Thank you 207 – Sunshine

Once upon a time there used to be a floral sun umbrella in the back garden. By a wooden table where there were never enough garden chairs for everyone. Once upon a time when there used to be sunshine you could sit under the umbrella and enjoy a cold drink and some excellent potato salad. (If you were quick enough to nail a seat.)

At some point when the rains came, the umbrella and the chairs got put away. And then at another point, the garden plants encroached further up the garden and the table disappeared. But when the sunshine came you could take an old garden chair and find a sunny, if precarious, spot. And enjoy a cold drink and some excellent potato salad.

Eventually there was nothing but garden plants. And when the sunshine came it warmed the plants and helped things grow. And whilst there wasn’t really space to put a chair you could enjoy peas fresh from the pod and raspberries.

Today it’s still all garden. Today the shining sun has brought us, amongst other delights, cabbage, broccoli, carrots, green beans, cauliflower, chard, peas in the pod, pak choi and potatoes. I know a woman who could have made an excellent potato salad with those potatoes. Even if she couldn’t sit amongst the plants and enjoy a cold drink.

Sometimes when you stand at the living room window and look out at the garden in the sunshine you might remember. A time when the rotary clothesline was tall and taut and you’d be sent rushing to get the washing at the first sight of rain. Or a winter time when there was snow on the garden table and little garden birds could be spotted scratching for grub. There was always a book on the windowsill of the Garden Birds of Ireland. If you were so inclined, you could flick through the book while you enjoyed a warm drink. And see if you can identify the birds. There’s probably an app for that now.

You remember the parts of the garden that were filled with flowers. And how the prettier ones would be lovingly cut and placed in a vase on the kitchen table. You smile when you realise that still happens.

You think there must have always been sunshine on the first and third Sundays of September. Because the curtains were drawn to stop the sun reflecting on the tv. And a voice in the corner telling you to open them the second the whistle blew. That voice is silenced now and Sundays in September have a different chime to them but the curtains still get drawn for the games. And still get opened the second the whistle blows.

There’s been plenty of sunshine the last few days. When Autumn nights should be closing in, the sun shines brightly and the nights stay warm. Too warm for some of us. And you think about how, even on nights like these, there’d still be a hot water bottle filled. And you wonder at the madness of that or if it’s something that might lie in store for you. In the nights and years to come.

And as you listen to the weather forecast tell you that the sunshine will last a few more days you think about how much the woman would have enjoyed this Indian Summer. And how the curtains would definitely be drawn on Saturday afternoon when Ireland’s Rugby World Cup adventure starts. And how at least one of the players would have some connections to us and how we’d be reminded that our uncle once played for Connacht. With a cold drink – but perhaps not some excellent potato salad – she’d enjoy it hugely. The rugby and the sunshine.

Thanks, sunshine.

Thank you 206 – Christy

Overdue, This Is.

Like all good stories (and some not so good), this one begins with Once Upon A Time.

So, Once Upon A Time there was a band. A band that was Made In Dublin. And there was a girl. Who wasn’t Made In Dublin. But was formed there. In a way. In the 1980s and the 1990s. In the parts of Ballymun that passed themselves off as Glasnevin. On the road down to Finglas. In the bars dotted across those suburbs. In that Sweet Time where most of us were Waiting for This Madness to End, there was a girl who found a band that was Made In Dublin.

And the Sands of Time trickled on – as they surely do. And the band dispersed – as they do. And the girl emigrated – as they do. But she took the band with her. On a couple of cassettes and listening to them Hurt Sometimes. As it does. But a good hurt the kind that would Comfort Me.

And as the Book of Life gained a few more chapters both the girl and the band found themselves back together. In Vicar Street. In 1999. At a gig that was so Special, so Precious that it Always remains among her very Best Days.

There have been many good days since. The girl hopes there will be many more. It’s Been So Long since the girl and the band shared the same space. For Some Strange Reason the girl and the band found themselves on opposite sides of the globe for a while. So This Time in 2023 there were plans made for a get together. Long overdue. She Said So only recently as she unpacked the CDs she’d shipped back from Australia. She hasn’t played them yet. CDs need a CD player. But they’re backed up and online and she’s played the tunes often. Over these long years.

And she’s watched old recordings of Late Late Show appearances. And she’s hummed the melodies that are the soundtrack of her life. And she’s cheered at the news of every new gig and every charity concert. And she’s thought This Could Be the one or This Time we’ve Gotta Make It. But Sooner or Later, she may have to concede that to Run This Race and get through this Crazy World, there will be gigs she will miss.

But for the ones she didn’t miss. Just wow.

What a time it’s been. What a soundtrack to our lives. For the Best Days there’s been. For everything. For the girl that is and for the band that is. This Is for Christy.

Thanks, Christy

Thank you 206 – Christy

Overdue, This Is.

Like all good stories (and some not so good), this one begins with Once Upon A Time.

So, Once Upon A Time there was a band. A band that was Made In Dublin. And there was a girl. Who wasn’t Made In Dublin. But was formed there. In a way. In the 1980s and the 1990s. In the parts of Ballymun that passed themselves off as Glasnevin. On the road down to Finglas. In the bars dotted across those suburbs. In that Sweet Time where most of us were Waiting for This Madness to End, there was a girl who found a band that was Made In Dublin.

And the Sands of Time trickled on – as they surely do. And the band dispersed – as they do. And the girl emigrated – as they do. But she took the band with her. On a couple of cassettes and listening to them Hurt Sometimes. As it does. But a good hurt the kind that would Comfort Me.

And as the Book of Life gained a few more chapters both the girl and the band found themselves back together. In Vicar Street. In 1999. At a gig that was so Special, so Precious that it Always remains among her very Best Days.

There have been many good days since. The girl hopes there will be many more. It’s Been So Long since the girl and the band shared the same space. For Some Strange Reason the girl and the band found themselves on opposite sides of the globe for a while. So This Time in 2023 there were plans made for a get together. Long overdue. She Said So only recently as she unpacked the CDs she’d shipped back from Australia. She hasn’t played them yet. CDs need a CD player. But they’re backed up and online and she’s played the tunes often. Over these long years.

And she’s watched old recordings of Late Late Show appearances. And she’s hummed the melodies that are the soundtrack of her life. And she’s cheered at the news of every new gig and every charity concert. And she’s though This Could Be the one or This Time we’ve Gotta Make It. But Sooner or Later, she may have to concede that to Run This Race and get through this Crazy World, there will be gigs she will miss.

But for the ones she didn’t miss. Just wow.

What a time it’s been. What a soundtrack to our lives. For the Best Days there’s been. For everything. For the girl that is and for the band that is. This Is for Christy.

Thanks, Christy

Thank you 205 – Eleven

Usually, when someone asks what my favourite number is, I answer 11. It’s not really my favourite number. I don’t really have a favourite number but when it’s a four or a five or a six or a seven-year-old who asks that question, you’ve gotta have an answer in stock.

My answer has always been 11.

There are couple of reasons for this but the most obvious one is that I was born on the 11th. And, if I’m being totally honest, I always enjoyed the whistling that came in a bingo hall back in the 80s when the caller drew the number 11. The misogyny and sexism of that reaction never entered my head. Especially as 99% of the people whistling were women of a more mature age. It elicited great laughter the number 11 and what I remember is the joy and the hilarity. The two little ducks call and response also had a charm to it but that was double 11 so maybe there is something to this favourite number lark after all.

It’s not my favourite number today.

The sun has been shining this morning but it’s starting to cloud over now. We’ve had breakfast and some of us have gone to church where we lit a candle. We have had coffee and some of us have had cake. It’s just gone midday so it’s three or so hours away from the turning of another year. Eleven years have gone. Mostly quickly. Eleven years filled with life and living and laughter and loss. It’s the loss you remember on days like this but what you should be remembering is the life and the living and the laughter. This is what I choose to remember.

Shoes – that sparkled and shone. With heels and small straps. That you’d hardly be able to stand up in but she’d be able to dance in. Shoes that maybe widened as the years went in but never lost their bling.

Lipstick – always. The one you’d have to wipe off your cheek from a kiss and the one you bought for her in Sligo when she was in the hospital because even in the hospital lipstick was mandatory.

The smells – of dinner cooking as you’d turn the key in the door after long day at school. Or a Sunday roast. Or brown sofa bread. And coffee – always the scent of coffee in the air. And if gin had a scent you’d recall that too. But it doesn’t. Slices of lemon do but. And perfume. And nail polish remover.

The sounds – a snort of laughter. And noises emanating on rising. A voice that was deeper than it should have been when amplified. And probably shouldn’t have sang along in church. Although it was a voice that always said there was no such thing as someone who couldn’t sing, that it was all a question of how well.

The jokes – the “deaf and dumb” graveyard out towards Castlebar. It was just that one. Every other graveyard in the country was filled with folk who never shut up. They weren’t particularly funny jokes – neither the first nor the 900th time you heard them. But she enjoyed them.

Glasses – the ones you drank from and the ones on a chain you wore around your neck. She could look through both – and often did at the same time.

Crosswords and quizzes – frustration when someone else would fill in the crossword whilst she was busy doing something else. And knowing all the answers to all the questions on the quiz shows. Stuff she shouldn’t have known. If she were here now she’d likely be able to tell you the full line up at Electric Picnic. And what each artist’s best known song was called. And she’d even have liked some of them.

Ambidextrousness – being that. Likely a legacy of her schooling but very impressive all the same. Loving a good pen. There’s a classiness in that.

And so as we acknowledge another tour around the sun and think of what the past eleven years have brought and wrought on all of us, we raise a glass in memory. We’re all a bit older now and have stiffened up some with a few more wrinkles and more grey hair than we had back then. And some of us have turned from teenagers to fine young adults. And some of us have turned from toddlers to fine young teenagers. And some of us who were mere infants then are now in our final years of primary school. And one of us didn’t even show up until some years post 2011. But here we are – eleven years on. Still living and loving and laughing.

So maybe eleven is my favourite number after all.

Thanks, 11.

Thank you 204 – 2021

You can go away. Thanks very much but I’ve had enough of you. More than enough. There were moments where you twinkled. But more where you didn’t.

Here are some reflections on 2021.

What I didn’t do.

Fly. Anywhere. On a plane.

Spend a night away from home.

Hear live music – performed by a live band.

See a show or a play.

Write a book.

Bake a cake.

Get COVID.

What I did do

Moved house.

Watched too many funerals online.

Had pints of Guinness – twice.

Saw an art installation in Geelong with my friend Paula.

Played with a dog called Boston and fed breakfast to my friend Hazel.

Spent a wonderful weekend between lockdowns just doing nothing with my friend Claire.

Drank too much wine most Fridays with my friend Melissa.

Had a pointless evening with my other friend Melissa.

Spent a couple of magical days in Aireys with my friends Shirley and Celia.

Wrote a poem. Which I didn’t know was a poem until my friend Peter pointed it out.

Recited that poem on the Williamstown stage.

Worked too hard.

Decided to take some time away from work in 2022 and get on a plane. Or two.

Did jigsaws.

Danced. Once.

Got jabbed. Twice.

Enjoyed the 2020 Olympics.

Spent a lot of time alone.

Had Christmas Eve with my friends Kerry and Steve and Christmas Day with Andrea, Steve, Barbara and Brian.

Built Lego – well watched Lego being built.

Held multiple FaceTime conversations.

What I learned

Lots. It was a year of quiet reflection. I learned I can cope with solitude. I learned that sometimes people do recover quickly from cancer. I learned that those people are usually exceptional. I remembered that friends are the family you chose for yourself. I remembered that not everyone gets the family I did. I remembered how lucky I really am.

I learned that if you leave a low window open during the night, a cat will come to visit. I learned that trying to get a cat out of the house at 2am requires a doctorate in cunningness. I learned that cunningness is, surprisingly, a word. I learned that adding a silly cartoon to a daily email can make people smile. I learned that even in the dark times, there are still bright times.

I learned.

Thanks, 2021

Thank you 203 – Shine

Granted it’s been a while. 147 lockdowns will do that. But the year is churning on and we find ourselves back in the early days of September. Remembering.

Media was filled with 9/11 documentaries and news items as the world approached the 10th anniversary of that dark day in September.

The Rugby Union World Cup was about to start in New Zealand. I had tickets to see Ireland play Australia on September 17th in Auckland. I’d been looking forward to that for months.

Kai’s mum turned 70 on the first day of September. So I flew to Germany for the weekend. For a party that didn’t happen as his Dad was unexpectedly hospitalised. The weather was beautiful and we sat on a beach in the sunshine and drank beer that Saturday the 3rd September and I flew into Knock via one of the London airports on the Monday. I was still planning to fly back to Melbourne on the 11th – having figured that I’d probably have the plane to myself given the date and the significant anniversary.

Things had changed back home those few days I was away. Four days earlier I’d been in the chemo ward for a first session of what turned out to be mostly useless. Now I was in our front sitting room being told by a nurse that I was unlikely to be on any flight in six days time. I remember the twins were wearing new jackets. Grandma had bought them for their 4th birthday and despite that being still four days away, had insisted the presents be open and the jackets be worn. They twirled and shone in those jackets that Monday. And for a little while, she shone with them.

They don’t tell you about the things that cancer can do to a body. In the blink of an eye. Or in five weeks. Or five days. How despite being constantly thirsty, you retain fluid in your lower extremities. So that the legs you were quietly proud of, shaped by years of wearing heels, swell and make it difficult to stand or walk. Or that the strength of a pain killer can mask the pain but also mask the person. Or that you’ll still enjoy egg and chips. Or that you’ll shine. And talk about the things that maybe kept you awake at night those last weeks. Or months. Or years.

We stayed up most of that Monday night. My sister and me. I don’t remember what we talked about. I think we were processing. And listening. I called the airline and changed my flight. I sent an email to work to say I wouldn’t be back as soon as planned. I called the hotel in Auckland who had a no refund no cancellation policy. And they told me they would honour my booking and to just rearrange when I could and let them know. We called the hospice helpline sometime in the early hours. For advice. We weren’t nurses. The one we would have called for advice, the one of us who was a nurse – was the one requiring nursing. We pretended we were brave that night but inside we were crumbling.

By Tuesday morning it was obvious we needed more assistance. And she wanted that too. She knew – somehow – that we would all be better if she were being looked after by her fellow professionals. So the hospice ambulance came and before she left the house she reminded us that there were silver heirlooms in a display cabinet that had our names on them. The silver that only she had shined as the rest of us would only do it wrong. It’s still there, that silver. And she was right, it’s not as shiny now.

On Wednesday Kai flew in from Germany and drove his hire car too fast down the N4. We went to Furey’s that night and had pints. They were lovely. It was a moment of normalcy in a time of madness. We laughed. A little. That version of Furey’s has gone too. Turns out you can miss a place as well as a person.

We went back home on Thursday morning having spent the night on a pull out bed. Went back to freshen up and face another day. I remember there were phone calls and Maeve popped in. Maeve was well that day. Despite everything. And she shone too. Like she always did. The phone rang mid kettle boiling and we left her there. To shut the door. And drove too fast down the N17. I sent a text message to Mum so that someone could read it to her. I assume they did.

There were a few more hours to go. Short, long hours. And as it approached three in the afternoon, I went outside and smoked a cigarette and watched the sun shine on a particular window. And waited.

It started to rain just a little. Soft rain. Like you only get in Ireland. On a warm, September day. And somewhere in the skies above Benbulben there appeared a rainbow. Shining.

Thanks, shine.

Thank you 202 – hugs

It’s been six months since I last wrote one of these.

It’s been six months.

It’s been an odd six months in many ways with lots of time to reflect, to reminisce, to remember. I haven’t really felt like writing much these last six months. When you go nowhere and you see nobody there isn’t much to write. When the days meld into each other and you never know if it’s Thurtuesday or Wedmonday or Sunturday there isn’t much to say. Not these last six months. There are only so many press conferences and so much data you can talk about. Or want to talk about. These last six months.

But there will still be days when you need to write. Days when it is expected, incumbent even. This is one of those days. When even though you’ve had all the time in the world to reflect, to reminisce, to remember – there are more memories than you could ever hope to have even in six months of writing and you need to write them down.

This is what I remember.

A knitted coat.

A fascinator.

Thursday night bridge.

Wooden spoons. That always seemed to miss the mark.

Kidney and rice.

The smell of nail polish remover.

A bird book on the windowsill.

A tutted sigh at a poorly folded newspaper.

Letters to Santa. And the tears of laughter.

Laughter that turned into a snort.

The embarrassment of noises emanating on rising from an armchair.

The look you’d be given on publicly announcing those snorts or embarrassment of noises.

Not being afraid to complain. When complaining was warranted.

Writing letters. To popes and to prime ministers and to presidents. Getting responses.

Having opinions.

Shining on a TV quiz show. In cerise pink. Because that was a good colour. For TV and for her.

Lipstick.

That look of hurt when you wiped the lipstick off your cheek.

Snooker.

Rugby. And Ronan O’Gara’s grandmother.

The joy of being a grandma.

The mad frenzy of knitting when news of more grandkids came.

A little pink doll’s dress.

The sound of a sewing machine.

And getting pins stuck into you. For her mouth to your arm. Ouch.

Gin with a slice. But no ice.

A hug.

On days like these in years like these you wonder how she might have coped. How, if nine years hadn’t passed, she’d have dealt with the madness these six months have thrown at us.

You think she’d have been stoic. Have taken it all in her stride. Not shown the world she was anxious or scared or angry. Wouldn’t have written to presidents or prime ministers or popes. Would have left them to get on with it. And scoured the press conferences and the data. And had an opinion.

But she would have missed her bridge. And laughter with friends over a gin. And the grandkids.

She would have cried at the losses. Quietly and privately as she did most of her crying.

She would have embraced Zoom and FaceTime but would have worried that with no hairdressers she wouldn’t look her best on the camera. So she might not have always turned the camera on.

She would have missed the hugs.

It’s been six months.

It’s been nine years.

I miss the hugs.

Thanks – hugs.

Thank you 201 #COVID 19

These can be difficult days. The ones where you remember.

Sprigs of shamrock pinned to your best jumper. Real stuff. Dirty, from the garden. Or some random hedge.When all you really wanted was a loud rosette with a golden harp and three pleats of orange that would ruffle in the wind as it proudly proclaimed your pride in the national day. Not the lump of moss like stuff that looked nothing like any shamrock you’d ever drawn. But all was right with the world.

You’d get a day off Lent. You might be allowed the thrill of a Dairy Milk. On that one day in those long six weeks off sweets. You’d swear we had cupboards full of sweets the rest of the year. That the drawers and the presses were stuffed full of sugary snacks you could dip into whenever you wanted. Me arse. But the St Patrick’s Day chocolate. That’d melt in your mouth. and all was right with the world.

And after dinner. Green jelly, ice cream and peaches. A little Irish flag served in a wee bowl that you thought was crystal. The jelly would sparkle in the glass. And the ice cream would melt quicker than you could eat it. Because even though it was probably only ten degrees, the warmth in the place spoke of the coming Spring. And all was right with the world.

There were five pints of Guinness in The Palace Bar before taking a mad notion to hitch West. And ending up in a pub in Tooreen at 11 at night where there was no traffic and not a chance of making it the last 18 miles home. you’d get a bit anxious and make a quick call home with your only 20p. And half an hour later your Dad would rock up. And buy you a hot whiskey in the only pub in the village. Where there’d be one man with a guitar and a drum kit. And even though your Dad was a bit annoyed with you, he wouldn’t say anything. Just make sure you were warm and safe. And all was right with the world.

And another day in The Palace. When the sun was shining and you’d skipped out early from the parade to be the first in. To claim a corner in the back room before the hordes came in. In your lilac dress and a cardigan and Alice who had to leave early and Joanna from England with her Irish bones and her curly hair and Tracey from Adelaide with her Irish name and her strawberry blonde hair and the entire black haired Cassidy family from Ballymote and Carmel Clarke once from Tuam. And you sang songs even though everyone knows there is no singing in The Palace Bar. And made promises to reconvene in that place on that date in ten or twenty years time. Promises you didn’t keep but in that place and at that time you meant to. And all was right with the world.

And the ones when you were away. When a card would arrive that’d make you smile. With a folded flag or a pin flag that you could wear on your lapel. Not a rosette. Something classier and very tiny. And all was right with the world.

And all the mornings you’d be in the shower. And the words of Hail Glorious Saint Patrick would sweep into your memory and you’d start humming. And then singing. And it’d morph into Danny Boy as you rinsed the shampoo from your hair. And then you found The Muppets and shared that with the world. And all was right. Then.

Or the ones in Williamstown. With Claire who has her own reasons for remembering this day. When you end up in the welcoming home of someone you’ve briefly met through the theatre. And all is right with the world.

And then there’s this one. When you go to work and there aren’t many people there. Where faces are pale and perhaps scared looking. Where there’s a constant sense of surrealism in the air and an unspoken sense of dread in your stomach. Where you wonder how you’ve found yourself in this place at this time. And you’re moving the few who are there further away from each other. With a show of confidence that you don’t really feel. There are moments that overwhelm you and you spend too much time checking news sites.

So you share The Muppets with your workmates. And you do your job and come home to set your desk up there. And you make and receive a couple of calls. And drink a glass or two of wine. And watch more news.

You don’t know what will happen. In the coming weeks, the coming months. But you know this.

There will be laughter. There will be sadness. There will be challenges. There will be fun. There will be games to play and songs to sing. There will be birds singing and lambs frolicking. Flowers will grow and rivers will run. Waves will break on the shores and people will live and love and dance and die.

There will be books to read and books to write. There will be selfish acts and kindness. But mostly there will be time.

Time to stop. To listen. To talk. To learn. To be in your place and of your place. To be with yourself and to know yourself. To be better than you have been. To remember. That all will be all right with the world.

And for this, if for nothing else, I say thanks, COVID 19.

Thank you 200 – Stereo Stories

In the middle of Winter, in a small suburb of Melbourne, a literary festival is held. It’s a great event, centred around Williamstown Town Hall and filled with folk who love a good book. There are writer talks and book launches. Workshops and heated discussions. Hot soup and coffee.

Recent years of the festival have seen two events become “must sees”. One on the Sunday morning involves hordes of excited children being entertained by Mr Andy Griffith. The other, on the Saturday night, is an event called Stereo Stories. There isn’t anything else like Stereo Stories that I’ve come across. A mix of memoir and melody, of story and song, it involves a writer reading a piece which references a particular song. And a live band performing that song. It’s magical. And I know a woman who would have loved it. And for her, on this day, here is my Stereo Story.

The Place – Tubbercurry, Co Sligo

The Time – September 2011

The Song – Mother and Child Reunion

We’d left the church by that stage. Survived the hymns and the prayers and the hand shakes. You’d think that after a two day wake there’d be no more hands left to shake.

We’d survived the pressure of the reading of Ecclesiastes 3. A time to be born and a time to die. And the eulogy by Dad at the end of the Mass. The one that made us laugh as well as cry. The one that got a rousing ovation in that packed church. On that Sunday. In that September. We’d survived all of that. All that was left now was the cemetery. The drive there. The burial. The drive back.

If you don’t know Tubbercurry, you won’t know that you can get to the graveyard a couple of ways. You can drive up the N17 towards Galway and take a sharp right turn about a mile out of town. That’s the way most people go on their final journey. Or you can take a much earlier right just after the police station and then a left at the school. If you go that way you pass our house. So that’s the way the hearse went that Sunday afternoon. In that September.

We must have been a few cars back. When the hearse pulled up at the house for those final seconds, we found ourselves just at the junction where you turn down to what used to be Basta. I don’t recall now whose idea it was. That we turn around and go the other way. Get ahead of the cortège and have prime place at the grave site. But turn around we did. And as we drove back up the Ballina Road to turn onto the N17, Rónán pressed play.

No I would not give you false hope

On this strange and mournful day

But the mother and child reunion

Is only a motion away.

We sat in that car. On that Sunday. That September. And we listened. To a song we’d probably heard many a time before. But hadn’t listened to. Not before.

We played it on repeat. It’s a short song. So we might have listened to it two or three times more before we got to the graveyard. And we were among the first to arrive. Which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing. Because we had two men in the car who were on the list of pallbearers. A son and a not quite son in law. Sharing that burden with other men. A husband, another son, a son in law, nephews and friends. Men who had loved her.

The burial went quickly. Quicker than planned. The weather turned just before the rosary. A localised storm – affectionately recorded for posterity as Hurricane Maureen – came rolling though. And we dispersed. To rattling umbrellas. And cars. And made our way to Killorans for grub and what would become known forever as”Grandma’s party.”

We played the song again in the car on the way back. And again in the days and weeks that followed. I listened to it umpteen times on the plane back to Melbourne. Later that September.

And the weeks turned into months. The months turned into years. Eleven of them now. Eleven mostly happy years where the clouds dissipated a little with each passing year. You still notice the clouds these days. But you notice the rainbow too.

And you can listen to that song now. This Sunday. Any Sunday. In this September. Or any September. With a gin and tonic. With a slice, but no ice.

And the course of a lifetime runs.

Over and over again.

Thanks – Stereo Stories

Thank you 199 – the people who stayed in our house

There’s a wee pink toothbrush in the downstairs bathroom and a tiny little plastic onion on the table.

There’s a Frozen gift bag on the kitchen counter. Empty. And a blue tea towel that you’ve never seen before.

There are four teddies and a penguin on the coffee table. And five more teddies in a heap behind it. They took a long and arduous train journey last night. I think they’re tired.

There are four cans of limonata in the fridge. Waiting for a gin.

There’s a pink balloon with zebra stripes beside the coffee machine. It’s somewhat deflated.

There are towels and pillowcases, sheets and duvet covers hanging on the line. Lots of them. The pegs don’t match.

There is silence.

You hear the clock tick for the first time in a fortnight. You hear a train in the distance. And a passing car.

There isn’t soccer on the television. Or Peter Rabbit. Just a couple of weeks worth of Coronation Street to catch up on.

There aren’t five tablets fighting for their time in a charger.

You don’t have to pump up an air bed. Or leave a light on in the hallway. Just in case.

You don’t have to read a story tonight. Out loud. Or tell someone to be quiet cause you’re trying to watch the news.

You don’t have to think about how you’ll get eight people out of the house. On time. Or at some time.

You won’t have to buy milk for the week. You’ll never have to buy cheese again. Or tea bags.

You might just have a cup of tea now.

You watch the clock. You check the departure times at Melbourne airport. You think about how you’re all still in the same time zone for another 53 minutes. And how you’ve often thought like that before. In Dublin or London. But not too often in your own living room.

And yes you’re a little sad. But you’re mostly happy. Because there is a toothbrush and a balloon and a bag. And a troupe of exhausted teddies. And a penguin. And a little plastic onion. And a myriad of things still to be found.

And memories to share.

Of a fourth birthday party. And a first pedicure. Of a missed hook turn. And a tram ride. Of little penguins. And holding hands. Of penalty shootouts. And theatre sleeping. Of noise and laughter. And some tears.

The house is silent tonight. Like it’s settling itself. With a sigh. And a smile.

Thanks, the people who stayed in our house.