Angry Birds.

When my teenage daughter isn’t squeezing spots she does not know what to do with her hands. I mean it. It is something that I became aware of this week when we went to see the doctor about her feet.

Arriving twenty minutes early, I suggested to her that we nip into a nearby department store to buy her a few much needed t-shirts for the summer. Unfortunately she did not hear me. She was walking ten metres behind, plugged into her Ipod. Her face was twisted with anger and her hands, usually squeezing spots, were on her hips.  Her fists clenched like she wanted a fight. “What are you listening too?” I mouthed. She ignored me and marched past. I pulled out an earplug and seizing the moment, stuck it into my ear. It was Katie Perry, ‘Firework’, hardly the kind of music to make you want to punch someone. Not like Ten Inch Nails or Iron Maiden.

“Are you feeling ok?” I asked. “SHUT UP” she replied, plugging herself back into Katie Perry. Hands back on hips, she followed me into the chemist dragging her feet like two enormous sandbags with her. “Do you need anything from here?” I asked, hovering about beside the sanitary products. “NO”. Every day I hope that this behaviour is hormone related. It never is. Purchasing headache tablets and odour eaters we headed to the foot expert.

“Take off your shoes and walk up and down,” the doctor said to my daughter. She did as she was told. Hands on hips, frowning and dragging her feet along like two dead bodies. “Now listen to ME,” said the expert with a stern authority that made me shudder. “If you don’t do what I say, your feet will never get better. Do you understand?” My daughter, hands still on hips grunted.  “Pick up your feet”. She did. I looked at the expert and wondered if the rumours were true. Someone told me this woman was a wild punk rocker in the Eighties.  Would she ever have expected, years later, to be wearing Ecco shoes, Marks and Spencer twin set and a white coat and shouting at flat footed moody teens. Half an hour later, orthotics ordered we left.

Moments later, my daughter was again ten metres behind me. Hands on hips, a face like thunder and feet like lead. I couldn’t help myself. I waited for her to catch up and pulled out her music (To a teenager that is like switching off their life support machine). “If you walk along with your hands on your hips, you look so, so angry. Please, just for today, can you not walk along with your hands like that?” 

Fists clenched and still on firmly hips she yelled, “WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THEM? Her reply caught me on the hop. I had not thought about it. What do other teenagers do? I looked around. A teenager walked by, a male, with hands in his pockets. My teenager has no pockets. Another couple, teenager girls, walked by with their arms folded. “That?” I said, pointing at them. She rolled her eyes and kept her hands firmly in their place.  Another teenager walked by with a cigarette in one hand and a can of lager in the other.  Luckily my teenager didn’t see, she was too busy starring at her face in a shop window.

Once home I asked friends what their teenagers did with their hands. Almost all the mothers of boys gave the same answer, “Always in their pockets” except one. “He hangs them there, at the side. Never moves them, even when he runs. Like two wooden oars. Lifeless. Drives me mad”.  Was my daughter the only one to walk with them, fist clenched, on her hips? I was feeling paranoid. Perhaps she should take up boxing. Ireland is producing top female boxers at the moment.  Is this how boxers like Katie Taylor walk?

My sister came up with the solution. “I’d probably do the same if I didn’t have a handbag to hold onto”. HANDBAGS? Then it dawned on me. That is why women carry handbags. Because if we didn’t, we’d go around with our hands on our hips looking like we wanted a fight because out teenage daughters are driving us insane.  Now all I had to do was convince my daughter that she wanted a handbag and she'd not walk around like an angry bird. A new handbag wouldn’t go down well. She wears hoodies, slippers and leggings all day and would be quite happy carrying her belongings in a shopping trolley or a bin liner. 

Just as I was about to begin my handbag search, a safety conscious friend offered me some words of warning. She said that my daughter could end up with a severe facial injury.  “If she trips over and is holding onto a handbag with both hands, she’ll not break her fall will she? She could end up with a broken nose. Think about what you are doing. Could you live with the guilt?”  

So now I am left considering my options. Do I bite my tongue and say nothing about the 'fisty hips' for the next few years or do I buy her a handbag putting her at risk of a serious head injury if she falls? Someone please sent up a forum for parents on this serious matter. Before I start throwing punches. 

BEST X Factor Auditions

The long and winding road has led me back here to my blog. After a good few months I have finally finished my first novel, 'One Night In Crapham'. Phew! It is quirky tale about a delusional woman who after just one singing class on holiday, really believes that she has a gift, a beautiful singing voice. Once home, she does what feels right and starts a band made up of locals from the town and just one professional musician, drummer Vince, who in the eighties played with Ten Pole Tudor. After just three months, as self appointed band manager, she has to secure their first gig. After a run of disappointing rejections from the local pubs and clubs, she gets a slot in the county maximum security prison, Crapham. Of course, it doesn't all go to plan.....

Writing it was easy, now the hard bit is getting published. So as I sit and wait to hear from a couple of agents, what better way to pass the time than enjoy performances from a few fellow delusional singers. The characters in One Night In Crapham have lived me for a while now and as a thank you to all the people in the world, who like me, haven't the best vocal range, I am posting these fabulous clips from X Factor and American Idol. If you have the inner strength and stamina to watch all eight, you'll love my book.  Wish me luck......Enjoy!

8

Here she is. The original Angry Bird. 

7

She is just a little scarier than me.  Scary Mary. 

6

She is more organised than me. Lyrics in pocket? Great idea. 

5

If only I could get my sister to join me. This could have been us. 

4

She has more ambition than me

3

She has even more ambition than me...

2

Oh my. The holistic singing teacher. 

1

Super- Gran!

A mighty fine Parade

All around the world people have been celebrating St Patricks Day today. In our local town it was no different. This year, for the first time ever, we watched from the side of the road instead of sitting on a float. What a treat we were in for! Here are some of the highlights.

First up in the parade, the army. This year, unlike others, only two army vehicles took part.  I don't think anyone was too upset. There was so much more to look forward too. 

Second up, an old yellow Ford Cortina. Unfortunately, it broke down and the parade came to a standstill whilst the driver called the AA.  When a member of the civil defence noticed that nothing had passed him for ten minutes, my husband and another spectator from the crowd jumped over the barriers and pushed the car for the rest of the parade. 

Next, an idea that might catch on in other St Patrick's Day parades around the globe, what else, but a chicken in a basket.  On wheels. Beats a KFC any day.

Next, he is  'Proud to be a Bog Man'. It said so on the sign pinned on to the front of the pram. Look closely and you can see the peat. And a doll. 

and finally.....Lastly, some Irish dancers. Hooray!

HAPPY ST PATRICK'S DAY

I'M EVERY WOMAN, it's all in me...

Hooray! It's the international day of love. I write this at 6am. Not because I am sitting by the front door waiting for a dozen red roses to arrive, but because I am about to go upstairs and clean vomit splats from all along the hallway. My seven year old boy was sick all night and I know that when daylight comes, I'll have at least two hours of intense carpet cleaning ahead of me.

It may be Valentine's Day but the kids are off school for the week and life just doesn't grind to a halt on the 14th February. But as a tribute to the soul star who died this week, and to inject a bit of 'luuurve' into the day, I have compiled the top five 'Whitney Houston Songs to Get Household Jobs Done By'. I have put down exactly what I shall be doing for each song but obviously, adapt each song to suit whatever housework you have to face this morning. Pump up the volume and feel free to join me in my tribute to the legend who has been a constant companion in aerobics classes for women around the world for the last 20 years. 

I'M EVERY WOMAN 

This is the tune I shall be listening to very shortly, on my Ipod (mustn't wake whole house), as I tackle the vomity soaked carpet. With mop, bucket, disinfectant, rubber gloves and air freshener, this track has the energy to keep me going as I tackle every mother's worse nightmare. Yuk, Yuk, treble yuk....

IT'S NOT RIGHT BUT IT'S OK

At number 2, It's Not Right But It's OK. This could have been written for the inside of my fridge, which some might call 'A disgrace'. The song is methodical, calm and repetitive, just what's required for dreaded household chore number two this morning.  After the carpet, I have to throw out the stale milk, yogurts, leftovers and clean out the compost heap (otherwise known as the vegetable drawer in my fridge). Surely there is no better day to feel the love for my refrigerator.

SO EMOTIONAL

This will be playing very loudly as I enter my teenagers cave and attempt to get her to sort out her bathroom later this morning. This week she has been experimenting with every Irish teenagers 'must have', fake tan (in orange). This has to stop. She may become a fake tan junkie.  I don't even know who her supplier is. She came out of her room last night glowing a mucky yellowy red colour. This wouldn't bother me one bit if she took up ballroom dancing. Instead she listens to Jedward all day in her tracksuit. We've not even seen the sun in Ireland for 6 months....HELP!

I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU

 Our rabbit died last week and now, I am faced with the horrible, horrible task of phoning up the vet and getting the results of the post-mortem. As I do so, this shall play in the background. It sums up perfectly, the way I feel. Like poor Whitney's family, I only hope that she died suddenly and without pain. Unlike Whitney's family, I was at least there to feed her a last nibble of apple shortly before she passed. RIP 'Pickles' - we will always love you. 

I'M YOUR BABY TONIGHT

Yes, we are going out, we've an Early Bird meal booked in the Brown Bear in a village nearby called Two Mile House. I shall put this song on and first sweep, then mop the entire house before we leave. I may even attempt that thing that cleaning obsessives do and mop my way out of the house, leaving the mop at the door just before I lock it. I can pick it up when we get home and mop my way from the front door to the bedroom. Who says that art of romance is dead?

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

My name is Annie, and I am an addict.

I am an addict. I am addicted to the fluffy stuff. For twenty years, twice a week, I have carried huge 10kg bags of potatoes from the supermarket, into the car and then through the house to the kitchen. Then I have spent a good ten minutes every day peeling/scrubbing them, another fifteen minutes standing over them as they boil and another five mashing them. That's a whopping total of 30 minutes four days a week for twenty years devoted to the art of Mashed Potato. I loved it. That was until I did the maths and worked out that when all those minutes are added together, I have spent 86 day and nights of my life, preparing and mashing potato. That's ridiculous.

If I only I had those 86 days back again, goodness knows what I'd do, the possibilities are endless. I might travel across America on a Greyhound bus or get learn how to ride a unicycle and take myself around Europe on it. I might take up synchronised swimming or learn how to speak Japanese. I could walk the entire length and breadth of Iceland or  take up the ancient art of falconry, lace making or clog dancing. Fellow potato lovers around the world will have to agree, this mashing potato madness has to stop.

WARNING!

Before I go on, a word of caution to any purists reading. You may find the following upsetting. You may find yourself feeling light headed, dizzy, angry or nauseous. Don't panic, lie down and put your feet up, your reaction to what you are about to read is perfectly normal.

A chance TV encounter with the legendary Delia Smith changed everything.  When having made a fish pie filling, she reached into the freezer and pulled out a bag of (wait for it.....) FROZEN mashed potato.  She simply snipped open the packet, plonked the entire contents over her fish pie base and saved thirty minutes of labour. She fed it to the TV presenter beside her, "Mmmm"s and "WOW!"s filled the studio. 

Like the invention of the wheel, the lighbulb or the telephone, there are people who will consider frozen mashed potato as the work of the devil. It may even be considered sinful. But I've no time for food snobbery and here's the thing; in the six months that I have been using my Fluffy Frozen Mash, not one person around my table has complained. In fact, just the opposite. They love the lump free, creamy, soothing mash that was not only effortless to prepare (unless you consider opening the freezer door a chore) but tastes as good as home made. Not only that, but my arms and legs are getting a break too as one bag feeds the entire family and is a fraction of he weight of a bag of King Edwards with no waste.

I am addicted. This wonderful stuff has been a lifesaver in the freezer. It goes on everything; Shepherd's Pie, Cottage Pie, as a filler in Pasties, as a thickener in soups and it goes without saying, with sausages and gravy. Frozen mash has one more serious advantage, it is essential in emergency situations. The bag has come out of the freezer many times to relieve the pain of sprained ankles and bruised heads. It is the perfect size. I cannot recall how many hours I have spent with a bag of frozen fluffy mashed potato on my head, in a quiet dimply lit room. There is no better relief for a migraine. Say what you like about the frozen white stuff but you cannot do that with a 10kg bag of Jersey Royals. 

Of course, the issue that many (women in particular), is coping with the guilt. The guilt of knowing that you didn't spend hours carrying, peeling, boiling and mashing the spuds. This is the burden that I carried for the first few months, like lead upon my shoulders. Then, as if by magic, the guilt left. All because I managed to convince a woman in her seventies to try it. This woman, a fellow mash devotee, had spent 50 years mashing potatoes. But a few weeks later, I discovered that she too had come over to the other side, "I wish that I'd discovered it years ago" she said when I bumped into her in the supermarket with five packs in her trolley. She'd cleared the shelf.

And finally, before I go and serve up my stew and mash this evening, the snow over in the UK hasn't excited my 7 year old boy one bit. He has no interest in making snowmen this year. Much better than snow, it turns out that the small frozen mashed potato logs are great for making little igloos for Lego people. 

!

VICTORIA BECKHAM, MADONNA, MICKEY ROURKE and me.

   

I have joined an exclusive club. If ever I find myself next to Victoria Beckham, Madonna or Mickey Rourke at a cocktail party in Beverly Hills or Kildare Town, we will have so much to talk about. Yesterday I went through with my first cosmetic procedure. I went under the knife.  It wasn't my eyelids, cheeks, knees, breasts or lips that were surgically enhanced. I didn't go for a Demi Moore 'Knee Lift' but instead, had a whole network of large and wobbly varicose veins removed from my left leg (I am quite sure that Victoria, Madonna and Mickey Rourke have had the same procedure but let's face it, varicose vein removal is never going to make the front pages of the National Enquirer).

The problem that I faced was that having trained as a nurse in the eighties, varicose vein removal was the one procedure that made me faint when I watched it in the operating theatre. Back then, I made a mental note never to allow myself to get varicose veins and wore support tights for ten years. Four babies later, out they popped. My veins became 'incompetent'. Up and down my left leg like two boa constrictors. They had to go. The time had come for me to reclaim my legs.

As I lay on the operating theatre table, waiting to be anaesthetised (a local anaesthetic was all that was needed for the 90 minute procedure) a nurse whispered "You'll be fine. The surgeon plays classical music during the operation......". It was at this point that the the terror set in. What kind of sick man was this doctor who was about to rip out my veins? He came towards me in his blue gown, mask and rubber gloves. Any minute and he'd be reaching for a scalpel and slicing away at my legs and I'd be awake for the whole thing listening to Carl Orff. This was turning into a sick horror film. 

                                       

"I CAN'T DO IT!" I shouted out, the nurse looked at me. The surgeon peered down at me through his glasses. "Do you want a general anaesthetic?" asked the anaesthetist impatiently, "We do ten of these procedures a week and nobody ever complains". "N-N-N-No" I could feel my self shaking. "I just c-c-c-can't listen to your classical music for ninety minutes....". Everything went silent.  They all looked down at me with their masks on. I was starring in my own Hammer House of Horror movie. 

The silence was broken as surgeon reached for something. Was it an axe? This was it.  He really about to KILL me. "How are you feeling?" I looked up, the tears welling up. "I feel FINE" (Fragile, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional). "Here." He handed me his Iphone. "Choose something you would prefer to hear". My fingers were like jelly. With every single member of theatre staff looking down at me, I scrolled as quickly as I could, scanning the names. Trying to find something, ANYTHING that wasn't classical. With each second that passed, I regretted that I had said a firm 'no' to the offer of a 'Mainstream Mystic' relaxation CD from a friend.

"I'm going to have to hurry you...." the surgeon was washing my leg with a orangey yellow liquid.  Still I clutched at the Iphone, the names whizzed past on the screen. Bach, Bizet, Chopin, Debussey, Elgar, Grieg, Haydn, Liszt, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Offenbach, Puccini. Surely there was something that wasn't classical. All I wanted was light relief, the B52's or a bit of R Kelly. The anaesthetic leaned over me and slowly injected something white into my veins "Annie, you may start to feel sleepy". Was this the 'milk' that Michael Jackson was so fond of?

"GOT IT". I found something. The drugs were in my system, I had to be quick. With my thumb, I manically pressed 'play'. The operating theatre filled with the sound of music. Rock music. The only darn album on the Iphone was 'QUEEN'S GREATEST HITS III'. That would do even if I am not a Queen fan. Moments later Freddie Mercury's voice filled the room, I sang along under my breath.

"Another one bites the dust

Another one bites the dust

And another one gone, and another one gone

Another one bites the dust

Hey, I'm gonna get you too

Another one bites the dust"

I was beginning to feel confused, blurred vision, drowsy. I clutched onto the surgeon's phone desperately pressing it firmly against my ear. He gently asking me questions about my life in Ireland. The words came freely at first. "I've lived here for 13 years" he nodded, "I trained as a nurse in England", he nodded his eyes smiling down at me. "I left nursing because one of my patients introduced me to her husband and would you believe, I ended up marrying him.......". Oops. That came out wrong. The 'milk' was floating around my body. It wasn't true. I married my patients son not husband. His eyes widened "Isn't that illegal? Immoral?" My tongue felt heavy like I had drank a bottle of Captain Morgan's. I tried to explain, "No, ssssssshe was delighted,  we've been tooooooogether  for years......". There was no point fighting the drugs. I drifted off to sleep.

Time flew. Ninety minutes later I woke up. It was all over.  I recalled the sensation of tugging and pulling as the veins were pulled out but it felt like a lovely dream like, not at all the torturous nightmare that I had anticipated. My leg was double wrapped in layers of bandages up to my thigh. I came home four hours later and slept off the wonderful, gloriously relaxing 'milk'.

So now, ahead of me, five days of full bed rest as the leg recovers. Five days of peace whist someone else does the school run, cooks the meals, helps with homework, cleans, goes grocery shop and takes care of the general household management and feed the rabbits. Because I cannot move, someone else will have to act as peacemaker when the kids are fighting and someone else will have to find the missing scissors, sellotape and vital piece of Lego. 

Ahead of me, five full days of watching old movies and reading forgotten books and sleeping. I shall enjoy the company of friends popping in with grapes, magazines, cake and gossip. A few weeks from now I'll have vein free, ache free legs and I cannot wait for summer and to wear skirts again after eight years. Recovering from my surgery is proving to be the perfect little mini break and bang on trend. After all, aren't 'Stay-cations' are all the rage?  Tummy tuck, knee lift, Botox here I come.......

I've Got The Moves Like Jackson....

Next week, like James Stewart in 'Rear Window', I shall be at home, my left leg in full bandages, spying on my neighbours from the comfort of a sofa, hoping that one of them commits a murder. I shall be resting after getting my veins stripped out in a small hospital in the town of Clane, thirty miles away from Dublin. I had intended to watch the whole box set of Danish murder mystery 'The Killing' as I recover but couldn't wait. Instead I finished all twenty hours of it last night and am left feeling obsessed with murder, fishing jumpers and Copenhagen. For those who have not seen 'The Killing', simply put, it is the best thriller ever made in the history of the universe. 

"Shall I bring round the Downton Abbey box set?" my old pal Patsy phoned offering help. The problem is that I nod off the moment I see a parasol: period dramas are not my thing. After The Killing, I know that the only thing that will aid my recovery will be to solve a gory crime from my sofa. I saw my neighbour bring in the wheelie bin last night and am convinced that she was disposing of a body. I shared my evidence with Patsy. "I have not seen her husband for at least two days.  I'm going down and interviewing her......".  She snapped me out of my paranoia, "You just need something to look forward to after the operation, something to take your mind off it all". She was right. The chances are that none of the neighbour will commit a murder and, in reality, there's nothing but sheep to look at from my rear window. Patsy still tried to cheer me up.  "I KNOW! Let's do an evening class after your operation!" 

The town of Clane, as it happens, is also the home of adult education in the county and this week, the much anticipated 'Clane Evening Class' brochure came out. Patsy was first in line for a copy and read out possible classes down the phone. "Flower arranging? French for Beginners? Knitting? Ooooh, what about Origami?" I was hoping for something a little more exciting than paper folding to aid my recovery, something about murderers. "No, wait. I have it here! Sweet mother of Divine, I HAVE FOUND THE PERFECT COURSE FOR US!" She was screaming in my ear like she had won the Lotto. 

She sounded like she had found something amazing. But what? Perhaps she'd found something intellectually stimulating or ground breaking. Maybe a new skill, something that could make a difference in our home, community, country, or even the world after we'd completed the course. "Here we go, course number 6011, are you ready?" I was so excited that I could hardly breathe. "What about a Learn Michael Jackson's Thriller Dance Class". I almost dropped my tea. "It's a ten week course. Each class an hour long. You learn the whole original dance and it says here, once you have learnt it, you'll have it for the rest of you life!'. Imagine that?"

A Thriller Dance class? Someone must be a serious Michael Jackson fan at the evening class booking office. I'd rather learn the Beyonce 'Single Ladies' dance but beggers can't be choosers. Following the surgery I have to rest for 5 days. After that, the Thriller dance routine could be just what I need to get the circulation going again in the left leg. If I keep the bandages on, I'd even have half a costume and I'll be covered in bruises so no need for stage make up. "You don't even need a costume," Patsy corrected me, "it says here, 'Dress up provided'. Wow, they've thought of everything!" Probably a good idea on the teachers' part- if Patsy and I were left to our own devices God knows what we'd end up looking like. 

I thought about it. I could only ever do a dance class if there were at least another 50 people doing it.  I'd need a crowd to hide behind.  It would be a nightmare if it ended up being just me and Patsy in Lycra leotards, sweatbands and leg-warmers, a floor to ceiling dance mirror and Kildare's equivalent to Louis Spence.  I have no sense of rhythm and a very short attention span and Pasty needs a cigarette every ten minutes or she gets violent. 

"They need enough people to join the class otherwise it will be cancelled" Patsy continued. That means that we'll have to go on a mission and recruit as many friends as we can to come along too and  sign up for the Learn Michael Jackson's Thriller Dance Class. I'll start in the morning at the school gate. But are there really that many people in Kildare who want to dress up like zombies? It isn't that hard for me as the zombie fashion and trance like stare isn't far off my everyday look. But could I ever be taught to dance like the King Of Pop, Michael Jackson? I'm 42 and have I've no sense of direction whatsoever. 

Patsy is right, I will sign up with her. It will be something to look forward to as I lay on the sofa dozing in front of the Downton Abbey box set. I just hope that surgeon is gentle with my new found dancing legs as he rips out the veins on Tuesday. Little will he know that in a few months time Patsy and I will be available to hire as Ireland's only Michael Jackson Thriller tribute act.