I was looking through past blog entries searching for stories about Mrs O'Reilly, who died a couple of months ago at age 90. I went to the wake at the nursing home with my neighbor Dermot. We had been sharing a good few stories with Noreen, Mrs O'Reilly's daughter, while we sat by Mrs O'Reilly's bed, where she was laid out. She looked so peaceful and so frail--she had gotten a lot smaller over the past couple of years. As we were driving back, I was thinking it was a shame that all the great stories and incidents involving Mrs O'Reilly in the neighborhood would be lost over time. And Noreen had enjoyed hearing the ones we did tell her. So I suggested to Dermott that I could get a small notebook or pad in Italy (where I was headed the next morning), and all the neighbors who wanted to could write about Mrs O'Reilly in it. Dermott thought it was a good idea.
While I was in Venice and wandering around, I went to a beautiful church and lit a candle for Mrs O'Reilly and my Uncle Hugh, who died last year. I am no longer Catholic, but I do appreciate the rites, especially for funerals. For me, lighting the candles was simply taking a moment to remember those who are gone.
So I visited a few paper stores in Venice. I had originally envisaged getting a decorative, hard-covered notebook. Everything I found though was too thick. Eventually I found a set of three slim notebooks in different colors, each with a sketch on the front cover and a relevant poem in English on the back. The one with a sketch of a person bent over and pecking at the bread crumbs among the pigeons who were doing likewise had Mrs O'Reilly's name all over it. The pigeons she fed every morning without fail for decades were the bane of the neighborhood, especially for those residents who parked the cars near her house. I think she bought loaves of bread just for the pigeons. Neighbors may have grumbled about the damn birds--and especially the bird shit--but nobody ever considered giving out to Mrs O'Reilly.
*******
I read a good few blog entries this morning. As a wordsmith, I was appalled at how many errors there are. I blame my mediocre typing skills--and obviously insufficient proofreading. I intend to go throw and fix everything... but not today.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Indigo
So I got a cat about a year and half ago. Some friends worry that I am turning into a cat lady, a not entirely unreasonable concern given that I took up crocheting again a few years ago and I also have a vintage fur coat. Not to fear, however. I am not really much of a cat person; I am simply an Indigo person. He makes me laugh, even when I am not doing well and want to hide from the world. He is also a pain in the ass, as I tell him regularly.
I am far more tolerant of Indigo's shortcomings than I would be of a person living with me. Maybe by being more tolerant with him I am learning how to build tolerance toward myself and others. It is possible.
When I come home in the evening and he hears the keys in the door, he crouches on the other side. If I am really late, he sometimes mewls a bit. Once I open the door, he launches himself outside, skids to a halt, and starts sniffing everything--the dying potted plants in front of my house, the pavement, the wheels of the neighbor's car. Of course if it is pouring rain, he immediately shoots back into the house.
Neither the cold nor light mists put him off.
Indigo is not a hardy adventurer. I leave the front door open and usually sit in the doorway while he is exploring the street. When he first started going outside about eight months ago, the littlest noise or appearance of a person scared him silly. Back inside he would go and cower in fear. Now he is more casual about his returns and is willing to venture out again once the coast is clear.
After a while I try to get him to come back in. Sometimes shaking a plastic container of his treats works. Sometimes he ignores me. If it is really cold and I get impatient, I chase him back into the house. He gets a treat then once inside.
My cousin convinced me to get a lead for the cat. It is really more of a toy we use occasionally inside the house for giggling purposes. Indigo would be mortified if I tried to make him wear it outside.
I am far more tolerant of Indigo's shortcomings than I would be of a person living with me. Maybe by being more tolerant with him I am learning how to build tolerance toward myself and others. It is possible.
When I come home in the evening and he hears the keys in the door, he crouches on the other side. If I am really late, he sometimes mewls a bit. Once I open the door, he launches himself outside, skids to a halt, and starts sniffing everything--the dying potted plants in front of my house, the pavement, the wheels of the neighbor's car. Of course if it is pouring rain, he immediately shoots back into the house.
Neither the cold nor light mists put him off.
Indigo is not a hardy adventurer. I leave the front door open and usually sit in the doorway while he is exploring the street. When he first started going outside about eight months ago, the littlest noise or appearance of a person scared him silly. Back inside he would go and cower in fear. Now he is more casual about his returns and is willing to venture out again once the coast is clear.
After a while I try to get him to come back in. Sometimes shaking a plastic container of his treats works. Sometimes he ignores me. If it is really cold and I get impatient, I chase him back into the house. He gets a treat then once inside.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
A day in San Francisco
I arrived late last night and was awake at 4:30 am from jet lag. I had previously arranged to go into San Francisco in the morning with Belle, who had to go into the office.
We got the BART into the city and Belle took me up to her office to meet her colleagues. The pink motorcycle helmet by her desk was not hers; it had belonged to a client who had been in an accident. Good ice breaker topic for her new clients though.
I headed off and wandered around the city. I found a lovely nail salon on Howard Street. I got a manicure and then rested in the comfy chair listening to the classic lite music. A wave of tiredness hit me, but I managed not to fall asleep. A nice chat with the woman next to me ensued. She was getting both a manicure and a pedicure (at the same time) and was friendly without being over the top. She had overheard me telling my manicurist that I was living in Ireland and was not local (no repeat business here). Anyway, the woman had been to Ireland a few years ago with her husband. She loved it ("what's not to love?" according to her), and was amazed at how much there was to do in Dublin. On Dublin's behalf, I was inwardly a bit defensive; it is a capital city after all. Mini-sized but still.
I told the woman how much I love San Francisco (lots) and simply said that I live in Dublin. She assumed that I was Irish, which is logical I suppose. It tickles me though how none of the Americans here pick up that I am also American (unlike the Irish at home).
After the nails and chat, I strolled down to the piers. Looking out at the Bay Bridge I realized that I had been quietly humming "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" all morning. Spot the tourist. I made sure I was not within 25 feet of a building (ish) and lit a cigarette. The anti-smoking laws have become even more draconian since my last visit. Belle had pointed out a place near her building were people smoked, so we had agreed to meet there for lunch. Smokers are people, too, I told her. (I am thinking about getting t-shirts with that on them made up to sell here.)
My next wandering brought me to a farmer's market. However, there was no produce; it was more of an arts and crafts market. There was some dodgy art, some nice jewelry, and some tat. I found a shoe stall and initially thought the shoes were vintage. It turns out they were handmade. I had a great chat with the woman running the stall (the shoemaker) and loved going through all the different styles of shoes. The woman has been making shoes for 46 years and has 7 children. On a whim, I ordered a pair of shoes. It is definitely my big purchase for this trip, and one I had not entirely budgeted for. Oh well, it is only money. The experience of getting both feet measured seven ways was worth it, and I am curious to see how the shoes turn out. They will be ready in two weeks and collecting them will give me an excuse to visit Palo Alto.
I only allowed myself to window shop for the rest-- er, except for the carton of cigs.
Belle managed to get off work a bit early so we went for a quick, happy hour drink before catching the BART back to suburbia.
We got the BART into the city and Belle took me up to her office to meet her colleagues. The pink motorcycle helmet by her desk was not hers; it had belonged to a client who had been in an accident. Good ice breaker topic for her new clients though.
I headed off and wandered around the city. I found a lovely nail salon on Howard Street. I got a manicure and then rested in the comfy chair listening to the classic lite music. A wave of tiredness hit me, but I managed not to fall asleep. A nice chat with the woman next to me ensued. She was getting both a manicure and a pedicure (at the same time) and was friendly without being over the top. She had overheard me telling my manicurist that I was living in Ireland and was not local (no repeat business here). Anyway, the woman had been to Ireland a few years ago with her husband. She loved it ("what's not to love?" according to her), and was amazed at how much there was to do in Dublin. On Dublin's behalf, I was inwardly a bit defensive; it is a capital city after all. Mini-sized but still.
I told the woman how much I love San Francisco (lots) and simply said that I live in Dublin. She assumed that I was Irish, which is logical I suppose. It tickles me though how none of the Americans here pick up that I am also American (unlike the Irish at home).
After the nails and chat, I strolled down to the piers. Looking out at the Bay Bridge I realized that I had been quietly humming "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" all morning. Spot the tourist. I made sure I was not within 25 feet of a building (ish) and lit a cigarette. The anti-smoking laws have become even more draconian since my last visit. Belle had pointed out a place near her building were people smoked, so we had agreed to meet there for lunch. Smokers are people, too, I told her. (I am thinking about getting t-shirts with that on them made up to sell here.)
My next wandering brought me to a farmer's market. However, there was no produce; it was more of an arts and crafts market. There was some dodgy art, some nice jewelry, and some tat. I found a shoe stall and initially thought the shoes were vintage. It turns out they were handmade. I had a great chat with the woman running the stall (the shoemaker) and loved going through all the different styles of shoes. The woman has been making shoes for 46 years and has 7 children. On a whim, I ordered a pair of shoes. It is definitely my big purchase for this trip, and one I had not entirely budgeted for. Oh well, it is only money. The experience of getting both feet measured seven ways was worth it, and I am curious to see how the shoes turn out. They will be ready in two weeks and collecting them will give me an excuse to visit Palo Alto.
I only allowed myself to window shop for the rest-- er, except for the carton of cigs.
Belle managed to get off work a bit early so we went for a quick, happy hour drink before catching the BART back to suburbia.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Rules for the neighborhood kids
I have always been friendly with the kids in my neighborhood, but ever since I got the kitten, Indigo, I am super popular.
I was home early one evening last week, lying in bed reading. There was a knock at the door; I answered and looked out at my own height. Not seeing anyone then I looked down. Niambh was standing there. "Do you have a kitten?" she asked.
"Yes, I have had her for two weeks."
"I thought so. I saw her yesterday sitting in the window. I called over last night but you weren't home, " she said looking at me accusingly.
"Yeah, I was out last night."
"Can I come in and see her?" Niambh asked.
"You can but she is hiding. She gets scared pretty easily and isn't used to people."
Niambh entered the front room and started looking around. "Where is she?"
"Dunno. Try looking behind the sofa or in the kitchen." Niambh started exploring and I went to sit in the open doorway with my cigs and water.
I can't find her," she said coming back out to me.
"Well, give it time. Once she gets used to you, she might come out. She gets livelier in later in the evenings."
"Can we do art?" Niambh asked.
"Sure, let me get the stuff." I pulled out paper for her and went into the spare room to collect the art supplies. "Are you going to make pictures for the street party?" I asked.
Niambh nodded. She set herself up at the table in the front room. "Do you not have any paints?" she asked after searching the plastic bag of supplies.
"Look again, I thought I had paints in that bag."
"I can't find any."
"Hmm, I don't know where they are then." She settled for the pastel crayons.
It was a warm evening so I sat in the doorway and watched the neighborhood. After a while, Niambh brought her artwork and supplies over. I decided to do a drawing, too. We both were drawing kittens. I used the museum garden where I found Indigo as the scene. Niambh and I compared our work periodically. "At least yours looks like a cat," I said to her at one point. "Mine looks more like a fox." She giggled and nodded.
More neighborhood kids arrived. It was Sean, Niambh's brother, Carlos, and Mick. "I came to see the kitten," said Niambh to them.
"Can we go see the kitten too?" they all chorused. "Please, please, please."
"Alright but don't make too much noise, you'll scare her." I shook my head; three boys between the ages of 6 and 10. Quiet was not really an option.
"OK," said Sean. "Yeah!" said Carlos and Mick as they climbed over Niambh and her painting. The three boys charged around my little house. They moved all the things that Indigo could be hiding under.
"I saw her!" yelled Mick. The other two boys pushed him out of the way to get their turn.
After a bit, the boys got bored and started roughhousing in the front room. Niambh looked over at them. "Boys are a lot of trouble," she said. I agreed, thinking that most don't get any better when they are older either.
Eventually the noise the boys were making reached a level I could not stand. "Enough!" I roared, surprising myself at how loud I could yell (not to mention surprising them). They looked at me in shock but then started to wrestle again. "You're barred. Out!" Again, hesitation. "Now!" They hustled out.
"How long are we barred for?" asked Sean as he left. "How come she gets to stay?" asked Carlos.
I sighed. "Oh, you can visit another night later in the week." Then to Carlos, "she wasn't annoying me."
I decided to make up rules for the boys' next visit. The overlying guideline was that they were to behave or I wouldn't let them in. As that was too general, the explicit rules were #1, no burping; #2, no farting (the contests for #1 and #2 were unbearable); #3, roughhousing is okay, but no wrecking the joint; and finally #4, listen to me, and if I say stop or no, do what I say.
The rules were semi-successful on their next visit. They stayed longer and mostly behaved. On their third visit, they tested the rules and got barred again. It ended in tears.
Editor's note: Indigo turned out to be male. I hadn't checked.
I was home early one evening last week, lying in bed reading. There was a knock at the door; I answered and looked out at my own height. Not seeing anyone then I looked down. Niambh was standing there. "Do you have a kitten?" she asked.
"Yes, I have had her for two weeks."
"I thought so. I saw her yesterday sitting in the window. I called over last night but you weren't home, " she said looking at me accusingly.
"Yeah, I was out last night."
"Can I come in and see her?" Niambh asked.
"You can but she is hiding. She gets scared pretty easily and isn't used to people."
Niambh entered the front room and started looking around. "Where is she?"
"Dunno. Try looking behind the sofa or in the kitchen." Niambh started exploring and I went to sit in the open doorway with my cigs and water.
I can't find her," she said coming back out to me.
"Well, give it time. Once she gets used to you, she might come out. She gets livelier in later in the evenings."
"Can we do art?" Niambh asked.
"Sure, let me get the stuff." I pulled out paper for her and went into the spare room to collect the art supplies. "Are you going to make pictures for the street party?" I asked.
Niambh nodded. She set herself up at the table in the front room. "Do you not have any paints?" she asked after searching the plastic bag of supplies.
"Look again, I thought I had paints in that bag."
"I can't find any."
"Hmm, I don't know where they are then." She settled for the pastel crayons.
It was a warm evening so I sat in the doorway and watched the neighborhood. After a while, Niambh brought her artwork and supplies over. I decided to do a drawing, too. We both were drawing kittens. I used the museum garden where I found Indigo as the scene. Niambh and I compared our work periodically. "At least yours looks like a cat," I said to her at one point. "Mine looks more like a fox." She giggled and nodded.
More neighborhood kids arrived. It was Sean, Niambh's brother, Carlos, and Mick. "I came to see the kitten," said Niambh to them.
"Can we go see the kitten too?" they all chorused. "Please, please, please."
"Alright but don't make too much noise, you'll scare her." I shook my head; three boys between the ages of 6 and 10. Quiet was not really an option.
"OK," said Sean. "Yeah!" said Carlos and Mick as they climbed over Niambh and her painting. The three boys charged around my little house. They moved all the things that Indigo could be hiding under.
"I saw her!" yelled Mick. The other two boys pushed him out of the way to get their turn.
After a bit, the boys got bored and started roughhousing in the front room. Niambh looked over at them. "Boys are a lot of trouble," she said. I agreed, thinking that most don't get any better when they are older either.
Eventually the noise the boys were making reached a level I could not stand. "Enough!" I roared, surprising myself at how loud I could yell (not to mention surprising them). They looked at me in shock but then started to wrestle again. "You're barred. Out!" Again, hesitation. "Now!" They hustled out.
"How long are we barred for?" asked Sean as he left. "How come she gets to stay?" asked Carlos.
I sighed. "Oh, you can visit another night later in the week." Then to Carlos, "she wasn't annoying me."
I decided to make up rules for the boys' next visit. The overlying guideline was that they were to behave or I wouldn't let them in. As that was too general, the explicit rules were #1, no burping; #2, no farting (the contests for #1 and #2 were unbearable); #3, roughhousing is okay, but no wrecking the joint; and finally #4, listen to me, and if I say stop or no, do what I say.
The rules were semi-successful on their next visit. They stayed longer and mostly behaved. On their third visit, they tested the rules and got barred again. It ended in tears.
Editor's note: Indigo turned out to be male. I hadn't checked.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Wine tasting, take 2
A week ago Saturday was the second, annual wine-tasting fundraiser for Haiti.
As I walked over to Glenda's house, I passed my neighbor Fred, who attempted to wolf whistle at me via his open window. "Nice guna." I laughed and thanked him. He said he would follow me over in a while.
"Do I need to bring anything?" he asked as I started to head off. I looked back at him.
"Money," I replied.
"That's what I like about you, you are so direct," he said. I shrugged thinking, it is a fundraiser.
The invitees, being Irish, were slow to arrive. It was a nice, small crowd, and everyone seemed comfortable with each other and mingled happily. Glenda the good witch bustled about, giving out orders indiscriminately.
As I had done the previous year, we had five wines to taste. This year, however, Glenda had decided that we were to start with a rose. Well, early arrivals started with a glass or two of Shiraz or a beer. The wine tasting officially started quite late with the rose. I introduced "my able assistant" Howard. He was in charge of the opening of wine bottles and the pouring of the wine. Given that the sofas and chairs were quite low, Howard said that he felt like he was towering over everybody. Even in my high-heeled sandals I was not towering over anybody. I was however giving it loads as I am wont to do in such circumstances.
Very little was said about the wines. I provided basic information about where we got the wine, the reasonable cost, and what the wines were called. Occasionally, I mentioned what the percentage of alcohol was. The emphasis was on the drinking--and people's selective likes and dislikes.
One gentleman was not a wine drinker and seemed a bit bemused about the wine cheat sheet. I explained that it was just an aid. "For example, is that a wine you would give to your mother-in-law?" I asked.
He replied, "She is dead, so no." OK, I thought, he is taking this very literally. Try again.
"Perhaps it is more of a date wine?"
He shook his head no. "I am married so I don't go on dates."
"What about swilling wine?"
Nope. "I don't like wine; I wouldn't drink a lot of it."
I gave up. "Can I get you a beer?"
All in all, it was a civilized evening and no one fell into the fireplace (unlike last year. I blame the whisky.) A few of us who have been trapped by Glenda's generous hospitality in the past snuck out one after the other whenever she was in the kitchen and was distracted by others.
The Haiti fundraising season has begun well.
As I walked over to Glenda's house, I passed my neighbor Fred, who attempted to wolf whistle at me via his open window. "Nice guna." I laughed and thanked him. He said he would follow me over in a while.
"Do I need to bring anything?" he asked as I started to head off. I looked back at him.
"Money," I replied.
"That's what I like about you, you are so direct," he said. I shrugged thinking, it is a fundraiser.
The invitees, being Irish, were slow to arrive. It was a nice, small crowd, and everyone seemed comfortable with each other and mingled happily. Glenda the good witch bustled about, giving out orders indiscriminately.
As I had done the previous year, we had five wines to taste. This year, however, Glenda had decided that we were to start with a rose. Well, early arrivals started with a glass or two of Shiraz or a beer. The wine tasting officially started quite late with the rose. I introduced "my able assistant" Howard. He was in charge of the opening of wine bottles and the pouring of the wine. Given that the sofas and chairs were quite low, Howard said that he felt like he was towering over everybody. Even in my high-heeled sandals I was not towering over anybody. I was however giving it loads as I am wont to do in such circumstances.
Very little was said about the wines. I provided basic information about where we got the wine, the reasonable cost, and what the wines were called. Occasionally, I mentioned what the percentage of alcohol was. The emphasis was on the drinking--and people's selective likes and dislikes.
One gentleman was not a wine drinker and seemed a bit bemused about the wine cheat sheet. I explained that it was just an aid. "For example, is that a wine you would give to your mother-in-law?" I asked.
He replied, "She is dead, so no." OK, I thought, he is taking this very literally. Try again.
"Perhaps it is more of a date wine?"
He shook his head no. "I am married so I don't go on dates."
"What about swilling wine?"
Nope. "I don't like wine; I wouldn't drink a lot of it."
I gave up. "Can I get you a beer?"
All in all, it was a civilized evening and no one fell into the fireplace (unlike last year. I blame the whisky.) A few of us who have been trapped by Glenda's generous hospitality in the past snuck out one after the other whenever she was in the kitchen and was distracted by others.
The Haiti fundraising season has begun well.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Self-control and silly times
I am reading a New Yorker article about self-control, and had a silly adventure the other day. So I thought I would write a little about the two. According to the article thinking about thinking is what allows people to outsmart their shortcomings. In other words, a good way to practice self-control about a given temptation is to distract yourself by thinking about something else.
The other day I went into work at 7 am (highly unusual for me) and had taken work home with me when I met up with a friend for lunch. I had already decided that I was not going back to the office after lunch, but I had several choices: go home and take a nap since I had not been sleeping well the past week, go home and finish off the two outstanding hours of work, or hang out with my friend all afternoon. I am sure there were other choices but those were the three I thought about. As it was a warm, summery day (by Dublin standards), you can guess which option I was favoring.
If you know me at all (and anyone reading this does), you already know which option I chose. Yes, I hung out with my friend. And I had fun. There was a slight difference this time from my past behavior in similar circumstances--I was less impulsive about picking the option to go with. I did think about it rationally, and weighed the pros and cons. It is not that big of a deal deciding whether to work or have fun (especially knowing that there are no ramifications on my job as I will do the work this weekend). However, there were emotional ramifications to consider and this is an area that tends to be a landmine for me.
I have made a conscious decision in the past year to avoid inappropriate relationships or non-relationships. If my budding relationship with this guy stays at friendship, there is no problem. If it becomes an emotional or romantic relationship, then it would fall into the inappropriate category. Both of us are aware of this and both would prefer the former--or so we say. Whether it is true for him or not, I really don't know.
Anyway, we had fun and have decided to just be friends. As the article explains, it is not just about the marshmallows. Read more http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/05/18/090518fa_fact_lehrer#ixzz1SFPQBt3U
The other day I went into work at 7 am (highly unusual for me) and had taken work home with me when I met up with a friend for lunch. I had already decided that I was not going back to the office after lunch, but I had several choices: go home and take a nap since I had not been sleeping well the past week, go home and finish off the two outstanding hours of work, or hang out with my friend all afternoon. I am sure there were other choices but those were the three I thought about. As it was a warm, summery day (by Dublin standards), you can guess which option I was favoring.
If you know me at all (and anyone reading this does), you already know which option I chose. Yes, I hung out with my friend. And I had fun. There was a slight difference this time from my past behavior in similar circumstances--I was less impulsive about picking the option to go with. I did think about it rationally, and weighed the pros and cons. It is not that big of a deal deciding whether to work or have fun (especially knowing that there are no ramifications on my job as I will do the work this weekend). However, there were emotional ramifications to consider and this is an area that tends to be a landmine for me.
I have made a conscious decision in the past year to avoid inappropriate relationships or non-relationships. If my budding relationship with this guy stays at friendship, there is no problem. If it becomes an emotional or romantic relationship, then it would fall into the inappropriate category. Both of us are aware of this and both would prefer the former--or so we say. Whether it is true for him or not, I really don't know.
Anyway, we had fun and have decided to just be friends. As the article explains, it is not just about the marshmallows. Read more http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/05/18/090518fa_fact_lehrer#ixzz1SFPQBt3U
Thursday, June 9, 2011
In honor of the Queen’s visit
[Note: This dates from the end of May. Technical difficulties in getting it posted.]
Living next to Phoenix Park, I could hardly miss all the hustle and bustle of the historic visit. Queen Elizabeth II is the first member of English royalty to visit Ireland since it became a republic. It has been the topic for the week, with people voicing opinions for and against—and whether she should apologize for the English’s treatment of the Irish (no, according to the English politicians). She has bowed her head in the Garden of remembrance and expressed sorrow at the loss of life somewhere else. I can’t remember. There were also a few bomb scares, but luckily none went off. She is off to see the horses in Kildare today.
My biggest memory of this week will be all the guards (police) in their bright yellow high-visibility jackets. Steel barriers were everywhere, the guards were too. I saw stacks of them being transported in the double-decker Irish buses. Tuesday on my way to work, I saw O’Connell Street in a sea of yellow as the luas passed by. Apparently, there have been 10,000 guards on the streets. There are none left to make tea in the stations.
Yesterday the luas was not running so I had to walk to and from work. The quays were empty of cars. The odd helicopter overhead and occasional guardai motorcycle or car with flashing lights were the only vehicles to be seen. I was carrying my backpack with my lunch and change of clothes in it. I was stopped twice for inspection of my bag on the way to work. On the way home I made the mistake of buying vegetables. Not only were they heavy but my bag was checked more often. When I arrived at the beginning of Parkgate Street. The nice female guard would not let me pass. I was told to wait until the motorcade passed by. I tried to explain that I lived close by and just wanted to go home down the street; I did not want to cross the quays like the many waiting at the barriers to get across to Heuston station. She explained that unlike others being allowed to continue down the street, I could not because of the vegetables. When I asked why she said that they did not want anyone throwing vegetables at the Queen. My turnip was too heavy to throw, even if I had been so inclined. Others with vegetables were not impressed either.
Eventually two motorcades passed by separately. After all that I could not even see the Queen. I had my glasses on but still could not distinguish the people in the cars. What a historic waste of time…
The two hours of walking and the half hour of waiting at the barriers were for the Queen. The yoga at lunchtime, the creamed spinach I made last night and my breakfast of pancakes with fresh raspberries were just for me.
Living next to Phoenix Park, I could hardly miss all the hustle and bustle of the historic visit. Queen Elizabeth II is the first member of English royalty to visit Ireland since it became a republic. It has been the topic for the week, with people voicing opinions for and against—and whether she should apologize for the English’s treatment of the Irish (no, according to the English politicians). She has bowed her head in the Garden of remembrance and expressed sorrow at the loss of life somewhere else. I can’t remember. There were also a few bomb scares, but luckily none went off. She is off to see the horses in Kildare today.
My biggest memory of this week will be all the guards (police) in their bright yellow high-visibility jackets. Steel barriers were everywhere, the guards were too. I saw stacks of them being transported in the double-decker Irish buses. Tuesday on my way to work, I saw O’Connell Street in a sea of yellow as the luas passed by. Apparently, there have been 10,000 guards on the streets. There are none left to make tea in the stations.
Yesterday the luas was not running so I had to walk to and from work. The quays were empty of cars. The odd helicopter overhead and occasional guardai motorcycle or car with flashing lights were the only vehicles to be seen. I was carrying my backpack with my lunch and change of clothes in it. I was stopped twice for inspection of my bag on the way to work. On the way home I made the mistake of buying vegetables. Not only were they heavy but my bag was checked more often. When I arrived at the beginning of Parkgate Street. The nice female guard would not let me pass. I was told to wait until the motorcade passed by. I tried to explain that I lived close by and just wanted to go home down the street; I did not want to cross the quays like the many waiting at the barriers to get across to Heuston station. She explained that unlike others being allowed to continue down the street, I could not because of the vegetables. When I asked why she said that they did not want anyone throwing vegetables at the Queen. My turnip was too heavy to throw, even if I had been so inclined. Others with vegetables were not impressed either.
Eventually two motorcades passed by separately. After all that I could not even see the Queen. I had my glasses on but still could not distinguish the people in the cars. What a historic waste of time…
The two hours of walking and the half hour of waiting at the barriers were for the Queen. The yoga at lunchtime, the creamed spinach I made last night and my breakfast of pancakes with fresh raspberries were just for me.
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