The ICA Kildare Yarn Bomb

It all started in January 2016. I'm part of small group of women, an ICA guild, many of whom, at the time, did not know how knit. Forget socks or jumpers, we decided to Yarn Bomb a park in Newbridge. We'd bring colour to the town and teaching ourselves a new skill at the same time.

I first came across Yarn Bombing many years ago in New York. Someone had left a knitted bicycle on the sidewalk on Wall Street. Though considered graffitti, there is nothing remotely offensive or alarming about covering everyday objects in wool. Quite the opposite. The woolly street art has a comforting effect on passers by.

Of course the Linear Park in Newbridge is large and soon we discovered that with over 40 pine trees to cover, we'd need more help. That's when the real fun started. We contacted local schools in the town. Teachers were happy to come on board and when the children heard that they were taking part in a street art project, they thought it was pretty cool too. Rita Nugent, one of the local teachers, wanted the tree nearest her school so that all the children would see it on the way to school.

But the reality of a whole park meant that we had to involve even more people - especially the seriously skilled knitters in Newbidge. We went into community groups. The first, the Dara Park Family Resoucre Centre, turned out to be home to some amazingly talented women.

The 'Golden Girls' meet up weekly and  happy to get involved as long as they could take on a bicycle. Another group at the centre came to the park and picked out their own tree to yarn bomb. It was the biggest but they were not put off, even by it's awkward shape.

The library is home to the Stitch and Sew group. They meet on a Thursday and look out on to the park from their meeting place. They wanted to most awkward tree, it has loads of gnarly branches but amongst them, they had a dream team of crochet and knitting artists. Because, despite what the art councils around the world say, I believe that knitting and crochet is an art form and everyone involved is an artist.

Not only did we have a whole town knitting, we soon had a convent of nuns at it too. The Sisters of the Holy Family got involved. Sister Columba made colourful crocheted hats that another volunteer took and turned into flower bells. Several others knitted squares which another volunteer sewed into a blanket to wrap around a tree. Whilst many of them didn't understand what they were knitting for, they were happy to be taking part in the community project.

It took four months to bring everything together. Some people walked down to the park and picked out their own tree, others made blankets and we collected them beforehand. The set up date was June 1st and everybody was invited to help stage the installation. School children came down and put theirs up along with the Dara Park team. When it was all done, the sisters from the convent came down, many in wheelchairs. After all their hard work, they could finally understand what yarn bombing was about.

The Yarn Bomb stayed in place for a month and had a wonderful response from visitors. The children who had been part on the project all came down with their families. Bus loads of people from out of
town came to take a look. The place was a live with activity, all because in the end, over a thousand people took up the challenge and knitted a park.

We shall be yarn bombing the park in 2017 - if you would like to get involved, get in touch!

The Roof-box

Sixteen years ago I wrote a book “Help! I’ve Got A Baby’. Fast-forward seventeen years and I should be writing ‘Help! I’ve Got A Teenager’.  In it I would list the top one hundred things that make life with teenagers less stressful. Once your children become teenagers, everything you do is embarrassing. It’s the knowing what not to do that it the real sanity saver. 

The top one hundred things to avoid includes speaking loudly or drawing attention to yourself outside the house, dressing like Dolly Parton and hugging or showing any signs of physical affection in public. The number one thing to avoid, as I have just discovered, is never to drive around your local town with a roof-box on top of the car. 

The roof-box is there because we drove across the Irish Sea a few weeks ago to see Grandpa.  He is sick and these visits are becoming more frequent. Hence, we shall be heading back across the pond again in a few weeks time. The roof-box, bought ten years ago to make travel with four children much less squashed, is a practical, large grey plastic box shaped like a squashed torpedo. 

“Don’t come NEAR my school with that THING on the roof” Diva Teen said last month. She is disgusted by it and now meets me half way homefrom school, on a small side road with no lights. That is not all. She crawls into the back seat and lays flat with her school bag on her head. Then we begin the long moan home.

“This is the most embarrassing car in Kildare”, then “Nobody else in the world drives around with an ugly roof-box”, then a muffled “You need to get privacy windows like the Kardashians. At least no-one could see me”. The muffled complaints come thick and fast from the back seat. “It’s like driving around with a boat on the roof”. 

To save her from being seen, I have suggested that she gets in the roof-box for the school run. I even offered to put a pillow, sleeping bag, DVD player and mini fridge inside. I could probably get Wi-Fi up there and with a little help from a YouTube tutorial I might put in a little window too. 

“It would be like your very own small tour bus. Just like Rhianna’s” I tried. She refused to crack a smile, not even a tiny one. “NOT funny”. “What about if I put in a flask of hot chocolate and an electric blanket?” Silence. That would be another piece of advice in my sanity saving manual; don’t try and be funny. 

I am usually the one who has to put the heavy, awkward roof box on and take it off each time we go away. Our son is ten and has just been trained up to help. He is the perfect assistant, the ideal size to actually sit inside it and do up the screws with his little fingers. We both hate doing it and after the last trip, when I went out with him to take it off, he suggested weleave it on. I thought it was a good idea. 

“I will never drive with you in daylight again” Diva Teen announced over breakfast last weekend. This roof-box rage has been going on for two weeks, much to the amusement of the rest of the family. I switched off to her protests because having a roof-box does have one big advantage. I can spot the car in less than two seconds in an open-air car park. If only I had stuck to open air car parks. Unfortunately, that day I didn’t.

We headed into Newbridge around 4pm when it was almost dark. As usual, I drove humming along to the radio and talking to myself. The passenger seat was empty. In the rear view mirror I could see Diva Teenlying across the back seats, with a blanket covering her whole body. 

At the pedestrian crossing, people looked in with prying eyes. I find it a miracle that I was not reported for human trafficking, kidnapping or on suspicion of murder. “Are you alright there?” I asked her. “DRIVE” she replied. One word answers are the norm. If you have toddlers or small children, hold them tight and cherish them. All this, and more, is heading your way. 

In Newbridge I drove optimistically towards the Courtyard multi story car park, planning to drive up the ramp and whirl up to the top floor for a parking spot. But as I got onto the ramp, a crashing, deafening thunder-like noise stopped me right in my tracks. I screamed. Diva Teen remained silent in the back. 

I leapt out of the car to discover that I had smashed into the multi story car park ceiling, completely ignoring the ‘Maximum height 1.95m’ sign on the way in.  I’d forgotton all about the extra height I was carrying on top of the car. Oops. Wedged, like a doorstop, in the car park. “WHAT have you done now?” Diva Teen poked her nose out from her hiding place. 

I wanted to join her under the blanket but being the only grown up in a sticky situation, I carefully reversed out instead. A crowd of onlookers watched, accompanied by loud scraping noises from the roof-box and we slowly drove off. “This is the most embarrassing day of my life” Diva whispered. I think it might have been mine too. Until today. 

Driving through Kildare, I came across a massive army truck at a standstill. It was wedged solidly under the low railway bridge, a mile out of town on the Rathangan road. A few red-faced soldiers stood around itscratching their heads.

Just as I was about to take a ‘selfie’ with them to prove everyone that I am not the only person who ignores warning signs I stopped myself. A selfie with a bunch of soldiers? Diva Teen would lock me in the roof-box forever. 

Refugees in Ireland? We've been here before.

A few years ago, I received a phone call. A friend asked me if I had any small jobs in the garden that needed doing. The answer to that one is always a firm ‘YES’. The offer of help came with a moral dilemma attached. He had befriended a young asylum seeker, a man in his early twenties, who was living in the Eyre Powell Hotel in the town. 

The question was, would I give him money for a few hours work and not tell anyone. Asylum seekers are not permitted to work. They are forced to be dependant on the state. The allowance for asylum seekers at the time was, and still is, less than €20 a week. How anyone can live on that is beyond me.

I decided that I would feed him and give him cash in return for a few hours in the garden. I did so because if one of my children was alone in a strange land, I would want someone to do the same. He arrived the next day. Kasim was the same age as my nephew. We got on immediately. 

Despite our languages being different, we shared the same sense of humour. That first day we met, I made him a sandwich for lunch. I took it out to him. He laughed when he saw it and made it clear that there was not enough food. Not used to feeding young men, I went back in and brought out a hearty bowl of soup, a packet of biscuits and a can of Red Bull.

I’d see him two, maybe three times a year. He would update me on things. Life here was a horrible waiting game. That it what it is like for asylum seekers in the Eyre Powell Hotel. A waiting game: waiting to see if the courts will give you refugee status. Over time, Kasim’s English got better and he settled. That was thanks to the support of the people of Newbridge who took him under their wing. 

It was hard not to like Kasim. He was such a nice guy to have around. Intelligent, kind, witty and great with my kids who were young at the time. I learned that he was an only child. There was one particular day that I shall remember forever. I’ll share it because I was reminded of it this morning. It was a sunny Autumnal day, just like today, when he arrived at my door.

I hadn’t seen our friend for the whole summer. We went into the garden and looked at the overgrown bushes and I left him to work his magic on the weeds. A few hours later, I did my usual Mrs Doyle thing of going out with a tray laden with a mountain of food. 

Normally we’d have a laugh about my portion sizes but this day was different. It was clear to see that he had been crying. “What’s the matter Kasim?” I asked him. He took the tray from me silently. We sat down together. “I dreamt of my mother last night” he said. 

I had never asked him about his family before. He was such a buoyant, life enhancing person, an open book. But his own family was something that he never discussed. “She comes to me in my dreams at night. I see her face”. With that, the tears fell freely. I put my arm around him as he sobbed. Then he told me his story.

His parents owned a shop and lived above it. It was the only one in their small village and it sold basic provisions that all families rely upon along with a small selection of alcoholic drinks. The Taliban, with their strict regime, had taken controlof many of the towns in the area and Kasim’s small village was next.

They came to the shop and ordered his father to stop selling alcohol. He didn’t. Kasim came home one day to find hisuncle standing in front of the building, trying to shield him from the horrific view. The small building had been burnt to the ground. The bodies of his mother and father were in sacks by the front door, tortured and brutally murdered by the Taliban.

Imagine this in your town. Imagine if this happened tomorrow. The guards would be called. The local community would be outraged, the media would spend days reporting from the scene for Sky News. But in Kasim’s homeland, thisbrutality happens every single day. For a whole generation of people young and old, it has become their ‘normal’. 

The Taliban took control of the tiny village. With everythinggone, his family, his home, there was a grim future ahead ofhim. He did exactly what I would do in the same situation, he left his homeland to find somewhere safe to live and start again.

Kasim, still only a teenager, made the journey to Europe. With many other asylum seekers, he found himself in Belgium,there they were allocated a country. He was sent to Ireland. Despite living in the Eyre Powell hotel, sharing a room with a stranger, sharing a kitchen, not being allowed to work until he was granted legal status, Kasim never complained because he felt safe. 

Very soon, hundreds of Syrians will arrive in our county. LikeKasim, many of them will have experienced unimaginable suffering for the last few years. We have been told that 500 will arrive in Monasterevin, at the Hazel Hotel. As a community, we must reach out to them in whatever way we can. Welcoming refugees should come easy to the Irish. You’ve done it before.

In the seventeenth century over 250,000 Protestants were forced out of France for their religious beliefs. Over 10,000 came to Ireland. They settled in Waterford, Cork, Dublin andPort Arlington, where the French church from 1696 still stands to day. 

On behalf of my ancestors, thank you.

Shoe SHARE for UNICEF - as featured in the Leinster Leader August 2015

The Ruby Slippers, worn by Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz, are the most expensive pair of shoes ever sold, making $660,000 at an auction in 2000. My mother in law, who has a thing for footwear, once owned a pair of purple velvet Versace evening shoes with Louis heels, encrusted with real gems. My daughters have Granny’s passion too and the higher the better, like scaffolding rigs. I generally prefer more sensible footwear. Or so I thought.  

It was a pair of gold leather loafers with silver tassels that caught my eye in Clarks last week. They stood out from the rest, the light bouncing off them like a pair of shimmering golden galleons, calling “Buy me! Buy ME!” They were a size 5, that’s my size. It was a sign and if ever a pair had my name written all over the sole, it was these. 

I had gone into Whitewater, the local shopping centre, to take shelter from the rain when the glistening loafers distracted me. Never mind that I would get stick from the kids, or that I’d need a new wardrobe from God knows where to go with them, they had to be mine. The gold and silver spectaculars were marked down from €100 to €25. Bargain. My pulse was racing.

I do not have a fetish for shoes as such. What I do have is about five pairs that I wear most days and another five (or so) pairs of ridiculously glamorous heels that rarely leave the house. Included in the latter collection is a pair of dangerously high Jimmy Choos that my mother in law sent me for a significant birthday fifteen years ago.

The six-inch heels, that I have only worn once, come out when my teenagers are bored. I found my fifteen year old cleaning her bedroom in them recently. I didn’t moan, just quietly left her to it wishing that I had thought of the idea. But like many women, I do appreciate a good pair of shoes; show me a woman on the planet that doesn’t. It’s a girl thing.

A poll of 1300 women revealed that in her lifetime, the average woman owns a mind boggling 434 pairs. I have a friend who might be at that figure already.  Mrs X in Naas hides shoes all round the house.  Her husband has no idea of the boxes hidden in the hot press, under the bed and in the attic. Mr X has no clue that his wife has a shoe addiction. “I don’t need help,” she tells me. Some people collect stamps, others collect shoes. It’s the same part of the brain at work.

Back in Whitewater, the shop assistant took my card and stuck it into the machine. I stood in front of her with a goofy smile on my face. That happens when I buy shoes. It’s the same face that a child pulls when he or she gets a big ice cream. I was smiling because I knew that each time I wear the shiny golden loafers I will get a huge buzz. It’s exactly that feeling that Mrs X in Naas thrives upon. 

“Would you like leather protector?” the assistant asked. “Yes please”, I replied. I shall wear the metallic loafers til I am ninety and they’ll need all the protection that I can get. She put them in a bag and handed me a small blue leaflet along with my receipt. “If you are having a sort out and have any spare shoes…” Spare? Each child has a pair of summer sandals that they’ve hardly worn, and old school shoes too. I’ve at least eight pairs good to go. I read the leaflet and little bells went off in my head. That happens when I discover something brilliant.

‘ShoeSHARE’ has been around since 2008. Clarks stores in the UK and Ireland use their shops as collection points and members of the public are invited to drop in unwanted shoes. The style and size or the shoes is unimportant, likewise, the condition. The oldest pair of runners can be sent in along with old wellington boots and slippers.

There is immense satisfaction to be found in donating shoes. For every tonne of shoes, Clarks make a financial contribution to the United Nations Children's Fund. Clarks recycle the shoes and UNICEF  educates children in some of the most troubled countries on the planet. Over a million Euros has been raised to date.  In the world today, there are in the region of 57 million primary school aged children deprived of an education.

For many children in poverty or war torn countries, they are getting an education thanks to ShoeSHARE. Through the scheme, UNICEF provides basics like pens and pencils giving children the right tools to learn. They also train teachers and work with governments to ensure the standard of education remains high and children are leaving school able to read and write.

 Simply put, the more shoes Clarks collect, the more they donate. The more they donate, the more children in countries like Zambia, Ethiopia and the Philippines benefit. ‘Shoe Share’ is a great idea and like the best ideas in the world, is so simple. All it takes is a few moments of our time and a little de-cluttering. 

So here is the plan, it’s like the ice bucket challenge but with footwear. Let’s make Kildare the county that bombards Clarks with shoes over the next few weeks. If I ask all my neighbours to donate just one pair, and ask everyone on Facebook to do the same, I could get in a hundred pairs of shoes with very little effort.

If everyone who donates a pair passes on the ShoeSHARE request to their neighbours and friends too, a lorry load of shoes could be heading to Clarks. Are you up for the challenge? I’m starting my campaign this week so Mrs X in Naas, you had better get ready.

I’m putting on my new shoes and heading to your house first. You will definitely see me coming.

What every woman wants on her birthday...

What do Will Smith, Marilyn Manson, Jay-Z, Helena Christiansen and I have in common? We are all 46. I turned last week and it’s hard to know how to celebrate 46 years. If I lit that many candles on a birthday cake all at once I’d set my chin hair alight.

“What do you want for your birthday?” my husband asked. I never know what to say. I’m not a handbag girl, rarely wear make up and am at that stage where I am lucky enough to have everything I need. I suggested a surprise and he went quiet because, let’s face it, a surprise can be anything. A pound of Jane Russell’s sausages could be a surprise, so could a whoopee cushion or a goat.

My birthday arrived and the kids handed me gifts. I was handed three bars of smelly soap, some hand cream, deodorant and bubble bath. I put them away in the bathroom. For for the next month or two, I will get immense pleasure from their gifts and reek of roses as I push the trolley round Aldi.

My husband went off to work early and left his present, the ‘surprise’ with our son to guard. “You mustn’t open it til Dad gets home” he told me. I sat looking at it all morning. The ‘surprise’ was such an odd shape. About the size of a tray but bigger one end than the other, was it a tray? That would be a ridiculous surprise; I’ve got two that I don’t use already. The only person I know who has three trays is Frances Brennan. That afternoon as I tried to watch Wimbledon, my eyes kept going back to the mystery in the corner.

I picked it up. It wasn’t heavy but it wasn’t light either. I was about to shake it when the youngest came in again and caught me, “PUT THAT DOWN”. I put it down. “What is it?” “Not telling you,” he replied, sitting down beside me to watch the tennis. “Give me a clue” “NO!” I headed into the kitchen to find my teenager peeling baby new potatoes with a bread knife.

She kindly offered to make the dinner, which was much appreciated by this birthday girl. I’ve made somewhere in the region of 20,000 family meals in last eighteen years, not bad for someone who failed home economics. I was ordered to go back to the tennis and leave her to it. That left me in the front room with Wimbledon, the surprise and my son.

“Go on, give me a clue,” I whispered. He got up and peered into the kitchen, and then tip toed back again. “OK. Ask me some questions”.  “Can you eat it?” “No”. “Can you wear it?” “Err, no”. “Have any of my friends got one?” “NO!” The last answer bothered me. It was a firm no. That meant that what ever it was 100% not a handbag. “Would you like one of what ever it is?” “Err, I might”. “Is it anything to do with Lego?” “No”. Phew. There was a chance that he might have got me something totally mad like a Titanic Lego kit.

It was soon four in the afternoon, well into my birthday. The surprise was right in front of me and I was not allowed to open it. The tennis was not enough of a distraction. My son got up, tiptoed into the kitchen and came back to the sofa with the phone. “Shall I phone Dad and ask him if you can open it?” I nodded and put my thumbs up. If the girls got wind of what was about to happen, they would put a stop to it immediately.

“Dad. Mum’s really sad because she wants to open the surprise. Can I let her open it or does she really have to wait til you come home?” Silence for a moment, Then the magic; he put his little thumb up. “Thanks. Bye”. With that I ran over to the surprise and without holding back, ripped it open like a three year old on Christmas morning.

Inside, I discovered a black fabric case, the sort of case that you would put a laptop in. But this was no laptop, it was bigger and it’s shape too irregular. “What is it?” I looked at my son. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. I carefully undid the zip that went all around case and discovered loads of plastic. Still totally flummoxed, I took the wrapping off and there it was, revealed in all its glory. The surprise.

I am not sure what Jay-Z got for his birthday. I am guessing Beyonce got him something like a gold knuckle-duster. Helena Christiansen might have received an elegant piece of jewelry, earrings or a bracelet. As for Marilyn Manson, eye liner. But I genuinely believe that Will Smith would have liked my surprise. He’s a musical man. I just wish that I were more of a musical woman and my 46^th year is destined to be musical because my husband gave me a glockenspiel.

Back in the eighties, I used to watch legendary stargazer Patrick Moore play his glockenspiel. It was a large wooden instrument and he played daintily with super speed. It always amazed me. Some time, in the past eighteen years of marriage, I must have mentioned that to my husband. Fast forward to last week and he thought that it would be the perfect surprise.  It was, without doubt, the last thing on earth that I expected.  I was genuinely, 100% surprised.

With my son watching, I picked up the beaters and played the only tune I know how to play on any musical instrument. I banged out a plinky-plonky ‘Happy Birthday’ to myself on the metal keys.

If you know anything about the glockenspiel, please contact me. I need to add to my repertoire. I’m giving myself five months to learn ‘Frosty The Snowman’.