sourweebastard

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.

Poor LSB. I came in from a short run Sunday morning,  bubbling over with enthusiasm. ‘I’m going to do a vlog!’ I proclaimed. He misheard me.

‘A blog? Is this two years ago?’ he asked.

‘No, a VLOG, not a blog,’ I said.

‘Ah.’ he said. I think he sensed this day was coming. ‘Are you going to film it yourself?’

‘No, you are.’

‘Of course I am,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s get on.’

So off we went. I don’t like to overthink these things. At least I put some make-up on, unlike the Shu morning where I looked a cut. It seems everyone’s doing vlogs these days, except me that is. I looked up a few on decluttering on Friday and though ‘mine can’t be any worse, these are desperate,’ and so I’ve leapt upon the bandwagon and will incorporate them from now on, when I can be arsed doing myself up.

The point of the vlog anyway, was to document my journey towards minimalism. Hence, I rocked up to Ormeau Park yesterday morning, with a lurid green laundry hamper, filled with bags. I’d like to say that my friends looked surprised as I approached thus burdened, but they rarely so much as raised an eyebrow.

I think they quite enjoyed plundering through my items. Martina gladly took  my yoga leggings, which incidentally, looked much better on her than they did on me.  Her little daughter was the pleased recipient of a pretty white frock which she can wear now while the sun shines, or if she’s an angel in the nativity at Christmas. Both mine were lovely wee angels in the self-same dress which proves that it must wash well. Claire was delighted with the Marian Keyes book, and even put together a whole new ensemble for her child: skirt, tee-shirt and a bolero cardigan. Swanky. I even managed to offload a full bottle of fabric softener onto Louise.  Success all round.

Inevitably though, I met some opposition, and a few items look like they’re staying.

‘That’s my polar bear hat!’ yelled the small child. ‘That’s from Nana! From her holiday!’

‘Bollocks,’ I muttered. The bear hat got left in the mud and didn’t fare well in the washing machine. It looks quite deranged.

‘It doesn’t look a very happy polar bear,’ I said.

‘He’s mine,’ she replied tersely. She hasn’t looked at the frigging hat in months. However, it’s staying, as is a hideous skirt that I bought for one euro in Spain when we ran out of clean clothes last year.

A rookie mistake, having your children  present when you try to give away their stuff. Read and learn. Ah well, at least some items found a happy home.

Next, some advice for you. If you’re trying desperately not to accumulate clothes, stay THE HELL out of Concern on the Ormeau Road. I popped in on Friday and met Aileen who is their retail manager. What a dote. We trotted round together and she showed me the range of fabulous things: linen jackets from Jaeger, jumpers from Reiss, dresses from Frank Usher and Comptoir des Cotonniers. Designers aplenty and at a most affordable price. I bought a few small items and legged it, since I can’t be trusted not to scupper my attempts to live more simply.

Aileen told me something interesting. She sometimes works in the store in Hollywood where some mums from the local primary  buy their outfit for their Christmas ‘do’ in a charity shop and turn up and show off their purchases. I thought this was lovely, what with Hollywood being quite posh n’all.

Confession time thought: last week in Dublin I bought four BRAND NEW  things from a boutique called Coco. I do love a boutique, especially if there’s a sale rail, as there was here. I snapped up a skirt, a dress and two scarves for €70, and hand on heart, I will get 30 wears out of them.

I think I may have some way to go on this journey, but I’ll keep you updated along the way.

Morning all, the sunshine this morning inspired me to try something new today, so here we go, the first every Sour Wee Vlog!

Last night I sliced a shallot with tremendous speed and dexterity. It fell away from the knife in tiny translucent cubes and I was thrilled with my ‘chefiness’. What happened to get me all euphoric over a glorified onion? It’s all down to Brian McCann, the Head Chef at Shu on the Lisburn Road. I headed over to the launch of their 2018 Apprenticeship Programme with a few other lucky bloggers and PR guru Cathy Martin, to get a taste of what working in a restaurant kitchen is like. Then to my delight, (this blogging lark had to finally start paying off some dividends) we were invited to sample our roast halibut and Eton mess with a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. How very jolly.

I was excited, SO excited, that in my haste biking over to Shu that morning , I almost crashed head-on into a school boy cyclist, as he came hurtling towards me in a most devil may care manner. I came crashing down on the cross bar with a powerful thud, and foolishly, had forgotten to wear my padded cycling shorts. It’s a week later and my lady bits are only starting to feel normal.

Thus I arrived, red of face and sore of arse, with my hair in a sensible braid for health and hygiene standards and a pair of trainers so that I didn’t take the toe off myself with an errant knife. I had even forgotten to apply lipstick. This was not the case with the other bloggers, all svelte, bejewelled and in trendy rig-outs. I looked like their Brethren cousin.

But I soon forgot about aesthetics when I got into the kitchen. ‘The knives are sharp and the stoves are hot,’ Brian warned, before we trooped in to start trimming asparagus and shelling peas while we watched sous-chef Matthew whizz up a puree.

One of the first things Brian told us was that he wasn’t at all academic and had in fact ‘failed’ (his words) at school, but always been interested in food. I want to get a raft of disengaged school kids in here, to watch him fillet an 8lb halibut: slicing eight perfect  pieces with a few deft flicks of a silver blade. Despite being fluent in French, he uses words I have to go home and look up, like how to serve up ice-cream ‘rocher’ style and ‘brunoise’ his vegetables. I’m slightly in awe to be honest, like Bridget Jones when she concludes her interviews with the freedom fighter from Kosovo admitting she has ‘frankly, a bit of a crush.’

‘Phew, it’s hot in here,’ says one of the girls. ‘Hot?’ Brian raises his eyebrows. ‘The ovens aren’t even on. You want to be on a Saturday night.’ No wonder he has to keep fit. He’s only after running the London Marathon, and he knocks back an effervescent juice crammed beetroot and goji berries while we tuck into the fish and buttery potatoes. ‘I was quite a big fella,’ he says, but then I stopped eating a lot of fatty foods and we eat a lot of veg from the garden now.’ ‘Better for up here,’ he says, tapping his head.

When looking for his next apprentice, he wants passion and a desire to learn, ‘a touch of madness helps too,’ he adds.

His sous-chef smiles when I ask him what it’s like working with Brian. ‘He’s always open to ideas,’ he tells me. “If I think there’s a better or quicker way to do something, he wants to see it. Doesn’t happen that often though.’

It’s been about three years since I’ve been to Shu, but I’m booking a table soon, if only so LSB can see the competition. 😉

I’m just back from Kaffe-O where I had a fun and illuminating chat with Jennifer Hanratty, co-founder and chair of Breastival Belfast, which celebrates breastfeeding and creates a community of support for mums. Breastival wasn’t around when my children were babies, and I had a shocker of a time trying to feed Georgina myself- so much so that I didn’t attempt it with child number two. I needed help, I needed support and I needed A LOT of it, and in its absence I started exclusively bottle feeding. Sadly this is what happens in Northern Ireland, as Jennifer told me this morning that 80% of mothers stop breast feeding before they are ready, or want to.

In other cultures, where mothers and grandmothers have breastfed themselves, they are on hand, night and day to offer support. Breastfeeding wasn’t the ‘done thing’ in Ireland when I was born, and I didn’t have many people to ask. I wish I’d had a network of mums or people who, like Jennifer, were knowledgeable about the process and could dispel myths and allay fears.

I worried when I heard about the Breastival movement, that it would be a bunch of breast-feeding evangelicals (you all know how I can’t be having evangelicals of ANY kind), being all judgey and self-righteous about their decision. Jennifer shakes her head when she hears my presumption, and visibly shudders at the phrase ‘breast is best.’ Her take on it is that it’s just ‘normal’ but because women in Northern Ireland haven’t been exposed to it, it’s often simpler to bottle-feed, like the generation before. What she wants, is that if women choose to breast-feed, that they have the resources available to them to do so for as long as they wish.

Breast-feeding isn’t always easy, but the healthcare professionals don’t want to openly admit this, lest it puts anyone off. Perhaps we need to think of it differently, as being a skill that we learn and improve as we find the technique which works best for us and baby. I felt that it was something that as a woman, I should instinctively ‘know’ and when it didn’t work out I self-flagellated something shocking. I think if I’d Jennifer on the other end of a phone I might have made my way out of the mire.

Keep at it Jennifer. You’ve created an inspiring movement.