sourweebastard

Morning all. I do hope Monday finds you well and sprightly. I myself, was woken at 3am by The Small Child, who crawled in and disported herself in a manner which was not conducive to sleep, (for me, not her) and thus I found myself setting about house-hold tasks in the early hours. Yes, our kitchen does look less of a bomb site this morning but I have puffy eyes and a most pallid complexion. Upon nipping down to Sainsbury’s to purchase bread at 8.15 I had the misfortune to catch a glimpse myself in the camera at the self-service tills. It was like one of the photos one sees on Crime Watch. Anyhoo, at least I applied make-up on Friday evening when I read my story in Bangor for Tenx9. (I couldn’t have people saying ‘That Helen McClements hasn’t aged well has she?’) Those are my legs in the centre photo, as I stood on tip toes to reach the mic. Not the brightest, me. And that Paul Doran who runs the bloody event just chortled away to himself and took pictures instead of fixing it for me, the dirt bird.

I’m actually feeling better now after two cups of coffee and a tea. If you’ve time now pour yourself a nice hot beverage and see if you can identify with having the fear of God put into you at the CSSM and freezing your ass off on the beach. Here’s the story:

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1980’s Bangor didn’t cover itself in glory. Ballyholme Beach certainly didn’t, and I should know, because I grew up overlooking it, on the Esplanade. My poor parents never anticipated living there, in a rambling 5 bedroom semi, but they’ve been there 35 years so I suppose they’re used to it now. They wanted to move to the Donaghadee Road, to a house with a sunny south-facing kitchen and a large garden where I recall there were hens. (Not that my mum ever wanted hens. ‘Terrible stupid creatures, and they make a shocking mess.’) But that house fell through and since their other house had already sold they were in a right fix, with two small children and a nana and granddad to boot. In a sort of demented frenzy they grabbed whatever was on the market and in the summer of 1983 we moved in.

The previous owner of the house on The Esplanade had moved sharpish as well, because God had told him he was needed elsewhere. Mum said the way he talked about God you’d have thought he’d been on the phone to him that morning. God however, never suggested that he check the house for damp, install decent double glazing or fix the dilapidated garage. Thus after the expense of buying the house, my parents had the almost insurmountable task of making it liveable. The damp sea air made all the wood swell so none of the doors shut without a massive bang and one small friend told me she thought everyone in our house was always in a shocker of a mood, with doors slamming every three minutes.

Such was the force of the gale that the front and back doors could never, ever be open simultaneously, as the gusts shooting through would cause a door to slam so violently that glass could shatter and small lives could have been lost. Relaxing, it wasn’t.

And aside from two summers, when I was small, and it was hot enough for me to run around in bikini bottoms and nothing else, I almost always remember it being cold. And this seemed to really, really irritate my mother. Having spent two years in Papua New Guinea where the sea was like a ‘warm bath’ and she and her friends ran round wearing M&S nighties as dresses because the Papuans ‘wouldn’t have known any different’ since they didn’t have M&S on small Indonesian islands, she found the icy Belfast Lough a terrible disappointment. ‘It’s a waste of a sea,’ she used to say, mournfully. (I have to add here that my mum is actually from Coleraine, so this shouldn’t have been a surprise.) To this day there are regulation ‘red fleeces’ and one is often pointed in the direction of the cloakroom to avail of one before the heating is cranked up. (Why the fleeces are always red I don’t know. I assure you they’re not communists).

One summer when it rained for a solid month the sun finally emerged and everyone descended upon the beach in a ‘Carpe Diem’ sort a way. ‘Please, can we go, please please,’ we begged. We must have been quite little because we weren’t allowed to go across the road and down the steps by ourselves. With much sighing and giving off, beach accoutrements were assembled and down we traipsed. The tide must have been coming in because there wasn’t much space, and we got ourselves settled and my mother looked beside her and there was a steaming pile of dog poo. So livid was she, that our beach excursion was aborted after about 10 minutes. Back up the steps we went. ‘You wouldn’t want to be swimming in that sea anyway,’ said another disillusioned mum. ‘The sewer flows straight into it,’ and as I recall back that that was indeed the case.

When we weren’t enduring rubbish trips to the sea we had rubbish trips to the park instead. Ballyholme park was, and still is, home to The CSSM for two weeks in July, and parents, whether religiously inclined or not, rejoiced in off-loading their children for free, for a couple of hours in the morning, afternoon, and evening. Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? That’s because it is, unless your child’s idea of entertainment involves game after game of rounders and ‘What’s the time Mister Wolf,’ led by extremely over-enthusiastic young people. I didn’t much enjoy this type of activity, but thought story time sounded nice and settled myself, cross-legged and eager in front of a man with a flip-board. He proceeded to show one lovely picture of blue skies and sunshine and fields, a bucolic countryside scene, one could say. ‘This was heaven,’ he explained. He flipped the chart to a bleak and scary picture of dark clouds and lightning and rain. I don’t recall if there was a devil with a forked stick but I wouldn’t have been surprised. ‘And this was hell,’ he went on. ‘So we had all better be good Christian children because we didn’t want to end up there when we died, did we?’

There were some rousing hymns to follow and a few more games of Duck Duck Goose. I remember thinking what is WRONG with me because I couldn’t skip blithely on after hearing that story. I had taken it very much to heart and all the giddy kids and over-zealous leaders seemed to me like the very worst sort of people, and to be stuck with them for ever and ever seemed hellish in itself. I think I was 5 when this occurred. ‘I don’t want to go back tomorrow,’ I told my mum when she came to collect me, and taking one look at the hordes of noisy children she muttered: ‘I don’t blame you.’

As I got older I used to look out at all the young sailors in their toppers on yacht club night which was a Tuesday, and feel jealous that we weren’t a sailing family too. Rather than feeling on the outside, I was in the inside looking out, and feeling a bit odd, as if I didn’t really fit in there. But then I gave it a go and after being clattered on the head by a boom (that godforsaken wind again) I decided I mustn’t missing much, as it was actually much nicer just drinking a cup of tea on the window seat with a lovely view.

I’m aware that all of this paints my formative years in the most ghastly light. There were many lovely moments too. The kitchen may have looked like a throw back from the 50’s but that didn’t stop my Nana baking scones that were light as air, sponge cakes that even my brother’s most caustic friend described as ‘lush’ and pancakes served straight off the griddle. Other kids along the Esplanade may have been given ponies and skiing holidays for Christmas, but they never had the baked goods we had and the table was often crammed with children saying things like, ‘Look, homemade jam!’ and ‘Wow, real butter!’ (None of that Flora shite in our house). Nana’s apple tarts were so good that I felt actual pity for any child who turned up to school with a Mr Kipling in their lunch box. That, I thought, was almost tantamount to abuse.

As we got older, Mum and Dad were of the opinion that they didn’t care if their house was wrecked as long as their children were safe, so number 28 played host to teens every summer, many of whom stayed for indefinite periods of time. They didn’t change the 1970’s carpets because the gharish patterns hid all manner of stains from DM boots, and disguised evidence from vomit after someone got wired into the Scrumpy Jack. Budding musicians loved our house because it was so big they could crank up the amplifiers for guitar solos from Megadeth and Metallica and nobody complained. It was quite the place to be, circa 1994 when my brother had all his friends round for band practice, and if you didn’t mind my trying to save your soul, because by that time I’d given in & become an Evangelical myself, it was probably quite a lot of fun.

The house has since been redecorated, which is a shame really, as my 5 and 6 year olds can wreck a joint in 5 minutes flat, and I lament that every time I come home. Could you not have just left it a bit shit, I say to my folks, but I don’t begrudge them a thing. I grew up in an Enid Blyton sort of a world, in a warm cocoon away from The Troubles, in a ramshackle house, full of character. Now, when we drive up from the Ballyholme Road and see the yellow field of Ballymacormick Point catch the light, my heart always gives a little skip. It’s good they kept the family house, and one more thing for which I am grateful.

Evening all. The blog has been quiet for a week because my productivity in summer seems to slow right down, and my patience with my children has all but dried up completely. The older one is upstairs, WAILING because she stubbed her toe at dancing and suddenly, upon being told it was bedtime, the pain returned with such ferocity that it triggered a full on attack of THE RAGES . Earlier they had been quite good. ‘Off you go to yoga!’ I told LSB. ‘Sun salute your way to serenity, all grand here!’ No it fucking isn’t. My head is pounding and I’ve a ‘to do list’ that would would stretch from here to Brittany. BUT ANYWAY, sorry for the rant there, and on to more life-affirming topics.

Last night I had a slot at an event at the Eastside Arts Festival, and it attracted a cracker audience who were ever so appreciative, and was beautifully curated by Jan Carson.  It is a never-ending source of wonder to me how Jan manages to stay AWAKE, given the number of arts-related projects she’s involved in, or indeed ORGANISING. But not only did she remain wide-eyed throughout but she read some of her gorgeous stories and entertained us too. (Check out her tale about the bloke with the brick babies. It was my favourite. I’m a sucker for a bit of magic realism).

Stephen Connolly showed his musical side, playing a few soulful tunes about people being miserable and did a superb rendition of Leonard Cohen. I liked that very much. He seems a most affable fellow and my husband has all but persuaded him to come to parkrun so we could be best buds in no time.

Speaking of buddies, I’d rather like to pull the fabulous Emer Maguire into my circle of acquaintances. I almost did myself an injury guffawing at her song about morphing into middle class and eating avocado in over-priced cafés. ‘That would be me then,’ I thought, but then I’ve never been one to berate myself for being middle-class. As a student, I remember cooking up three course feasts for my friends, and then ringing my mum because I had no money left. She and my brother then found a receipt from Tesco and saw my purchases in black and white. ‘King Prawns. Chicken Breasts. Tesco’s Finest Ciabatta’.

‘No wonder she’s blooming’ broke said The Mothership.

Back to Emer. If I could just direct you to her website, have a quick peruse. (Just don’t if you’re having a bit of a downer because trust me, you’ll feel like an under-achiever.)

What a preamble that was! If you’re still here, and you’d like to read my piece from last night it’s just below. But first, I’d just like to thank all my terrific friends who showed up to see me. Trust me, I know what it’s like trying to get to a 7pm gig when your youngsters are going berserk. And my pals Maureen and Malachi came too, and if anyone should be over-saturated with the arts it’s that pair, but there they were, full of bonhomie and fun with their mate Joan to boot. LSB was there, fixing projectors and opening wine for people. He’s a good egg. And the folks, they came along too, and thank goodness they did. Mum made a rather manic gesture before proceedings began. I trotted over. ‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘If you want to cross your legs like that you need to wear a longer dress,’ said The Mothership. ‘The front row got a right eyeful,’ said Dad. Luckily, I knew the front row well. I assumed a more ladylike posture after that.

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I write a blog called Sour Wee Bastard, and as the name suggests, I can be a bit of a whinger, and I’m inclined to think that yes, everything does get worse all the time. Sometimes I feel the overwhelm so acutely, that I have periods of great despair and despondency. But Yeats coined the oxymoron ‘terrible beauty’ and I find it an apt term for existence in general. In order to experience life at it’s most fulfilling, we have to accept that there’s a lot of shite too. Thus we must find ways to elevate ourselves when all seems lost. So this evening I’m going to share with you my top six tips on how to do this.

Number One– Ring Your Mammy.

Now The ‘Mothership’, as she appears on the blog, can be at once caustic and insightful; an odd mix but there you have it. And she is, happily, just at the end of the phone when I get beside myself. A couple of years ago I got a trifle fraught. I can remember the exact moment when, while putting on the umpteenth load of washing that day, I heard on the 6 Music news that the Russians had annexed Crimea. My bIood ran cold. ‘It’s starting,’ I thought. I rang my mum.

‘It’s me,’ I said, voice aquiver. ‘Oh hello, I’m just sitting here, having a cup of tea,’ said the Mothership, ‘with a nice slice of ginger cake, from the market. You sound very glum.’

(Me) ‘It’s the Russians. I think there’s going. To. Be. A. Third. World. War.’

(Mothership) ‘Are you on the drink dear?’

(Me) ‘It’s three thirty.’

(Mothership) ‘Hasn’t stopped you before. You’re talking terrible nonsense. I thought we had discussed this ‘end of the world business.’ It’s getting very tiresome.’

(Me) It’s getting very close. They’ll be all out nuclear warfare, this is just the start of it.

(Mothership) I’ll ask your dad. RONNIE? Come down off that ladder before you brain yourself. The child’s demented here, because of the Russians.

(Me) And Trump.

(Mothership) And Trump she says. Do you think we should be worried?

He’s shaking his head. Probably not, he says, though he’s not watching the news anymore. Honestly, if it’s not about the Napoleonic Wars for that U3A he’s in, he’s not interested.

Listen, your grandmother survived the Blitz, hiding under the very table I’m sitting at here, trying to drink my tea. Do you think she ran round worrying the end was nigh? She did not. Too much to do! And we’re all still here aren’t we?

Now we’ll just put on us here and come up and see you. Will I pick up a baguette in Asda?

After a chat like that I always feel better. We may all be heading to hell in a handcart, but at least there’s tea and cake and helpful parents.

Number Two.

Do something useful. So many things are a bit rubbish. But if we make a small effort in our own lives to volunteer, to recycle, to involve ourselves in creative projects, we will at least feel as though we’re contributing to something. At the John Hewitt Summer School this July I met a writer by the name of Angeline King, who has formed a Regeneration Project in Larne. Working with local communities they plant flowers, paint murals and run round the town yanking up weeds like mad guerrilla gardeners. It made me want to visit Larne. That had never happened before. If there’s hope for Larne, there’s hope for all of us.

Yes, when I listen to the news, it makes me want to run the bath, pop on Radio Head and marinade in vodka. But that’s not very useful is it, so I might write instead, or of a Saturday morning, I head down to parkrun to meet other people who have dragged themselves from their pits and instead of languishing, are starting their day in a more positive manner.

Number Three.

Tend your garden. I got this from Voltaire’s Candide. Candide faces all manner of misery, surviving plagues and earthquakes and seeing the woman he idolises reduced to being a toothless old crone with syphilis, but throughout, he remains stoical. The novel concludes with him shacking up with a crowd of like-minded survivors, growing their own food and looking after each other.

So when you feel beaten down by the squalid aspects of the modern world, don’t go to Tesco and buy a budget cottage pie, devoid of all nutrients, and let’s face it, hope. Feel the earth under your fingernails and plant a few courgettes. You have to be a special sort of a person not to be able to grow courgettes: they are prolific. And if the thought of organic veg doesn’t soothe your soul, perhaps just being outside in the air may bring you some respite.

Number Four.

Find comfort in literature. Everyone has suffered, but some people put their agonies to good use and write about it. One of my favourite authors is Maggie O’Farrell. She has nearly died 17 times, as she chronicles in her latest book, but I’m almost glad she’s had such a rough trot since it’s given her plenty of experiences from which to draw. Her novels help me transcend the misery of Brexit, of Trump, and life’s frustrations. She sharpens the experience of what it is to be human, and there is always, in her work, a sense of redemption and reconciliation. Could Stormont do with a dose of Maggie O’Farrell? I’m thinking yes.

Beckett too is worth listening to when your soul’s in torment. My friend Aisling is a massive fan, (and bless, her, she sent me this quote because reading through endless Beckett would have me mainlining the drugs). Pozzo tells us in ‘Waiting For Godot,’:

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors.

Looking around, we can be inclined to think that things have never been direr, but this is not true. I like to think of the Greek concept of the wheel of fortune. Sometimes we’re up, and sometimes we learn that Californian Holocaust deniers are running unchallenged for the Senate, but if we can employ some of the thinking of the Stoics, we may be able to maintain a degree of serenity, whatever our predicament.

Number 5.

If the life you have chosen has stopped bringing you joy, then choose another. After a few miserable years, I finally caught on to this. In my opinion, no one can truly appreciate stress until they’ve done a day’s work in a pressure cooker of a school, picked up two small, tired children, and had to make a right turn from a crèche onto the Annadale Embankment at rush-hour.

‘Quiet now, stop crying, just let me out of here. Your picture’s lovely pet, lovely, I’ll see it we get home. ‘Will she let me out? Will she! She will! Thank you! Aren’t people nice girls? OH FUCK ME WHERE DID HE COME FROM? God Almighty!

When my second child started using choice language of her own, aged two, I knew I had to exact a change in my life. (Incidentally, her first word was ‘No,’ and that continues to be one she employs a lot.)

And finally number 6. My father offers some sage advice, but this is by far his best. When you feel something niggling away at you, such as a feeling of gross ineptitude or abject terror, he advises: don’t feed it. I used to torture myself over things I couldn’t change, and they would mushroom out of control until I felt riven by dread. What a waste of time. As my yoga teacher Elizabeth says, if you get a parking ticket, pay the bill, then let it go. They’ve taken your money, don’t give them anything else.

But ironically, since I started writing Sour Wee Bastard, and airing my grievances, I’ve started feeling a whole lot chirpier. I’ve stopped suppressing all my rage and feelings of impotence and articulate them instead. In fact, some of my readers have conveyed to me that they feel a bit short-changed, since I’ve started being more up-beat and brighter. Don’t worry, I tell them, I can still be an acerbic old bag, and at least I can direct my vitriol at some of the feckers who deserve it.

Thus to conclude, when it all gets too dark, jog, volunteer, help people, or write your way out of the mire. Love and consideration are so undervalued by our politicians and world leaders. Maybe subtle changes in our own lives can show them what’s what.

Sour Wee readers! Would you look, I have my first ever gig, as part of the East Side Arts festival. The lovely Jan Carson contacted me about this and said I was the first person she thought of when it came to misery writing. How my reputation doth proceed me. I’m ever so excited, and a trifle nervous too, but thrilled to have been included in the programme. So if you’re free of a Tuesday evening in August, and let’s face it, it’ll probably be pissing down, because I reckon after July we’ll not see a summer like it till 2035, do come on down and see if a Sour Wee Bastard can make you smile.

There are fewer greater disappointments in life than pish wine, and I should know, because I’m after enduring two of them, and I’m going to NAME AND SHAME. The M&S Dine in Deal: there should be a law against it. I’m after nearly spraying the book I’m reading (Country, by Michael Hughes, more of which to come) with a mouthful of the foul Daniel’s Drift, but I swallowed it back because it’s a signed copy and one which I’ll reread because it is a GEM.

The Dine-In is a take on, for SO many reasons. If there’s no rotissererie chicken on the menu, don’t even think about it, that’s my motto. The wine is usually vile, only fit to cook with, though a French person would query that. I once read a book by the wife of the fellow who runs Veuve Clicquot and she had a recipe for chicken cooked in champagne. Can you ever, EVER, imagine having the cash to immerse your fowl in bubbly for a mid-week supper? Have you ever heard the like? Marie Antoinette wouldn’t be in it. And don’t get me started on the overuse of plastic. Oops, off I go. The packaging on the veg cracks me up, and the desserts. Not a bit of need for it.

Right, shite wine number two. I came home from my holidays, all excited about white Rioja. ‘Sí, sí’ said a Catalan friend, ‘You can buy it from Sainsbury’s.’ And how serendipitous, because last week they had 25% off when you buy 6 or more bottles, (no problem there for our family) and down the hill I zoomed and stocked up. ‘Muy buen,’ I said when I spied it, and into the trolley went a bottle. ‘I shall open that for aperitif when friends visit,’ I said to myself. And I did, and some poor bastard drank it and said it was lovely but I must have been on the red for I have only just sampled it there this evening and it was horrific. No wonder they only had one small glass and legged it. Must have thought the standard had slipped something shocking here in Sour Towers.

So there’s two glasses, destined for the slop bucket, and me in a state of profound agitation with youngsters who at nine pm are like yoyos up and down the stairs. ‘She nipped me!’ said one. ‘She called me FART,’ said the other. Bring back the rod, says I. And himself ensconced in The Northern Lights tucking into chicken wings, AFTER DOING YOGA! The cheek of it. Anyone would think I’d been at a literary festival all last week or something. Me nerves.

So to sum up: M&S Daniel’s Drift Shiraz Cabernet Sauvignon: let it drift on, and Viñedos Barrihuelo Rioja: pure minging. I’ll be lucky if they don’t kill the lavender out front; may need diluting, as apparently,  does urine, according to The Mothership, who looked it up on the internet.

But back to the author: Michael Hughes, the man is a genius. This is only his second novel and it’s a thriller set in Provo land in South Armagh in 1996. It’s a riveting, at times stomach curdling read, and wait for it, he’s only gone and based it on Homer’s The Iliad. Brains to burn, yon fella. So there’s all these funny in-jokes and parallels and as one who loves the Classics I’m reading it in a state of near euphoria. I’m almost demented at the thought that I’m half way through.  AND he manages to make it funny with his topsy turvy use of syntax. Now I’ve studied The Iliad and it wasn’t a laugh a minute, but I keep reading snippets of ‘Country’ out to himself when he’s trying to sleep or get a bit of work done, and I’m laughing away to myself so much I can hardly get the words out. Maybe that’s why he’s in the Northern Lights this evening and it was nothing to do with their ‘Buy one bowl of wings get one free deal.’ It’s all about the deals this night isn’t it?

In a fit of imitation being the best form of flattery, I wrote  about the trauma that was breakfast this morning in the style of Michael Hughes. This is very niche and to be honest, if you haven’t heard the man himself (as I did last week at the Hewitt in conversation with Glenn Patterson), you’ll not get it. You’ll probably think I’ve gone completely mad, but here it is and sure just skip on if you don’t get it.

 Troy via Four Winds

(In a reversal of the myth, Helen is left while her beloved takes his leave, sailing off, the wind on his back, down the Ormeau Road. The onslaught begins.)

‘Where’s my toast? I want a drink. Would you cut me out a tail? I’m making ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ for tonight.’

‘Could a mother not take her tea in peace?’

‘Here’s a pen, draw it, now.’

‘Would you whist a while, Gumtree has me rapt.‘

‘Draw. Here’s the donkey. Where’s the blu-tack?’

The clock chimes half past nine, it’s Playball time.

‘Playball! NOOOOO!’ (They loved it yesterday, but like the Ancient gods my children are capricious.)

‘Up the stairs. Those teeth need cleaned.’

The blood gets up. Brioche ground into the rug.

Chocolate stained milk up-ended. ‘DON’T YOU SLAM THAT DOOR!’

CRASH.

The mother gives a gulder that would wake the dead in Hades. Lifts off the roof.

Up rears the cat and out.

Hair uncombed, in rats’ tails hanging. Vests back to front; shorts inside out.

Fleeces wet from water wars, left to moulder on the floor.

Not a coat, a water bottle, a lunch box. All is lost and it not yet ten. My parenting in tatters and STILL A MONTH OF HOLIDAYS TO GO.

Send in reinforcements, quick.

(Neither poem nor prose, just a lamentation.)

Anne Lamott, a writer whom regular readers will know I hold in high esteem, recommends that one keeps their expectations low when it comes to writing  on a Monday. She suggests that after the freedom of the weekends, it is hard to condition oneself to achieve much, while the memories of the period of reprieve sit so vividly at the forefront of one’s mind. When it comes to writing, the summer seems to me, like a constant stream of Mondays.

I find it almost impossible to settle myself, running hither and thither, dogged by a state of mild but relentless anxiety about how to entertain my offspring. The holidays ought to be a time to unwind but instead the constant demands of small people means that I feel I have to crank it UP a gear, when every natural impulse suggests I do otherwise.

In Spain, in the absence of turning to writing as a means of catharsis, I took to the drink. Last year, we left the laptop in security at Belfast International, this year I left the charger, plugged in, at the house. ‘We can turn back,’ said LSB, ‘We have time.’

‘No no,’ I said, like a demented lunatic. ‘Foot to the floor, we MUST NOT be late.’ We were a mere ten minutes from the house, but on we trundled, and rocked up at the airport a full ten minutes BEFORE the baggage drop had even opened. I’m an anxious sort of a traveller.

My dreams of tapping away merrily on the balcony thus came to naught, and my writing muscle went un-flexed for almost a fortnight. Instead, I sipped more Vinho Verde than was advisable but did help somewhat dull the intensity of the children.

I exaggerate a little. I was reasonably restrained until the last evening, when I got quite carried away in a tapas bar in Fuengirola. After enjoying ice-cold beer as  aperitif, I foolishly guzzled  Rioja with the meal and got stuck into dessert wine with my tiramisu. I was in fine fettle by 11am and kept pestering LSB to let me adopt a small Chinese child. I even dragged the father-in-law into the debate. ‘You could take a pivotal role,’ I told him, with some gusto. ‘I’ve done my child rearing,’ he said firmly, giving his son a sympathetic look.

It was all great fun until the next day when our bus to the airport took the most dreadfully circuitous route and the combination of heat, hangover, and perhaps a dodgy langoustine in my Pil Pil Prawns left me feeling most nauseous. I was so ill and sweaty and quite beyond speech that no one came near me and I was left to sit alone on the bus, undisturbed in my misery. I suppose there is always a silver lining when one looks for it.

Incidentally, there is FORM to my wanting an Asian child. It was always a thought of mine that I might adopt, even long before I had shacked up with LSB and had my own pair. A former partner had to rein me in on a trip to Cambodia, when I kept harassing American parents about how they came by their Asian children. ‘Why can’t we just do World Vision like everyone else,’ he had grumbled.

Anyway, you can just imagine LSB’s delight when we arrived at our resort and there was a lovely couple from Galway with FOUR children,  one of whom was their biological child and the other three hailed from Mexico and China respectively. The little Chinese fellow took a great liking to me and I spent a great deal of the holiday with him slung round my neck, finding it quite hard to relinquish him to his mother. ‘Oh dear God, she has him again,’ I heard LSB mutter to his dad at least once.

Gosh, I digressed terribly there. What I’m trying to articulate, badly, is that over the summer I come quite UNDONE, and perhaps go a little berserk. Although I wheel the kids into various summer schemes, (this week, Playball, last week, tennis at Stranmillas Boat Club, both excellent) we are all out of our routines and I’m beginning to think that I actually quite like a routine to keep me functioning like a normal person. Without one, I feel like a cartoon motorcar, careening down a hill helter-skelter with hubcaps flying, then boot and bonnet, wheels and all, until it lands, a hissing steaming wreck, fit for nothing.

But I’ve so much to write about, not least the wonderful John Hewitt Summer School for which I was lucky enough to receive a bursary and attended last week. I was almost over-saturated by culture and was left reeling altogether by the quality of the poets and novelists who shared their work with us. I did the most wonderful memoir workshop with Ferdia Mac Anna who recommends ‘bum glue’ as a means to getting started, and I took his advice tonight and just SAT DOWN and blattered something out.  I’ll write more about the whole experience again, when a small child is not running around, at 21-34pm holding a colouring book and singing PEPPA PIG, FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA, with tremendous vigour.

If you’re in anyway religious, say a few prayers. If not, say them anyway. I need them this evening.

Sometimes, when I’m wittering on about ingesting micro-plastics and potential droughts, I fear people think I’ve gone mad. Close friends and family members (maybe ESPECIALLY family members) have been known to do a spot of eye-rolling and mutter darkly about my being ‘off on one’.

But today, I’m feeling utterly exonerated because TWICE I’ve heard why we all need to be conserving water with RENEWED vigour. (If you’re wondering about my new love of the capital letter by way of emphasis, it’s because when my blog is in Facebook format all the bold and italics disappear, and I worry that my writing may lack some of its vitality).

I digress. So there I was this morning, zooming off in the Qashqai to do its MOT (it passed, hurrah!) when what should be being discussed on Radio 4’s ‘Today Programme’ but the hosepipe ban in England which is being introduced post-haste, much to the consternation of the bottom feeders who will merrily stand in a shower for forty minutes or leave a sprinkler on for 3 days so their wisteria doesn’t wither, while our reservoirs dry up.

The venerable John Humphries was in quare form, some would say positively gleeful, as he tried to probe an answer out of them as to whether it’s acceptable to throw wee over your plants as a means of watering them. (The clip is SO worth a listen: nip over to BBC I-player and shimmy along to 2 hours fifty minutes in and hear for yourselves. I haven’t heard him so animated in ages.)

I recall a hot summer while I was attempting to potty train my youngsters, and I took to flinging a pot of pee over our new hedges in the garden. I can’t say for certain if it did them any good but three years on and they’re not dead at least. (The hedges that is, not the children, they’re all still fine and exuberant and driving me to the Pinot Noir of an evening). I remember poor auld LSB attempting to slosh some pee down the loo when I grabbed his arm with a loud: ‘NOOOO, it’s for out the front!’ and noticing his eyes cloud over with a mixture of bemusement and fear. I later thought it would be a good line to begin my first novel: ‘It was the pot of piss that did for them in the end….’

Anyway, Nicci Russell from Waterwise suggested that we use our waste water from the shower to flush the loo (Go me! Was I not just saying exactly the same thing on the Frank Mitchell phone in at the start of June?) and she didn’t entirely write off the notion of using wee to water our plants, though she added the caveat that it may be best to avoid the vegetable patch. (I’d take a light smattering of pee over pesticides any day but maybe that’s just me.)

Later on today, I took my pair of melters (and trust me, this week they’ve been bloody awful) up to visit some friends, one of whom hails from Australia. He told me that the drought of 2007 in Brisbane was so severe that the government actually considered  hacking off glaciers from Antarctica or importing water from China since the three reservoirs which provided the city’s drinking water had run dry. (I mean seriously, you couldn’t write it.) Residents diligently saved their shower water in buckets for the purposes of loo flushing and were exhorted to shove a brick down the cisterns of their toilets in an attempt to avoid a total drought. Thankfully it rained eventually so the extreme measures were never taken, but Paul for one, never rolls his eyes when I get enraged about people only half filling their washing machines.

So there you are. There wasn’t much to this blog post other than a smug ‘I told you so’ but many thanks if you’ve been bothered to read it anyway. If anyone would like to share their water saving methods or even post a photo of their slop-bucket or shower basin I would LOVE that.

‘Like I told you yesterday, I think this is a bunch of nonsense.’

Oddly enough, after I posted the ‘vlog’ (I still can’t get used to that word. Sounds a bit vulgar and spell check still takes exception to it) the phone rang.

MOTHERSHIP: Now, I watched the vlog, or whatever its called, and I just have one correction.

One, I think? Only ONE? She must have watched it in a hurry or with the sound well down so as not to have noticed my mildly croaky morning voice. (Really must kick all those fags). 😉

MOTHERSHIP: I must object to throwing all those ‘slops’ at your plants. I fear that the bacteria could do for them, especially if they’re at all unwell in this weather.

SWB: I appreciate it’s not ‘Dobbies’ Best Plant Food’ but the remnants of some apple juice or milk can’t harm them surely?

MOTHERSHIP: I suppose you could chuck them under a hedge. An OLD hedge.

SWB: So I need to find a robust and resilient hedge to cope?

MOTHERSHIP: Yes, an established hedge.

Luckily, we have the delightful gentlemen from Loane Landscapes coming this morning to do a spot of pruning out the back. (‘Deforesting’ may be a better verb to describe their Herulean task.) I’m going to harass them no end for a bit of advice.

I would say, if your hedge is positively floundering, it will be glad of a drink, regardless if there’s a spot of last night’s cab sauv within. Delighted it will be in fact. A hedge has to get its kicks somewhere.

Any budding horticulturalists out there (not a bad pun for 8.27 of a morning) do feel free to contact us and settle this debate. In the meantime, there will be some tea flavoured water heading to a hedge in the Forestside area shortly. Just try and stop me.

(I have just spoken to Raymond from Loane Landscapes and he says as long as it’s COLD, slop water won’t damage the plants, or hedges, and they will in fact be the better for it. You read it here first.)

It is 10-58 and the sky is still alight with hues of lemon and blue merging into one from my skylight window. Against this backdrop I draw deep breaths and feel my heart and lungs inflate with gratitude for the week that has been.

It has been a busy one for SWB. Normally I pootle about; write; do some light cleaning (VERY LIGHT, I hear the Mothership say) and then act as a slave to my off-spring from 2pm onwards. But as the term has drawn to a close, social engagements come in droves, and some work has been thrown my way. And then, just as I was starting to exhale, I got a call to ask if I would do a recording for THE TELEVISION. Can I just say, if you ever want to feel over-awed, sit round a table with comedian Colin Murphy, Alan Meban, aka Alan in Belfast, and Gemma-Louise Bond, aka That Belfast Girl, and pretend that you have something to add to the discussion.

Alan is a blogger, a social commentator and a damn fine chair at Slugger O’Toole events. He’s politically astute, seemingly unflappable and  trains people in how to manage social media.

Gemma Louise is 26 and blogs about fashion, food and lifestyle. Her website is polished and she has thousands of followers, with girls anxious to emulate her style and make-up. She works in PR which shows in her easy manner and confidence on camera; or maybe she’s just a natural. Whatever it is, the girl’s got sass, and I like her. She would be fun on a night out, and indeed I hear that she is.

Being filmed for the telly is nerve-wracking, regardless of how lovely your director and fellow panellists may be. It didn’t help that it was the hottest day of the year. The sweat ran in steady rivulets down my back, and every time I shifted in my seat I was sure I heard a squelch. Prior to filming, I’d eaten a filet of salmon a day past its use-by date. Nerves, heat and potentially dodgy fish do not make for comfortable guts, and mine aren’t well-behaved at the best of times. ‘Please God,’ I prayed, ‘don’t let me have to run, microphone trailing, for a dose of the skits.’

So there I was, willing my innards to play ball, when the chat started.

‘Helen what do you do blog about then?’ asked Conor.

‘Well, myself mainly, and my life, and any significant events that happen, in my life, to me. So basically, my blog is about me. And sustainability. I love a bit of recycling.’

‘So, you’re a narcissist then Helen?’

‘Ahh no. It’s just that I’ve no interest in anything else, for example popular culture, or make-up or any of that malarky. No, I write about me, and how writing has been a most cathartic for me, in helping me work out who I am, and what I do and how I tick.’

‘Hmmmm,’ says everyone round the table.

‘Upon reflection, Colin, you may be correct. I’m narcissism personified.’

‘So it would seem Helen.’

I felt like a right turnip.

But what could I say? My blog is more a less a journal about my life, and it has helped me figure out a few deep truths. By blogging regularly, I force myself to create more content, and hopefully develop my style.

However, I’m 39 and I’m late to this game. There is a whole technical vocabulary out there of which I’m unaware, and as we talk about the impact of laying our lives out for scrutiny and the digital footprint we’ll leave behind, I do wonder what I’m playing at. I’m not very circumspect; I don’t have a filter and maybe I need to cultivate one. Gemma Louise has pluck and nonchalance and seems to ‘get’ how these things work. But the conversation makes me question myself. What DO I want to achieve? What am I trying to sell? Me? My lifestyle? And have I become one of those ‘fake people’ who ‘curates’ a life on-line that bears little resemblance to reality?

So, when in doubt, I turn to the Stoics. I find them a helpful bunch. And last night when I came in, my husband, although the poor fecker was trying to sleep, handed me his copy of ‘The Daily Stoic.’ Read May 2^nd he mumbled. And what words of wisdom there were within.

‘First tell yourself what kind of person you want to be, then do what you have to do,’ said Epictetus. In order to do this we need to: ‘spend some time- real, uninterrupted time, thinking about what’s important to you, what your priorities are.’

What good advice. The truth is, I’ve been ‘test-driving’ a new life for a while and I’ve been avoiding doing some serious thinking about what I really want to achieve.

So what do I want? Well wouldn’t it just be delightful if a nice publisher came along and read my blog and said, ‘Isn’t this just great? I’ll just collate that neatly for you, sort an agent and we’ll have a lovely book, ‘Ruminations from a Sour Wee Bastard’, ready to hit the shelves by December 1^st for the Christmas rush. How does that sound Helen?’

‘That’ll do well thanks,’ I would reply. ‘Now where’s the Bollinger?’

Since I don’t live in a fairy-tale world, I may have to get off my rear end and make this happen. Blogging has been a wonderful medium for making me write and overcome my inhibitions. It has also opened up opportunities for me. I never thought the phone would ring and someone would ask ME to go on the telly and ask my opinion. And feck me, as I have discovered, television, is scary. Those people who make it look easy, well I applaud them.

So tonight, instead of feeling rubbish because I’m knackered and frankly feel a bit intimidated by the big world out there, I’m going to feel grateful for the opportunities that my new life has afforded me.

Life is by turns funny and absurd and mercurial, but since I’ve decided to throw my road map out the window, I better learn to enjoy it, and learn along the way. Thanks for joining me on the ride everyone: it means a lot.

Two missed calls in half an hour, it must be urgent I think. I ring home. The following chat ensues:

ME: It’s me, what’s up?

THE MOTHERSHIP: (Barely a hello) Do you EVER read over your stuff? I’m after reading the blog and you spelt Holywood wrong: twice. I presume you meant Holywood County Down, not away over yonder? One ‘L’ Helen, ONE ‘L’.

ME: It must have been auto-correct Mum, I grew up in North Down, I do know that.

THE MOTHERSHIP: No excuse. That’s why you need to proof read.

ME: I have to go on here, is there anything else?

THE MOTHERSHIP: You have to GO ON? I haven’t even STARTED on the ‘vlog’ yet, or whatever you’re calling that ‘VIDEO’ you put up.

ME: I know, I know, I repeated myself at the start.

THE MOTHERSHIP: You did, surely. But more of an issue was the enunciation, or lack of it. You were just mumbling away to yourself. I didn’t know what you were on about. Clearly you didn’t do any of exercises I’ve shown you.

ME: I just wanted to put it out before I changed my mind.

THE MOTHERSHIP: You mean you didn’t even listen to it? Do you just DO these things and FLING them out there, upon the local community?

ME: I’m going to write a blog about this conversation.

THE MOTHERSHIP: Blog about it all you like, but try and remember to use spell-check.

ME: Cheerio then mum.

THE MOTHERSHIP: Hmmph.And you with an English degree….

******

I swear to God, where would I be without this 75 year old editor in my life? It’s great to know that at the age of 39 your mammy can still get ripped into you about your grammar, and make you feel about nine. But as usual, the woman does have a point. Damn it.