Thinking of rescuing a dog?

If you are thinking of rescuing a dog, here's our story. We found our little pet back in October. Six months later and the love affair continues. We searched high and low to find the perfect dog and eventually found our chihuahua 'Penny' at an animal rescue centre in Wicklow. As the photo below shows, she was in a bad, bad way on the day that we met her. She had been found wandering the mountains, terrified and starving. She came to our home and changed our lives. 

As the weeks went by she became stronger and much happier. She has a great appetite, is full of love and fun and has never looked stronger or happier than she is today. Here's a video of her now, playing her best game of all. Jumping over the broom handle. 

If you live in Ireland and are considering animal adoption, I highly recommend that you look no further than Ash Animal Rescue in Wicklow. Good luck!

http://www.ashanimalrescue.com/ash/

IT WASN'T ME!

Saturday afternoon was a very windy day. I decided to nip into the local German supermarket with my daughter to buy ingredients for a big comforting pot of stew. I went at the busiest time which was a bit silly. It was three in the afternoon and, because of the crowds, it took much longer then normal to push the trolly through the aisles.

Shopping at German supermarkets suits me because, like Ryanair, they are basic with no frills. Being a simple kind of gal, I don't like fuss in any way, shape or form. I like the way that boxes of fruit are always stacked up high on 'Super Saturday'. People were buying lemons and grapefruit like there was going to be a world shortage, all because they were 39c for three, for one day only. The problem is that, even if you go into Aldi or Lidl for something simple like a bag of spuds, you end up being drawn to a central aisle selling foot spas, disco balls and laminated maps of the world. "Can I buy this?" my daughter asked, holding up a paper shredder. "No" I fired back, putting down the digital bathroom scales that I had mindlessly picked up in my shopping trance.

In half an hour the trolley was full and we went to our final destination, the tinned tomato and pasta section. A tall and healthy looking forty-something man with architect glasses and a hefty woollen raincoat was holding a can of pesto sauce very close to his face. He was reading the back of the jar intensely. Unfortunately for me, he was blocking the tinned tomatoes shelf. I waited patiently, hoping the power of positive thought would be enough to make him move. It didn't and my daughter and I stood watching him as he examined the pesto closely. I was about to ask him to move when suddenly and unexpectedly he let out the most enormous fart. Gas out, he didn't take his eyes off the jar in his hand or look around to see if anyone was close by. I quickly pushed my trolley around the corner; I had no choice because my daughter was laughing. "Mum! I can't believe you did that" "It was NOT me!" I was appalled. His fart was so loud, almost volcanic. Not something I, or anyone I know, would ever part with in a German supermarket on Super Saturday (of all days).

A few minutes later, I poked my head around the corner. The man had moved on from the aisle. I grabbed the tin of tomatoes that I had been looking for and our shopping was complete. We unloaded our trolley onto the conveyor belt as quickly as we could in preparation for loading our bags as fast as humanly possible. This race is another quirky German supermarket feature that I treat like an Olympic sport. I managed to unload a trolley onto the conveyor belt in under thirty seconds. Surely a record? As I wiped the sweat from my face, my daughter poked me "LOOK. It's HIM". I looked round and saw that Mr Farty had pulled up directly behind us with his trolley. "Don't stare!" I poked her back.

"Good afternoon" the cashier greeted me. That's another thing about the German supermarkets, all of the cashiers are trained to say hello and smile broadly when you buy your groceries. They will continue to smile and be polite unless you make the fatal mistake of packing your shopping straight into carrier bags. You are not allowed to do this and you will be told off. Being a natural born rule breaker I do it anyway and, whenever I am challenged, I argue that I can pack my groceries so quickly that it won't slow down the scanning process one bit. I rolled up my sleeves, ready to pack my bags in lightning speed. It was all going so well. That was until he did it again. My nemesis. Without a care in the world, Mr Farty, in his woollen coat and architect glasses, broke wind. This time, we were not alone. Everyone heard it. Even the cashier who raised an eyebrow at me as she scanned my lemons. My daughter got a fit of the giggles.

"Mum. That one really WAS you". "Shhh! No it wasn't!" I hissed, throwing tinned tomatoes, onions and grapefruits into my carrier bags. The cashier was frowning at me. She was about to tell me off when, right on cue, he did it again. Loudly. "That WAS you Mum!". "IT WAS NOT ME". By now we had an audience. This was becoming a bit of a scene. This was not the attention that I was looking for. I had only come in to get my stew ingredients. The man stood motionless staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He was an expert. He probably does this all the time. I was angry. Angry at this man who was happily farting the time away without a hint of remorse and letting me take the blame. To make it worse, now the cashier and everyone standing in the packed till queues was listening to my daughter and smiling politely.

"That really stinks!" My daughter was hysterical now, wafting the air in front of her with one hand and dramatically holding her nose with the other. Around me, it smelt of blocked drains. This was all turning into a nightmare situation and all the while, Mr Farty remained stony faced, not an ounce of guilt showing on his face. I was now faced with the prospect of publicly taking the blame and apologising for something I did not do, or pointing at the real culprit and shaming him publicly. It was a lose/lose situation. Either way, I looked bad. I paid and ran out.

If you were there last week on Super Saturday, hand on heart, I promise that it wasn't me. It was him.

Letters to Santa

At this time of year millions of children across the world are busily writing letters to Santa. The four children in my home wrote theirs last week. The requests were for a pair of Spy Glasses (what?), some Monster High Rollerblades (where?), 'A Surprise' (HELP!) and finally, the latest Ipod Touch, 64GB with four inch retina display, I-Skin cover and BEATS headgear by an American rapper named Dr Dre (Dr who?). Our teenager requested the latter and I suspect that her letter is evidence that she may be doubting the existence of a Santa.  She's not stupid after all. She handed me her envelope pointing out that the elves must be very talented if they really can make the latest Ipod Touch 64GB as Apple is based in California which is miles away from the North Pole and that if the elves really do make them, that is it illegal and that they are essentially manufacturing fake goods. I may write my own letter to Santa and request a year's therapy, even better, ask for psychologist David Coleman himself in my stocking. 

This is a dangerous game that my teenager is playing. She has me in a corner. I am not ready for the Big Fat Santa Discussion but she is almost fifteen, she can legally leave home next year and at some point we do have to address the issue. Perhaps it is something that her school could deal with. They cover sex education, hygiene and drugs after all, surely they could add Santa to the list of life lessons? It would certainly save me the trauma. Just as I was about to pick up the phone and call the North Pole for advice, another less complicated daughter gave me a letter. "Can you post this please?"  She had written another letter to the President of the United States. 

"Dear Brack O'Bama, I have some questions for you. Are you proud to be the first black pestilent? You are so lucky to be the pestilent but if you could make something stop, what would it be? Also, what is your favourite colour? Please write back to me".  I slipped it into an envelope and promised to send it.  He has more time on his hands now that he has won a second term and there is a slim chance that he might reply if he can see past the spelling mistakes. Hopefully he'll understand that she meant to write PRESIDENT and did not really consider him to be the least bit poisonous. My youngest daughter is nine and was inspired by a friend of hers named Tom Murphy. 

At Tom's school a few months back, the children were encouraged by their teacher to write to a famous person. It could be a singer, a writer, an actor, a musician, a scientist, a sportsman or woman, religious leaders - they really could wrote to anyone in the world and ask them whatever they liked. The lads in One Direction proved a popular choice with the girls as did the football players in Manchester United with the boys but Tom decided to write to the Queen of England. He spent a good few days composing the letter and being an imaginative kind of boy, he soon had three questions for her Majesty. "Dear Queen. Do you have snow where you live? Do you have slaves? Do you have gold toilet seats? Love Tom Murphy, aged seven". The teacher collected the thirty or so letters and sent them off with a stamped addressed envelope . The class waited for months before the replies came. 

"Two letters arrived today children" the teacher announced some twelve weeks later. Out of thirty letters sent out as part of the class project, only two were sent replies back. One was addressed to Tom and the other to a little girl, Abbey. Tom opened his envelope first, it was stamped 'Buckingham Palace'. Upon the thick cream coloured paper, a type written letter. Tom stood up in front of the class and read it out. "Dear Tom. Her Majesty was delighted to receive your letter. As you can imagine she gets hundreds each day and cannot possibly reply to each one in person. Thank you for your interest, Lady Forsyth Brown. Lady In Waiting". The children clapped and gasped at the response even though is wasn't written by the Queen of England herself. Tom was too young to know or care that it was probably the same standard letter that every child receives from Lady Forsyth Brown on behalf of a very busy Queen Elizabeth. That was until little Abbey opened up her letter. 

Abbey had written to someone who may not have been a member of the royal family but is considered by many little girls to be a real life Princess of the pop world.  "Tell class who you wrote to Abbey" their teacher encouraged her. "I wrote to Cheryl Cole". Opening the letter carefully, she held it up for all to see. There were not many words written on it compared to the Queen's Lady in Waiting. But Abbey only asked one very simple question. She didn't care about the weather in Newcastle or Cheryl Cole's toilet. The words on the reply were large, bold and hand written. Cheryl Cole from Girl's Aloud had taken the time to answer personally, in her own hand. "Tell everyone what you asked Cheryl Cole", Abbey told her classmates, "I asked her, DEAR CHERYL. ARE YOU VERY RICH?" The children all listened in wonder. "And what does it say on the letter?" Asked teacher. "It says, Dear Abbey, YES I AM. Love Cheryl Cole"

I'll not stop my children writing letters to Santa, Barrack Obama or Dr Dre. In the age of the email and text, letter writing is a dying art form. As for the Big Fat Santa Question, they can go on believing until they are forty. Am I mad? YES I AM.

Weightwatchers and Me

"Move More, Eat Less"

(Weighwatchers and Me). 

Hooray! Two stone lighter thanks to Weightwatchers and back into the size ten clothes that I have not worn since 1997. Not only did I discover a new wardrobe, an the old 'me' but without that tyre around my middle, I felt a little lump in my abdomen.
if you click on the link below, you'll find a piece that I wrote recently for the Leinster Leader. Forget those size ten clothes, the best thing about losing weight was catching a potentially dangerous lump early.




Weightwatchers and Me

Muppet Cup Cakes!

Oh, and why I am on a roll about cakes that I will make one day, here are some Muppet Cup Cakes. These FABULOUS cakes will be made very very soon......

Lego Birthday Cake

Here's the best cake that I never made. Next year? 

Felix Baumgartner? I bet he wears a coat this winter

When Felix Baumgartner fell from space this week it was nothing more than a miracle. I watched the whole thing with my eight year old son. "He is SO lucky" he groaned adding, "his Mum LETS him do THAT!". "Felix Baumgartner is 43 and probably didn't ask his mother for permission", I explained. My lad nearly collapsed, he thought the daredevil was fifteen, not the same age as his dad. When Felix landed safely back on planet earth, I jumped into the air and screamed with joy. But it wasn't him that I was happy for; I was relieved for his mother. When for a while, he went spinning out of control, she held her head in her hands. As he hurtled head first through the sound barrier she looked terrified. When he landed, she burst into tears.

One can only imagine what kind of child Felix Baumgartner must have been. He was probably the child who spent his day at school jumping off the tables. He probably spent break time hanging out of trees. He was probably the one who stood on the saddle of his bike when going down a muddy bank. We all know little boys just like him. An eccentric relative of mine, Uncle Richard, wanted to know what it felt like to break his arm so as a child, pushed his bike up to the top of a hill and freewheeled down aiming for the barn at the bottom. He survived, not a bone broken. The bike didn't. His little experiment failed and,to this day he still has all of his bones intact. But that curiosity that he possessed as a child never left him and Uncle Richard went on to become a scientist. Inspired by Mrs Baumgartner, I decided that from today I would encourage my own offspring to go out into the world and explore, be more independent and creative. 

"Can we walk to school today?" came the request this morning, "Can we bring the dog?" I looked out of the window. It was raining. The walk to school is one mile. That's thirty minutes of walking in the rain with the family pet. The dog is a new addition to the house, a Chihuahua. Half an hour in that rain and she really could be mistaken for a drowned rat. I channelled Mrs Baumgartner's positive attitude. Rain would not harm them. The dog was scratching at the door, so eager was she to get the adventure started. They headed off. "You drive up to school in half an hour and collect the dog". Of course, the two girls are almost teenagers. The last thing they wanted today was the embarrassment of their mother walking in to school beside them wearing welly boots, a raincoat and carrying something stupidly sensible like an umbrella. OMG how uncool would that be? Dressing appropriately for the weather is for dull people apparently. They set off. The only one wearing a coat was the dog. I bit my tongue. I didn't call after them with a "Put on your coat" or "Mind the puddles". 

"Can I cycle to school?" my eight year old boy piped up. Now the pressure was really on. Cycling a mile in the rain? Alone? What if his brakes failed? What if he skidded off the footpath and landed in a hedge with a broken leg or two? I took a deep breath in, looked out at the grey skies and raindrops the size of apples and said the magic words "Yes, you can cycle in". Usually I would have followed this with a list of 'Be Carefuls'. This morning the list would have included, be careful of the sheep on the path, the dog poo on the path, people on the path. Then perhaps a 'don't run over the new dog'. Today I said nothing, just watched as he pedalled off up the road with his enormous school bag on his back like a turtle on wheels. 

Last to leave the house, my fourteen year old. Once upon a time I had four children under the age of seven. Now I have four children under the age of fifteen. It's complicated. It's a head wreck and with respect to the Alternative Therapy industry, it will take more than a few drops of Rescue Remedy on my tongue each morning to get me through the next ten years. It took my teenager some time to open her eyes. Nothing to do with tiredness but everything to do with the ten thick layers of Super Lash Mascara that she had applied. Getting ready for school each morning used to be easy. Sandwiches, school bag and we were out the door. Now it takes thirty minutes and that whole time is spent in hair and make up(she is currently 'channelling' Tulisa). We usually have a five minute fight about make up and school uniform policy. Today however, inspired by Mrs Baumgartner, I decided to say nothing. Instead, I followed her into the car, choking on a cloud of perfume that drifted behind her like the Guinness cloud and dropped her off at the school gate. She didn't speak for the entire journey and left the car with a grunt and a slam of the door. Perhaps by encouraging this silence and lashings of mascara she'll grow up to be a base jumper too. Base jumpers are not interested in conversation and she won't need a parachute. Her eyelashes will break her fall. 

Now that I have opened the door to a little more adventure, I am wondering what the next few months has in store for me. Will they be walking to school in the sleet and hail? Will my little boy be cycling to school through a snow drift? Will my teenager be moving on to fake eyelashes? Is this more liberal parenting path one that I really want to take? Do I really want them jump to earth from a space balloon? No, I'll save that for myself. It'll be my way of celebrating when one of them puts a coat on.