Stomping out of the Nest

Highly opinionated, outspoken. Flounces around like a prima donna demanding, dramatic, difficult.

Explosive temper.

I blame the parents myself.

First thing in the morning, in the middle of the night. “I want milk…. I want MILK….. I want milk in my cow cup. Get me MILK!”

She has Angela tortured.

I am talking about my three year old daughter. Scampering past on her way to the loo squawking “I’m gonna pee myself”.

When she’s been bold, a look from me sees the freckled-nose wrinkle, the furrow-brow, the inevitable tears and the wailing lament “Daddy’s not being nice to me.”

Angela carried her about for the first year of her life in one of them trendy baby holder jobs. She was like a baby kangaroo peeping out, all cuteness and bright blue eyes. Now, you would think she spent the time pricking her with thorns. Until she decides her mammy is her friend that is, then all’s smiles. Manipulative minx that she is.

She’s now Shanghai-ed the children across the road as her friends, I suspect they had no choice in the matter. Her dashing over home when she wants to do a pee or perhaps take a minute to acknowledge us as her parents. My neighbour looked bemused at this little dervish invading his house when I spoke to him about her visits.

Her little idiosyncracies. From her little Polish friend Anna she now says ‘dziekuje’ instead of thank you. To be fair that’s more than the others manage in English.

And today she’s off to Pre school for her taster session. But nothing’s that simple. No.

She met the teacher the other day down the street. Teacher being a civil woman tried to say hello, getting to know the child you see, in readiness for next year.

But it doesn’t work that way. Gasket-blowing:

“I don’t LIKE that teacher.”

“Tell her to go away”

And hiding behind Joanna:

“Has she gone yet?”

Thinking it would pass I mistakenly asked her about school. Oh dear. A mistake.

“I DON”T WANT a teacher with yellow hair.”

“I want a different teacher.”

Quietly. . .

“I want my godmother to be my teacher.”

Could be good clean fun today. I’m looking forward to the craic.

And what about Gráinne the fairy godmother? She has two years yet before she has the particular pleasure of taking a bow in that class. I’m thinking there will be a few interesting days before that comes to pass.

Such a little flower. Dziekuje Treasa.

Direct Access to the Word Hoard:The Enduring Appeal of Norman MacCaig

In this BBC Scotland feature, Seamus Heaney and others describe the effect of the late Norman MacCaig’s poetry. Heaney loved the ‘strictness and susceptibility’ in his work

I myself heard Norman MacCaig deliver a reading when I was a student in Stirling University. Then, he was a craggy old Scotsman with a twinkle in his eye. His poetry was wonderful and struck a chord.

His poems came alive through his Scots burr of a voice. Recently I rediscovered MacCaig when I came upon his newly published The Poems of Norman MacCaig.

Visiting Hour

The hospital smell
combs my nostrils
as they go bobbing along
green and yellow corridors.

What seems a corpse
is trundled into a lift and vanishes
heavenward.

I will not feel, I will not
feel, until
I have to.

Nurses walk lightly, swiftly,
here and up and down and there,
their slender waists miraculously
carrying their burden
of so much pain, so
many deaths, their eyes
still clear after
so many farewells.

Ward 7. She lies
in a white cave of forgetfulness.
A withered hand
trembles on its stalk. Eyes move
behind eyelids too heavy
to raise. Into an arm wasted
of colour a glass fang is fixed,
not guzzling but giving.
And between her and me
distance shrinks till there is none left
but the distance of pain that neither she nor I
can cross.

She smiles a little at this
black figure in her white cave
who clumsily rises
in the round swimming waves of a bell
and dizzily goes off, growing fainter,
not smaller, leaving behind only
books that will not be read
and fruitless fruits.

***

If you like poetry, you’ll not buy a better book this year.

I’m in the Dark Here

Halogen bulbs. Fourteen of them.

Today I spent £17 on light bulbs. I bought two bayonet cap jobs at £2.50 each. One was for the utility room where for months we have had the ‘cap’ of the previous bulb jammed in the socket. So taking advantage of being home alone I turned off the mains electricity supply.

Even as I poked out the broken cap it nagged in the back of my mind that the electric may still be on. What a shock for Angela were she to return home and find me overcooked on the the utility room floor. Like some sort of large burger made with too much lard.

I hope that if this actually happened she would realise that I hadn’t in fact decided to end it all – merely I had decided to take the plunge and fix the light.

But no, incompetent as I am I managed to turn the mains off and then back on again without major incident or death.

In TESCO I also bought all the own-brand halogen lights they had which cost me £1 x 6 (one had the wrong fitting so it is useless to me) and a pack of three for £6 on special offer. Whoo hoo.

In total I changed fourteen halogen bulbs in the kitchen and living room using a stepladder and a lot of patience. ‘But you didn’t buy fourteen halogen bulbs,’ you might point out if you are being attentive. Correct. In fact I had some extra in a box in the house.

So. Now we have light. I have one spare green bayonet cap bulb with nowhere to put it. Anyone that reads this will be aware my difficulties with these bulbs and the low level of light they actually emit. No doubt in a few years one of the current ones will expire and I will very cunningly be able to produce my spare. As a rabbit from a hat.

I always enjoyed Al Pacino shouting ‘I’m in the dark here’ in Scent of a Woman. He too had difficulty seeing but no problem expressing himself. Especially doing the Tango. So, no longer am I in the dark. Let’s see does anyone notice.

That is how I passed my Saturday. Meaningless, mundane, methodical but I enjoyed it. I survived my mains electric phobia.  And Angela is spared the hassle of cleaning me up off the floor when she comes home.

The Parent Crap. And Sport.

One of the problems in coaching is that no one prepares you for problem parents. They are a curse. Opinionated. Especially if they bring a small degree of their professional expertise into any debate. “Well I am a social worker.” Indeed.

Man at work. The communication chord.

Being a parent myself I can see the trap in watching my own children develop. Once when my daughter went to dancing I watched, increasingly irate, as the teacher put a group of four year olds through a stretching routine that was inappropriate and then separated them according to who had dancing shoes and who didn’t.

Cáit being without dancing shoes became distraught, and being annoyed at seeing her upset, I had a sudden burst of Dance Teacher Rage. It was unbecoming of me but it certainly alarmed the teacher. Although we laughed about it at home it educated me as to what I was capable of. It wasn’t pretty.

It is a typical occurrence, some parents can’t help it. Because our children move through life formed and driven by our DNA they also carry with them our insecurities, paranoia and psychoses.

When they demonstrate characteristics that are not obviously inherited by either parent we gaze at them and wonder ‘where did that come from’. For me the biggest problem with children is that too many parents project their own life failures onto them and try to relive their life through their children in the hope of success. Redemption? To fix their own fuck ups?

They agonise over their every success and failure. They bollock the child who doesn’t know any better and may already be doing their best and incapable of exceeding it.

I read recently one parent express their frustration at the communication failure of the coaches dealing with her child. It was all the coach’s fault of course. It always is. The diatribe was backed up with a load of textbook crap.

The difficulty in coaching is that if we constantly point out mistakes and errors and are critical the child becomes conditioned to expect this as the default position.

I asked a group recently to tell me what they had done well and none could answer. Therein lies the tale.

So….

My first rule of coaching would be this. Drop your children off and then go home. Second, don’t come to any matches unless separated from the action by soundproof glass (sadly I have to come across a pitch that offers this facility). Third of all, please note both the above criteria doubly apply if you are a teacher, social worker or any sort of do-gooder profession where you think you know it all and sports coaches know damn all. Fourthly, do not coach your own children.

Parents inevitably have an inflated opinion of their son or daughter’s capability. It is compounded if they know little or nothing about the game itself. Then they patrol the sideline and they only really see one thing. Their own child.

They praise him or her when he or she scores a goal. They object when he is put in goals or she is asked to defend. All they see is the end product. John Wooden said it takes ten hands to score a basket. He’s right. No player can score without the other members of the team playing their part. Other skills need praised. Positioning, disciplined play, passing, tackling, taking frees. There’s plenty going on beyond hitting the back of the net.

Personally I want the children I am coaching to develop as rounded wee footballers or hurlers. Parents are entitled to their opinion but unless they are prepared to get involved in a meaningful way they are out of order.

For that reason I prefer not to coach my own children. I am prone to lapse into parent projector mode – I tell them what to do and get frustrated when they don’t. The alternative is let them learn on the job. Decision-making is the hardest skill to coach. Even with senior players it is difficult although arguably by that stage they are no longer able to change ways that have been set in stone for years. A coach recently shouted at my son to ‘Shut your mouth and do what you’re told.” I let it pass. That was the best thing for him. He makes his own decisions on the pitch. When it comes to scoring goals and passing I frequently come home delighted.

So what do we do with these parents other than send them home? Well educate them. Especially those that have not been involved in team play in sport. They need to learn that part of being a team is doing what is best for the team. And at underage participation is important as is learning the discipline of playing different positions. And as a parent sometimes the best thing to do is shut your mouth, watch and listen.

In the last week we had a situation where a senior player having played as a forward and been pigeon holed as a forward was tried out in defence and was a revelation. It is a failure of coaching to date that this wasn’t realised before. The smiles resulting from a decent performance were worth the trip alone. She knows who she is.

In later years the competitive instinct may receive greater emphasis. That’s not to say children aren’t competitive. They are. My nine-year-old son is possibly the most competitive person I have ever met and he has been like that since he was a toddler. He is skilful at sport and very confident in his own ability which potentially marks him out as one to watch but also means he could have to learn to live with crushing disappointment.

He says to me. What was the best thing I did today? And what’s my answer. Well. Sometimes I think I should stop everyday. And ask myself the same question. And so should you.

the precipice

how many people stand on the precipice looking down how many would dare approach it how many around us in the current world would feel better falling falling into the abyss than facing life teetering yes on the brink imagine falling falling how many people’s worlds have collapsed because of greed can we see them the haunted look in their eyes hunted how many have nothing to show for a lifetime of work how many over-extended themselves in the expectation of plenty how many distraught torturing themselves at being unable to provide for a wife children self whether they are loved or unloved understood or not does it matter anymore who cares how many have had all their support systems kicked away before they decide to kick away their own stool how many need something to dull the pain permanently to just wish it would all go away peace for just one day just an instant just one moment one moment just an instant instant. yes.

A Letter From West Britain

A pint of plain is yer only man

Dear Charles,

We’re having the most wonderful time here in West Britain.

The native Celts are such a quaint people, very much like the Scots, but not at all like the Welsh.

I can understand why Queen Victoria was quite taken with the place when she came here. It is such a shame we left them with such wonderful buildings.

We went to this frightfully large football stadium called Croke Park where they showed a video of young men wrestling with one another.

The stadium was so large, one wonders what it must be like on the top floor on a breezy day. Exceedingly windy. A bit like sharing the bed with your father after some haggis and turnips when one is staying at Balmoral one would imagine.

The lovely gentleman presented Philip with the most beautifully carved ash. Will be excellent for beating Grouse next winter one thinks.

These dear people, the really have tried most awfully hard to make us welcome. One dear chap with a large tummy seized the royal forearm quite forcefully in Croke Park. I got quite a little shock to tell the truth. I thought Philip had overmedicated again. Thankfully a dear chap form the police removed his hand before he tried any funny business. Of course your father didn’t notice, he was busy looking at some young girls in short skirts chasing each other.

We also were taken to a large pub that makes its own beer. It was very amusing. The people there seemed to think one hadn’t seen beer poured before. One remembers your aunt’s mother and I cleaning up after Andrew when we converted the Hanover room into a country pub for he and his friends to play in. Those other awful chaps. Your father was most keen to drink the beer they served, but one reminded him that we had been advised not to use the WC.

The Glory of Her Ass

Last night we had some jolly Irish dancing and bagpiping. The accents are most dreadfully funny. One can’t understand a word they say.

Your father keeps talking about the Dear Micks, I fear he may have been talking too loudly when his hearing aid was out of battery.

Today we are going to the National Stud Farm. As you know that’s the real reason one came here.

Still, one thinks it has been worth all the other dreary nonsense if we can get a few of the horses sorted out.

I hope William and Catherine are keeping well. Her sister’s bottom has been causing quite an impression, one has been told by Philip. One hopes it won’t lead to another Anus Horriblis.

Is mise,

Elizabeth R

(Your Mother)

Questions, questions.

Are window cleaners thieves who use their day job to case the joint?

My brother-in-law thinks they are. A fella called today, jack of all trades by the looks of things and gave me his card. I asked him was he local and he said he was Ballymena.

He said ‘Have the tools will travel’.

I will refer this one to the higher authority and see what she says.

Hotel Maid Gives IMF Head Probe

French writer Tristane Banon who had to fend off Mr Strauss Kahn with kicks & punches.

Oh to have the life of the Head of the International Monetary Fund. You get to fly around the world first class, making pronouncements on the fiscal future of countries with ailing economies (such as Ireland).

When you pitch up in New York, you get to stay in the Sofitel in a suite costing a whopping great 1855 quid a night. Preferential deals on first class travel – you name it you got it.

And, when you get this much handed to you on a plate, what else do you do when you come walking out of your shower in the buff and spy a lowly hotel maid. Well the only thing you can do really, is chase her down a corridor naked.

Welcome to the world of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the French womaniser-cum-head of the IMF.

Having allegedly forced the 32 year old maid to perform a criminal sex act, whatever that is, he hi-tailed it to JFK for the fastest plane out of there back to France.

But, ten minutes before his plane took off he was arrested on board and brought downtown by Andy Sipowicz and the boys from NYPD Blue to face charges including attempted rape and unlawful imprisonment.

Mr Strauss Kahn has since agreed to a DNA test to prove his innocence. Does that mean he did or didn’t leave DNA evidence on the premises? And did anyone see Monica Lewinsky leave the building?

Among the more bizarre suggestions is that Mr Strauss Kahn was set up by political rivals to derail hi bid for the French Presidential election.

Following his detention and forensic DNA test William Taylor, the IMF chief’s Washington-based lawyer said: “Our client willingly consented to a scientific and forensic examination tonight. He’s tired but he’s fine.”

The Daily Telegraph reports that he was labelled “The Great Seducer” by the French media, where he has been criticised for his behaviour towards women.

Tristane Banon, a French writer, claimed she fended him off with kicks and punches during an alleged encounter. In 2008 he admitted to an affair with Piroska Nagy, a senior IMF official.

This then is the man that presided over Ireland’s IMF bailout. With the country liable for £5 billion a year in interest charges (what is £1855 on a hotel room?) and all this chat of punitive interest rates, maybe we should have let him loose in a hotel with a few willing chambermaids. That way we could at least have had a bargaining tool for better interest rates.

When people get into these lofty positions they seem to think they can do whatever they want. Certainly in the strange and wonderful case of Mr Strauss Kahn, he thinks he can.

It’s comforting and reassuring to know that Ireland’s immediate economic future is in such safe hands

Dog Day Doing Nothing

Today, the day lost mometum as it went along. I’m avoiding the awfulness of Jedward on Eurovision and forced to pass the time a-writing in here.

So early morning on the beach with windswept Hub. Not another sinner in sight on the way down the beach pre 7:00am. Portstewart the way I like it.

Reflections on a win I didn’t see coming. But then, in these girls guts aren’t far below the surface.

Home, papers read. Tay drunk. Out. Swimming pool run completed. Home.

Out. To take under 8 training at which I erred grievously in telling the assembled group of P2s and P3s that my right foot was ‘shite’. The ‘shite’ sort of fell out of my mouth before I realised it. And me the most experienced coach there. The other lad with me merely remarked, they’ll probably remember that bit of coaching. At least no-one heard to report it to the social workers.

The last thing I need is a conversation with some boy in a tweed jacket or some doll in flowing skirts, determining whether I am a fit coach or whether my AccessNI should be withdrawn for bad language in a coaching setting. Bring it on.

It’s only 11:00am at this stage. Off to Glenullin in the pissin rain to watch a daughter playing camogie. Apparently I shouted at her. Another one for the do-gooders to analyse.

Home to watch Man Utd win the league (what a piss boring end to a match) and since then. . . I have done little. A lazy Saturday, not too many of them about these parts.

Off to a blitz in the morning which must be in doubt if this rain continues. Chance to catch up on some work and invoice a few people. Keeping the wolf form the door. There’s a story. Getting tired of this.