particular- is best founded on friendship- one that can wax and wane but which will ultimately have moments of love and passion no matter if you have been together a week or a half century.
I'm very lucky in the that my parents have always shown me an example of how a marriage should work. Sometimes, admittedly, that has involved shouting at each other and a certain degree of door slamming, but mostly the message I've learned from their relationship is marriage can be the most amazing thing on the planet- if only you bother your hump to work at it.
You see I'm not naive enough to think that over the last 31 years of marriage they have not contemplated, on several occasions, putting some arsenic in each other's cuppa, but I know they are still quite firmly in that "happily married" bracket.
They have learned, over the passage of time, to ignore those little things that niggle, to enjoy the things that make them happy and to remember that marriage really is for better or worse and anyone who tells you there should never be any worse is talking through their rear.
I think our society has just become so disposable these days that so many people think it's okay to bin something if it isn't quite in perfect working order anymore.
I'm shocked at just how disposable marriage has become. That doesn't mean I'm enamoured with the way himself leaves his stinking socks on the bedroom floor expecting them to magically fly to the laundry hamper. I hate the way he leaves coffee rings from his cups on the desk, worktops and tables. His inability to look after Joseph and do anything remotely resembling housework rankles- as indeed does the Pot Noodle for Valentine's Day incident- but my marriage isn't disposable in that way.
It struck me, as I waited for my card and my flowers, as I joked all day with himself about the lack of passion in our relationship, as we sang that Neil Diamond song to each other, that the real love is not in the giving of gifts (although I'll never turn one down) but in the fact we are comfortable sometimes just to be together and we know what to say or do to raise a smile or a laugh from each other.
And we aren't doing too badly if every day, after nine years together and five years of marriage, we still say "I love you" and still get that urge to talk to each other sometimes just to hear that familiar voice on the end of the line.
Sure, Emily Bronte may never write a novel about our all encompassing passion- and they'll never rename St. Valentine's Day as The Allan's Day in honour of our great love but I'm sure when all is said and done, five years from now and for longer there will still be some magic in our marriage.

On the Road Again

I AM a woman of many talents, but sadly, I have to admit driving is not one of them.

They say that God loves a trier and if that is true then I'm glad to announce that even though my driving is deeply questionable, I'm up there with the best of the them in the Big Man's most loved people ever list.
I have held a provisional driving licence for a shocking 10 years now and while I've managed to pass two theory tests and fail an equal number of practicals, I'm no further forward in my quest to head out on my own and start cruising the fine streets of Derry in my own wheels.
It all started when I was 19. It was then I decided I would love to learn to drive and duly sent off my application for a licence. I even bought some sunglasses (to cope with the glare on sunny days) and some tapes (yes, tapes- it was in the era before CDs) to listen to as I cruised the highways and byways of the North.
Sadly I didn't get much further than that. I listened to the tapes and wore the glasses, but didn't so much as get behind the wheel of a car until two years later when, at 21, I realised that a licence would greatly improve my chances of securing gainful employment.
My driving instructor, God love him, tried so very hard to make me a safe and competent driver- and I was, honestly- as long as there were no other vehicles within a two mile radius.
When he caved in and allowed me to sit a test (one month after I secured this job on the understanding I was a learner!) I surprised no one by failing horrendously. (People often ask what I failed on, the easier question would be to ask what didn't I fail on?) I remember the day well, returning to the office having made the mistake of telling everyone I had been out of my test.
My colleagues had the good grace not to laugh. They sympathised, shared their own driving horror stories and advised me to book for a cancellation straight away. I did, subsequently failed again (on a dodgy emergency stop that time), and they were equally supportive- warning me not to wait five years before getting behind the wheel of a car again- and I kept my promise. Instead of waiting five years, I waited six and a half.

Glaring truth
In fairness I've had a few sessions behind the wheel between now and then. Most of them have confirmed to me the two most glaring truths of my young existence. The first is that A) I can't drive for toffee and B) Although I'm terrified of other traffic, driving would make my life 100 times easier.
So it was with heavy heart, and a certain sense of trepidation, I set myself the goal of finally getting through my test before the age of 30 (which is looming ever closer).
I booked some lessons with the man who drove me to the chapel on my wedding day- figuring if he could deal with the gibbering wreck I was that day he would be well matched to deal with me and my terminal fear of roundabouts.
So we started again, just before Christmas, and I shocked myself with my ability to remain relatively cool and collected behind the wheel. Want a three point turn? (sorry- turn your car in the opposite direction using forward and reverse gears), I'm your gal. I can reverse a car around a corner in a second and am pretty comfortable with the whole reverse parking malarkey.
I was starting to feel good. I bought new sun-glasses. I downloaded some music for the CD player. I started to warn himself that I would soon be taking over all driving responsibilities and had started to gaze lovingly at pictures of shiny new Micras.
Mr. Driving Instructor conceded I was doing well. He told me to book my theory test. I did, and I passed. (Full marks, I thank you) and I started to visualise tearing up the 'L' Plates and tossing them in the air with a celebratory cheer.
And then, you see, it all started to go horribly wrong, culminating in me saying a few bad words and fighting back tears on my last lesson. Mr. Driving Instructor seems to think that it is because I'm now thinking too much about the test and starting to panic.
My lovely friend Vicki has assured me that when her test was around the corner her driving went to pot too and she was convinced she would fail, but I'm not really believing either of them. I just think I'm destined to be one of life's passengers.
The temptation is now exceptionally great to pack it all in and resign myself to a life of buses, taxis and lifts from the very lovely Erin Hutcheon (who demands only £2 for a trip to the Waterside, more than half the going rate of most taxi firms).
But then I've promised myself I won't be a quitter this time. By hook or by crook, should I fail 100 tests and become a talking point in the local test centre, and should Mr. Driving Instructor start to factor me into his pension plans- I will drive some day.
I will get in my car, switch on the engine, listen to that Bon Jovi tape (I know, I know, I was young and impressionable) and cruise into the 'Journal' office (well the car park, not the actual office building) like the cat who got the cream- 'R' plates raised aloft in a uniquely choreographed victory dance.

Bye Bye Baby

BECOMING A mother has much the same impact on your emotions as an induction to the gym has on your body.

You leave the delivery room feeling things you have never felt before and experience a strange mixture of excitement and absolute terror about what you have signed up for.
Only, unlike a gym membership, you can't just cancel the Direct Debit after six months and go back to your slovenly ways. A child is for life, not just for maternity leave.
There are no dress rehearsals with parenthood- no try before you buy, no guarantee that if you are not happy with the results Lever Brothers will give you your money back. Once you are there, feeling as if, both physically and emotionally, a ten tonne truck has run over you, you are there for keeps.
Yesterday was my son's second birthday and as well as celebrating the limitless joy he has brought to our lives, I will be raising a glass of wine to myself in honour of the achievement that is surviving the baby years with my sanity relatively intact.
The thing is, you see, being a mammy to a baby is damn hard work- Anyone who tells you otherwise is either lying or supping vodka out of a secret hipflask in work to cope with the strain.
That's not to say it isn't wonderful. I would not for the life of me change my child. I love the bones of him- from his oddly dimpled shoulders to his pudgy hands- his curly topped head to his squidgy be-nappied bum.
I love how he can spot the trail of an aeroplane in the sky from any distance, how he pulls his highchair out to the middle of the room and shouts for "passtttaaaa" in the evenings and how he can sing any theme tune in the world and somehow end up in a 'Bob the Builder' medley.
But life has changed irrevocably from what it was before. I only ever thought I was tired before I became a parent- just as I only ever thought I was fat before pregnancy ravaged my body, and I only ever thought what it was like to be scared until I saw my own child lying in a hospital bed being nebulised.
Himself and I planned our foray into parenthood with meticulous precision. We made a decision to wait until we were married, with a mortgage and established in our careers before we decided to start our family.
When I found out I was pregnant- on the fifth anniversary of my first date with himself- we were overjoyed and set about preparing ourselves and our home for our new arrival.
The walls of the spare room were painted a creamy yellow and accessorized with borders proclaiming our new child would be "My Little Star". We went pram shopping, crib shopping, clothes shopping, nappy shopping- the works- and turned our house in a mini version of Mothercare.
We read enough to know what to expect- or so we thought- because, you see, no amount of nappy buying, or reading, or surfing t'internet can prepare you for what it is really like.

Hysteria
I still remember with a certain degree of hysteria the night we brought our little one home from the hospital. My friend came to visit and helped me prepare the mountain of bottles i would need to get me through the night ahead and when she left I went to bed. I put my 6lb 90z baby in a cotbed which was ridiculously huge for his tiny frame and then I stayed awake most of the night listening for his breathing, waiting for his hungry whimpers, checking he was really there and it wasn't all a surreal dream.
By the next morning the eyes were standing out of my head with exhaustion and it dawned me this was a bigger commitment than we had ever really contemplated.
In the months that followed we found our feet but the thing with babies is that the wee monsters are always growing and changing and throwing a spanner in the works. First we had the trauma of returning to full time work and leaving my child with my aunt (who is wonderful, I hasten to add), then we had to cope with weaning, bum-shuffling, cruising, crawling, walking, talking and at the moment the latest test of our spirit comes with the introduction of the Naughty Step and a now very active toddler insisting on clambering in and out of his big boy bed at 4 in the morning.
But probably the hardest thing I have to deal with as a mammy, is realising that my baby is not a baby anymore. He is now a toddler- an independent minded little person who knows exactly what he wants, when he wants it and how he is going to get it.
As a mammy it's both rewarding and heart-breaking to see your child grow up. It's rewarding because the sense of pride is immense at seeing the person that little baby becomes, but heart-breaking because you feel in some ways you are losing that special bond that started the minute you got the positive result on a pregnancy test.
Of course, I know he will need me for some time. There are bums to be wiped, shoes to be tied, bruises to be kissed better and stories to be read.
And I sincerely hope the happiness continues to outweigh the stress- because I really don't think my editor would take too kindly to me drinking on the job.

Sisters are doing it for themselves?

YOU WILL perhaps forgive me if the first few lines of this week's column are dedicated to giving a sound telling off to the not-so-lovely lady who gave me the filthiest look imaginable last Sunday in Tesco.

Life, you see, is hard enough for us women. We work hard, run our homes, raise our children and endure waxing of sensitive areas on a frequent basis. So when one of our own, one of the sisterhood bound together by these uniquely female life experiences, lets the side down by being an unsupportive harridan, it upsets me greatly.
Last Sunday, shortly before 1pm, my child decided he wanted to throw a tantrum- but not just any tantrum- this was the mother of all tantrums. There was screaming, crying, desperate attempts to clamber out of the trolley and a few incidents involving my shopping being used as missiles with which to assault other Sunday shoppers.
There were two reasons for said tantrum- the first being that he has an obsession with the "Nanas in Jamas" (Bananas in Pyjamas) ride-along-thingy in the Lisnagelvin Mall and would happily live there given the choice. My decision that three goes was more than enough was clearly to his displeasure.
The second, and most important reason, is that he is nearly two. He is a child, learning, experiencing, pushing the boundaries and yes, admittedly at times, being a wee brat (and that is the polite way of putting it).
As a fairly modern mammy, I pride myself on being fairly up on the parenting advice of the day which includes giving a stroppy child as little attention as humanly possible so that he gets the message quick smart that I'm not impressed with hysterics (despite being slightly prone to them myself).
To try and keep your cool when your child is 'breaking you to the bone' as we would say in Derry, is not easy. I prayed the ground would open up and swallow me, I hoped my child would be distracted by all the shiny things they sell in Tesco- but alas neither happened and instead I was faced with the disparaging looks of a woman who I swear followed us around each aisle with the sole purpose of looking down her nose at me and my squealing child.
Now I for one am the first to admit that screaming children aren't pleasant. When you are stressed, shopping and trying to beat the queues on a Sunday lunch-time the last thing you want to be 'entertained' with are the squeals of a child shouting: "No! No! No! Ah wan Nanas in Jammmmaaaaassss!"
I understand this can be annoying. I understand that it have a negative effect on your shopping experience, but what niggles at me most about the whole experience is that said woman was there with a child herself (Admittedly a much older child).
You see from what I can tell from talking to any of my friends or colleagues with children, all little darlings go through phases when they will take a tantrum at the drop of a hat.
All mothers will at some stage be faced with crowds of people shaking their head, looking embarrassed and hurrying past the scene of the impending nuclear meltdown. So you would think women, especially those who have children themselves, would be a little bit more understanding, a little bit more sympathetic and a little less judgmental.

More equal than others?
I feel at the heart of the matter is the fact that we women, as much as proclaim our membership to the sisterhood, as much as we burned our bras and fought for equality, still somehow believe that some are more equal than others.
If you can manage to get out the door on a Sunday with your make up perfect and hair brushed you are more equal than the stressed out mammy in the tracksuit bottoms with her hair scraped back (guess which one I was). If your child clings to your side with perfect manners and social skills usually only achieved after a year in a finishing school then you are more equal than the lady struggling to gain control of an unruly toddler who wants to play instead of shop.
This is something evident not only in Tesco on a Sunday afternoon but in almost every aspect of our lives. I would like to be a super-organised person, a mother who falls into the 'yummy mummy' category who bakes organic breads, has a designer buggy and clothes her child in clothes spun by blind monks in some fair trade factory in Outer Mongolia.
I would like to be the uber efficient employee who never skirts too close to deadline or forgets to make a phone-call at the appropriate time- but I'm not like that I'm afraid.
Like so many of us out there I am simply human. I'm doing my best and trying to do better. I am, as my (fallen) idol Marian Keyes would say "too busy doing it all to have it all" and I very much doubt I'm alone in feeling like that.
We women live in a fast-paced society whereby we are constantly battling to keep on top of all our responsibilities. We would love to be glamorous and cool-headed like Gabrielle in Desperate Housewives, but the truth is the majority of us are more like Lynette.
So next time you see a mother struggling with a screaming child, take a deep breath, avoid the urge to roll your eyes to heaven and remind yourself that there but for the grace of God go you.

Oh for a good lie in!

ONE OF the great joys of trying to keep an over-excited toddler's head from exploding over the Christmas period is spending hours in a bedroom with him so that he doesn't completely destroy his auntie's house.

I say it is a joy because once the wee man was sleeping soundly and recharging his over-used batteries I got to curl up on the bed beside him and watch some tacky TV while he snored.
You see, my sister-in-law has Sky TV in her guest bedroom. I know this might be a relatively common occurrence in some areas of the world, but to me it reeked of pure decadence.
Myself and himself have tried to get Sky installed in our bijou Derry residence but due to there being a tree the size of a small African country directly across the road we have been told we can't get a signal. I have never really recovered from the upset of not having the digital world at my fingertips and therefore given the chance to surf the myriad of channels that can be on offer, I'm doofer happy (doofer being code word for remote in Chez Allan). Therefore to have the opportunity to watch all those dreadfully tacky and American reality shows one Boxing Day afternoon was sheer bliss.
I had long heard talk of "Extreme Makeover- Home Edition" but I'd never had the chance to watch it. On Boxing Day however, huge and complicated Sky remote control resting comfortably in my hand, I got to watch it for two hours.
For those who haven't seen it, basically it entails a team of over-emotional American eejits knocking someone's house down and rebuilding into a palatial dream house complete with a home cinema and one of those gorgeous island thingies for the kitchen which I have coveted for many years.
Generally the lucky recipients of the dream home have something horribly wrong with them (I guess that kind of makes them unlucky- but I'm unable to see that through my insane jealously at their new kitchen island thingy), so the big reveal at the end is always an emotional affair.
Everyone cries and, being Americans, there is always a great deal of squealing which, in fact, gets on my nerves- but nonetheless this is a programme which is the perfect anecdote to the winter blues.
I almost wished that afternoon that Joseph would stay asleep for a while longer just so that I could watch the next instalment, but alas, all too soon he was awake and raring for action.

Perfect afternoon
'Extreme Makeover- Home Edition'- Even though we only shared one perfect cold and grey afternoon together, I already miss you.
Having now developed an obsession with Sky TV I decided to make the most of the facility the following day while repacking our cases and getting ready for the journey home.
The other "must see" channel I had heard tell of from those lucky enough not to have big trees blocking their signal was Discovery Health, which shows an inordinate amount of documentaries about women having babies.
Hoping that seeing a woman in full labour would kill the broodiness in me, I switched over and found myself watching a very interesting programme about a Chinese woman giving birth to her second child.
Now perhaps it could be argued that Sky TV is not the most educational of tools, but what I saw that day set my brain to thinking. Apparently in China, new mothers are expected to fulfil a 30 day "lying in" period after the birth of their babies.
Basically this means that for 30 days after the birth experience, the new mum gets to lie in her pit and recuperate while her mother and husband fuss around her making sure she eats the right things, has loads of sleep and is generally pampered.
It is a far cry from life in Derry where within hours of your labour, no matter how long and painful, you are feeding, changing and bathing your child and trying to stomach a rather vile and suspect hospital dinner.
Then of course, after two days (if you are lucky) you get out of hospital, go home and throw yourself straight into the routine of mammyhood- with not so much as a cup of tea and chocolate digestive offered to you, never mind 30 days of nutritious goodies cooked by your very own mammy.
It registered in me that we may be the Western world, modernised in almost every way, but somewhere along the line we women have got the rotten end of the stick. Why no one in the West accepts that pregnancy and birth is demanding and exhausting is beyond me, but I for one would be all for having that 30 day lie in- with nothing to worry about but cuddling my new-born and relaxing into motherhood.
Of course upon sharing my new found belief that we need to move to China before we produce number two, himself has vowed that even if, by some miracle, they knock down the big tree across the road we are never allowed to contemplate Sky TV again as it gives me too many notions.
I guess I will just have to settle for the island thingy for the kitchen instead. Now if only I had the phone number for the 'Extreme Makeover' team....

Out with the old

WELCOME TO 2006- the year of killing dead things. Yes, I'm going to lose weight, sort out my house, learn to drive (again) and generally finish the year on a high of perfection and general gorgeouseness.

Or maybe not. You see I don't hold court with resolutions- they just aren't my thing. Admittedly this is mostly because I'm absolutely useless at keeping them, but also it's because I just don't understand why one wee tick of a clock should force us to examine our lives and decide, invariably, that they are pants and we need to change.
It is my honest opinion that January is depressing enough without forcing ourselves into a purgatory of our own making by making sweeping changes to the status quo.
Generally I like new starts, but January doesn't feel like one to me- no matter what the calendar might tell us. You see it's the end of winter- the winding down of the festive season, the long wait for the credit card bills to plop (or thud in some cases) through the letterbox. And all this while we are dealing with the seemingly unending dark evenings and depressingly glum mornings- it's enough to make me weep into my leftover selection boxes.
Let's face it, life is tough enough in January. Getting up in the mornings is a feat in itself for me these days. My alarm clock may screech at me that it's about time I crawled out of my pit, but my head and heart are begging me to lie back down and snooze just another five minutes away.
Allowing myself the occasional (okay, daily) Kit Kat Chunky is the only way to get through the month without totally giving in to depression and melancholy.
All that said, I've not been a total slattern. Returning from our festive sojourn to sunny Cheshire (we had a lovely time, by the way), I looked around Chez Allan and realised we do in fact live in a house that would make Kim and Aggie walk away in disgust.
The in-laws all have houses which wouldn't look out of place in the Next catalogue. Despite having animals (pets and children included in that description) their cream carpets remain cream and their oatmeal sofas are still their natural oatmeal colour and not the strange mix of Digestive biscuit and slabbers our has become.
Unpacking in the 'comfort' (and I use the word loosely) of home I announced to a rather worried husband it was time to "declutter".
I'm not really a hoarder as such- I just have my own very unique method of tidying up. I prefer to refer to it as the "Shove everything in a cupboard and hope no one sees it" method- much to himself's eternal annoyance.

Minimalist Retreat
You see, at first glance my house is a virtual minimalist retreat. Open any cupboard or drawer, or look behind any chair and it's another story.
There are handbags, nappies (clean, thankfully), letters, magazines, even a swimming suit or two hiding in every corner. I have told myself what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve over but, occasionally, when it all threatens to spill its ugly contents over my cheap laminate flooring, I have to take action.
The wee man's room is the prime example. With his second birthday looming in the all too near future, we decided it was time to update his nursery and make it more suitable for the proper little boy our wee one is turning into.
Until now I have had a huge shelving unit in the side of his nursery wherein I have stored nappies, clothes, toys and assorted nonsense for the past two and half years since the day I found out I was expecting.
If we were going to update the wee man's room, this shelving unit needing tackling- but it was no task for the faint hearted.
Binbags, and a degree of courage, in hand I entered the nursery and started work. I was literally amazed at what I found.
There were nappies two sizes too small, nipple shields even though I didn't breastfeed (apologies for the use of the word nipple in the Derry Journal), a trial sized packet of Fairy Washing Powder, 6 packets of tissues, some moist toilet tissue (you know the stuff that is moist when you buy it...we aren't that disgusting in my house), approximately 2,673 bibs of various sizes, colours and conditions, three half used bags of cotton wool, an empty bottle of Tixilix, a selection of napkins (baffled at that one) and enough clothes to open my own branch of Dunnes- all along with the eeniest, teeniest, cutsiest pair of trainers you ever did see.
After filling two bin-bags, reorganising the shelves and crying broodily over the teeny trainers, I actually felt more in control and I vowed to start working my way through all the rooms in my house until the guys and gals from the Next catalogue would be virtually battering down my door to snap my stylish living habits to steal ideas for next season.
But this is not, and I stress NOT, a New Year's Resolution, because I know the moment I put that label on it I'm damning myself to failure. Sure as eggs is eggs, announcing I'm taking control of my home and my life for 2006 will automatically mean it will all implode in spectacular fashion around me.
So I'm not resolving to do anything. If my house gets tidied this month, it gets tidied. If it doesn't, I'll try again in February when the nights are bit shorter, the weather a little milder and my post Christmas slump has eased.
And if I have to make a resolution, and I mean really, really have to, it's simply that I will start a one woman campaign to have this silly tradition banned once and for all.

For auld lang syne...

I'VE THOUGHT about this a lot and I simply cannot find a way to start this week's column without using that age old cliché- the years are really flying in.

I can't believe we are at the tail end of 2005- a year which has flown by so quickly that I can still remember clearly sitting here this time last year struggling to find something to write about without sounding like old mother time.
I don't know if it is because I'm getting older (yes, I turn 30 in 2006, but I refuse to reveal the date!), or simply because we all seem to be getting busier but I'm struggling to come to terms with just how fast things are moving.
I've become one of those sad old women who spends too much time saying "Ooooh, you're making me feel old. I remember when you were just two," to teenagers and regaling stories of changing their nappies to their highly amused friends.
I now put my house slippers on immediately when I when come in the evening because they so much more comfier than my heels and when I sit in front of the TV I grumble to himself that it's not as good as it used to be when we were younger You don't even want to get me started on how much people swear on TV at the moment either. In my darkest moments I have even thought about sending an email off to Points of View.
It genuinely feels like just a few months ago I would sit with my friends and watch the programme of the same name while we shared a bottle of Peach Schnapps (I wasn't a very trendy drinker in my youth) and some maltesers.
It hardly feels like 10 years ago that I was at university, having the time of my life- but now I'm nearly 30- its 2006 (almost) and life is busier than ever.
This year has been the most hectic to date and if I'm honest I'll be glad to see the back of 2005.
Yes, there have been some amazing highs this year. To see my child grow into a bubbly, loving toddler- to hear him say 'mammy' for the first time and see those first wobbly steps- has almost taken my breath away with pride.
I've also been lucky to forge new friendships and tend to those with more established bonds. There is something about getting that wee bit older which allows you to, excuse the language, cut through the crap and get on with things.
I'm glad to say my friends know me well enough now to boost my confidence when I need it, but also to tell me to catch myself on when I need a good kick up the rear end.
We don't need to pussy-foot around each other, wary of hurting feelings- some of my friends know me better than i know myself and I'm old and wise enough now to know when they are acting in my best interests.
But this year has been hard too. Another aspect of growing up is realising that the world isn't all sunshine and roses- and as an adult you sometimes have to deal with some pretty harsh realities.
As this year has progressed, my granny has fallen increasingly under the evil spell of Alzheimers. This cruel disease means I can no longer call her "granny"- she knows my face, but that bond of granny and granddaughter which was built up over the past 30 years is all but gone.

Coming to terms
And in seeing granny worsen, I've seen my aunts, uncle and father have to come to terms with this loss- and that truly is heartbreaking.
Of course, herself still hasn't lost her biting wit- having recently told me I'm not as a fat as I used to be! (I'm trying to take that as the compliment it was intended to be). She also still manages to torture me about when I'm having another baby- so perhaps all is not lost.
And of course this year saw me lose a dear colleague and friend. The reality that she is gone is still hard to come to terms with, but as time progresses I'm trying, as indeed are all my colleagues, to be thankful for the chances we had to say our goodbyes, to pay our tributes and to know Siobhan in the first instance.
It still doesn't seem right however to end the year without remembering her, raising a glass to her memory and hoping that 2006 brings comfort and peace to her family.
So, I'm glad to say goodbye to 2005 and move on to 2006 (even if it does mean I'll turn 30). I'll look forward to what the coming year will bring. You never know, it might just be the year I write that novel and become the new Marian Keyes- or maybe I'll finally find my weight loss motivation and shift some of this bulk (one chin at a time, sweet Jesus).
I'm pretty confident (and so is my driving instructor for once) that I'll pass my test and get on the road properly- something Siobhan was always nagging me to do. And to top it all off I get to spend some more time with himself, the wee man and the rest of my family.
I'm not sure what adventures lie ahead, but I hope I'll be able to keep sharing them with you all.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty!

I feel pretty, oh so pretty
THERE IS a wonderfully funny story doing the rounds on the Internet at the moment about an unfortunate woman's attempts to pamper herself with a home waxing kit.

For those who have not read the email, all I can say is that I've yet to meet a woman who has not crossed her legs in sympathy as tears of laughter rolled down her cheeks at the story.
Those of us who have read the story really should have learned from the experience, but alas the search for beauty knows no sense and as I started to prepare for a friend's wedding this week I found myself up close and personal with the evil that is self waxing strips.
You see, I'm going to town with this wedding. Since becoming a mammy I've kind of lost of my ability to make an effort with anything- and I've rather embarrassingly gone to a stupid amount of functions wearing my trusty black trousers with whatever dressy top I could get out the door wearing before the wee man attacked me with his slabbery kisses.
Generally when you think of me and how I've looked at weddings or parties in the last two years the words "bush", "dragged" and "backwards" spring to mind.
So I pretty much decided this time would be different- for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the wedding of my very glamourous and elegant friend who generally hangs about with very glamorous and elegant people.
I already know she is going to look stunning (Gavin, you are a terribly lucky man), so I figured I couldn't show myself up by going along sporting my usual bin -woman look.
The second reason is that myself and himself get to dump the wee man in the care of my beloved mammy and stay overnight in a lovely hotel in Stranorlar. This means we get some "us" time, where we don't have to refer to each other as mammy or daddy, fight over who gets up in the night for dummy duty or be faced with the gruesome sight of two over-tired parents struggling to change a damp baby at two in the morning.
It is definitely true that himself has truly seen me at my physical worst over the last two years. From the gloriously unattractive sight of me in labour to the pyjama-ed zombiefied mammy that I transform into within five minutes of getting through the door in the evenings, I am far from the blushing bride he married four and a half years ago.
So I'm determined to look half respectable this weekend so he is proud to call me his wife when arrive at the church together on Saturday.
And that leads me back to the story of self waxing strips. You see, while I'm going to town on this wedding, my budget is not perhaps conducive to the full pampering experience.
I'm treating myself to a wee eyebrow shape and a french manicure at Natural Touch on Friday and I'll saunter down to Streaks Ahead on Saturday morning for a wash, cut and blow dry.
But everything else is pretty much down to me- and it sure isn't a matter of slapping on some lippy and heading out the door any more.

De-fuzzing
For the last three nights I've been plucking, waxing and tanning my poor neglected body to within an inch of its sorry life. And trust me, anyone who tells you waxing doesn't hurt is talking through their bikini line!
There is something exceptionally undignified about sitting in your bathroom, leg up on the toilet seat, applying warm wax to your person and then ripping the hairs out of your body. It's not big, it's not clever and it is not advisable when you have a toddler running about- unless you want his first complete sentence to be largely composed of expletives.
The joy of waxing is closely followed by the joy of exfoliation- which is somewhat akin to slowly peeling a few layers of your own skin with a cheese grater in the name of high fashion.
Exfoliation is, of course, a precursor to that other joy that befalls women in the run up to any big event- self tanning. Picture the scene, you are now a hairless wonder- your skin red raw from all that scrubbing and its time to slap on some foul smelling cream and hope against all hope that you don't end up looking like you've been randomly attacked with some orange paint.
And much as you try there is no way to escape the fake tan aroma- short off getting in the shower and scrubbing some more- except that by now you are down to your last two layers of skin and in serious danger of exposing some bone.
They do say no pain, no gain however and I hope that come 12 noon on Saturday I'll be looking my finest. I've garnered a lovely little vintage dress from Ebay with matching heels and a lovely hat which I'm more than a little besotted with. There is not a pair of black trousers in sight and with the wee man safely with his granny from first thing in the morning, there is a minimal chance of a snotter or slabber attack before I get out the door.
So I'm hoping my efforts will pay off. I'm hoping himself will be impressed that his wife is still there underneath the daily mammy costume. I'm hoping as we watch Nora and Gavin say their vows, and promise to love each other come better or worse, than he'll squeeze my (manicured) hand and be glad we are together.
And I hope, as the music plays at the reception, he can stomach the smell of the fake tan as he leads me across the dance floor.

Away in a manger

ONE OF the annual joys of working in the Derry Journal is that come each Easter you get to cover the annual Feis and have a jolly old laugh about those silly Irish dancing wigs and the rather scary antics of that well known Derry creation- the Feis mammy.

You see from the moment the first wain steps on the stage at the Forum and recites a poem or dances a wee jig, all hands are on deck here in the Journal office to field calls from anxious parents wondering when their wee darling's picture is going to appear.
Until now, I've scoffed with the best of them but recently I fear I may be morphing into one- or worse still, I'm becoming the Feis mammy's evil cousin- The Nativity Play Auntie.
My darling niece Abby, aged "three and three corters" (as she would say it) is at nursery and soon to take to the stage for her acting debut in the school's production of "The Nativity".
According to herself she is going to be a fairy- but we know better. She is in fact going to be taking the starring role of the Angel Gabriel. (See Nativity Play Auntie is already wondering why they didn't see her potential as Mary, but we'll keep quiet about that for now- after all Gabriel gets to wear a more sparkly costume).
So as the big day approaches, we've all gone into overdrive singing Christmas carols over and over and talking through the story of Joseph, Mary and the Baby Jesus (complete with the nodding of the head ala all young children).
I'm stupidly excited for a number of reasons. The first being that my own child is much too young to be given any starring roles just yet. He would be more inclined to lift the Baby Jesus (nod your head), count to three and throw him across the room shouting "Ta Daaaaa!" than sing "Away in a Manger", as that is favourite game of the moment.
The second reason is that I never had the chance to be in the nativity play myself. When I was wee, our primary school had a policy where the two P3 classes took it turn about each year to get the honour of putting on the show and when it my year, it was the other class who got to wear the tissue paper angel costumes and wire hanger wings.
It is something that has always kind of galled me, especially as my older sister got to play an angel and my younger sister (Abby's mammy) hit the jackpot and got to play Mary. (We still have the hilarious video somewhere of Emma announcing to an enthralled audience at Rosemount Primary School "Am gonny have a baybeeee, Am gonny call him Jeeeesus" (Nod of the head).

No room at the Inn
There has therefore always been a latent desire in me to be an angel, an innkeeper, a shepherd or even (I'm getting desperate here) the donkey.
So when Emma revealed that Abby had beaten off stiff competition from a host of other three year olds to get a leading role, I immediately realised this was my chance to experience the nativity- all be it vicariously.
Now, you think as a relatively sane and sensible 29 years old I would be happy enough to go along on the day, watch the show, wipe a proud tear from my eye and saunter back home again proud as punch- but no...that is not enough for this auntie.
I have reached the point of no return and done the unthinkable. Oh yes, I have found myself singing the songs with Abby and, I admit, mouthing the words in an exaggerated fashion just in case she would forget.
To give her her dues, Abby is not entirely happy about this. "I know the words Auntie Claire," she declared in a rather exasperated tone the other day as I proceeded into the second verse, even though that won't actually be sung on the day. But I was on a role- I was giving it everything, and shaking my head with gusto that the "Little Lord Jesus (nod of the head) no crying he makes".
And as she skipped around the living room singing some song about being there when Jesus was born, I clapped along in time and gave her a short (and soon forgotten) lecture on posture.
But that aside, I'm sure it is not just my bias as her auntie which makes me think her singing voice really is angelic and which makes me know in my heart of hearts that no other child on stage that day will outshine our wee angel.
And much as I'll be there, mouthing the words and feeling those butterflies in my tummy on her behalf, my biggest hope isn't that she is word perfect or utterly in tune- it is simply that she enjoys herself and always remembers her big stage debut.
All that said, I've asked Abby if her teacher, Mrs. McDowell, could perhaps find me a role in the play, but it seems I'm too big and will have to wait until I am a little girl again (Abby's words). It's hard, but I suppose I have to accept some dreams just won't come true.
Nonetheless if you hear of anyone who needs an understudy for a Mary or even a flea bitten donkey, keep me in mind. I already know all the words to "Away in a Manger" after all.

Fa la la la la, la la la la....

IT IS officially December now and so my self-imposed ban on talking about all things related to Santa, tinsel and glittery baubles has been reluctantly lifted.

I now have to come out of full denial mode and realise that Christmas is a mere hop, skip and holly bush away and I'd better start getting my arse into the festive swing of things.
I'll admit, I have a big plus factor on my side this year. With the wee man approaching the two-year-old mark he has an increasing understanding of the magic of Christmas.
He screams "Sadda" at the top of his lungs should he see an image of the man decked in red, and will listen along quite nicely to my tuneless renditions of "Away in a Manger"- but even his excitement has not lifted me out of the Autumnal doldrums.
You see, this year is different to any year before as the Allan clan en masse are leaving behind the twinkling lights of the Foyle Bridge and magic of midnight Mass at the Long Tower for a weekend of festive frolics at the hands of the in-laws.
Those who read this column will know that there are two universal truths in my life. The first is that I love my mammy and daddy and will spend as much time as any 29-year-old married woman legally can in their company.
The second is that time spent with my in-laws, all lovely in their own right, fills me with a certain sense of dread and foreboding. You see, much as they can offer the sun, moon and plum pudding, it is just not the same as Christmas, Derry style.
This will be the first year I wake up in a bed that is not my own on the big morning. I imagine it will be that wee bit more dramatic than the first time I actually spent Christmas away from my mammy and daddy's house. I bawled into my pillow for several hours on Christmas Eve as himself tried to console me with Quality Street and wine. I only truly came around when we arrived at my mum's the next day, cracked open the wine and started singing Christmas carols.
But this year we are moving up a gear in my battle to become a proper grown up and that involves making my husband's Christmas wish come true by spending it with his family- for the first time in four years of marriage.
My sister-in-law, a lovely woman called Lynn, lives in a gorgeous and very picturesque village in deepest, darkest Cheshire. Her house is the kind of house that makes our wee terrace look like a shack in a South African shanty town.

Decadence
Her spare room is a gorgeous sumptuous creations decorated in creams and chocolate browns and we will even have our own en-suite complete with power shower. If we want to be extra decadent, there is an adjoining room where the wee man can sleep to give us some peace and quiet.
I'm assured the day will be lovely. A cooked breakfast will be followed by a leisurely drive to my father-in-law's new house (which is apparantly in the middle of a forest by a lake...how fancy!) and a play around the garden with the wee man and my niece and nephew before dinner, a leisurely gossip and some wine. (The one benefit of my inability to pass a driving test being that himself will be the designated driver for the day).
We'll drive back to the picturesque village some time later and on Boxing Day the family will converge again for board games, a bit of craic and loads of fattening food (I'm resisting the urge to mention wine again given that I've already mentioned a stupid amount of times).
I should be in seventh heaven about the whole thing, especially as the tickets are courtesy of a freebie from Easyjet, but instead I'm in a right royal grump.
I suppose like many a good Derry woman I'm still attached to my mammy by some invisible umbilical chord and if I'm honest, I'm also incredibly selfish. I can't help but wonder if Christmas will have the same magic when it is not in my own surroundings, watching the lights twinkle on my own tree and listening to John Denver and the Muppets with my daddy.
I suppose the only cure is to catch that Christmas fever. I may have to force myself up to Foyleside for a bit of retail therapy, or force himself to pull the tree from the attic and set to work (This year's theme- whatever the wee man can't pull down/ eat/ stuff up his nose).
I'll sit down and talk to my mammy and daddy about how we can have a second Christmas day when we get back from our travels (Twice the presents, wooohooo!) and I will try to remind myself that the most important thing about the day is that I get to spend it with himself and the wee man.
I suppose it is part of growing up and maturing that sometimes you have to realise that Christmas is not so much about the day itself but about who you spend it with. And if I'm honest, I'm kind of looking forward to playing in the forest and walking down the lanes of the picturesque village.
In fact, there is a wee pub right in the heart of the town which serves lovely soup and rolls and welcome manic toddlers with open arms...it could all work out after all.

Happy December from the J-man!

Abby and Joseph send their love! Reindeers of the world unite!

Not such a desperate housewife

A FRIEND recently asked me to think about all the simple things which make me happy.

I wasn't allowed to come up the obvious, such as pay day (which isn't really that happy an occasion anyway as it's all spent almost as soon as it transfers its merry way into the bank account) or holidays in the sun (which I rarely get). It had to be more subtle than that- just those wee things which can happen quite frequently and make you smile.
It soon became obvious to me that ideally I should be living in 1955. You see the first thing which popped into my head was that I always feel lovely and happy when the wee man is in bed, the dishes are done, floors mopped and hoovered and the tumble drier and washing machine are gently humming in the background. (Or rattling and screeching as the case may be- my washing machine having finally reaching breaking point with the copious amounts of baby sick and poop forced upon it over the last two years.)
Second only to that is cooking a proper dinner (one with spuds and everything) and serving it up to the two men in my life and seeing them devour it. Fair enough, himself would eat food three days out of date so is probably not the best judge of culinary excellence, but nonetheless I like it when he proclaims his dinner was lovely.
In my continuing mission to learn to cook something more complicated that pasta and sauce, this week I even bought a brand-spanking new casserole dish to cook a variety of hearty home cooked meals. (We are officially trying to banish Potato Smilies from our freezer). I felt stupidly happy chopping my carrots, onions, mushrooms and beef to make my delicious (even if I say so myself) stew. All that was missing was a glass or two of wine- an essential ingredient when I'm on a cooking extravaganza.
As I set the table and plonked the wee man in his high chair, I realised that all this fighting for equality in the workplace etc. was really a load of old nonsense.
Perhaps we could all be that little bit happier living out our little lives cooking casseroles, mopping floors and polishing our brasses? (Afterall, as my dad recently asked out much to our smutty minded merriment when was the last time you saw a woman giving her brasses a good polish?).
There would be none of this struggling to fight off the mad advances of a toddler with octopus like arms who wants to play "Hide and Seek" while you get dressed/ change his nappy/ make the breakfast/ do all three at the same time each morning.
We wouldn't have to come in the door from a long day at the office to be greeted with the breakfast dishes still languishing by the sink- the Weetabix now congealed into a substance it takes bleach, acid and a pneumatic drill to shift- and a basket load of washing and ironing waiting for your attention. (Of course those who have actually met me will scoff at such a suggestion that I would ever contemplate ironing in the evening- but you get the general picture.)
Yes, I went to university and got my qualifications and have spent the last seven years building up a career to be that wee bit proud of. But there are times, and I'm yet to meet a working mother who doesn't feel this way, when we want to shout: "I've got stretchmarks, get me out of here!"

Can he fix it?
How lovely would it be to get up at the morning and just play with our children in our jammies until we were ready to get dressed? We could sit and cuddle watching Bob the Builder (or Dod the Duilder as Joseph calls it) for an hour, or read our books together 10 times before getting up and getting on with the housework.
Dinner would always be a home-cooked affair (we may actually succeed in the aforementioned Potato Smiley mission) and bath time (for the baby- not me!) would be more than a five minute dip in the water before being hurled at lightning speed into the cot from the far side of the room so mammy can get on with the washing.
And I would, of course, be a yummy mummy who dressed in floaty, trendy clothes, had sun-kissed hair and who smelled like a mix of home-made perfume and fresh baked cookies. It would be a far cry indeed from the harassed journalist who wades into the office every morning with bags under her eyes and a lump of weetabix or mashed banana stuck to the arse of her trousers and spends the first 10 minutes of her working day just catching her breath from the morning rush.
I am, however, willing to accept that this may simply be a case of thinking that the grass is always greener on the other side. Much as I love my son, and indeed have grown quite fond of Bob the Builder and his crew (I even know most of their names!): spending all day, every day lost in domestic "bliss" may well send me on a one way trip to the mad house.
If I'm honest too, much as I love seeing my house clean and tidy, there is a certain simple happiness in seeing the words I have written appear in print, or even better than that the first smile of the evening when I walk out of the office door to the car to be greeted with that huge smile from my son.
I think what we ideally need to do is wind the clock back a bit and find that happy medium being having it all and doing it all.

Daddy was right all along

So here it is, my daddy and the J-man. Seems daddy was right all along, John Denver ain't so bad!