To Do Lists

I have so many 'To Do' lists that never get done. I am sticking this one to the fridge door instead and will attempt every one this week. 

Technology and Teenagers

Dinner was almost ready last night and nobody came to the table. They were all glued to a gadget.  Despite yelling like a lunatic, not one member of the family heard me calling. They all sat cross-eyed, fixated on screens big and small.  When I was a teenager, I would be the first to the dinner table every night. It was because there was nothing to do at six in the evening but eat. We lived in a small village with little else but a hedge and a hill for company. My own children would rather look at pictures of a hill on Google Earth or create a virtual hedge on the Ipad than look at the real thing. 

 "Is Facebook really more important than eating? Is Angry Birds really more fun than HUNGER?" I ranted, forgetting that I was at a critical stage in the stirring of my risotto. The ranting and yelling distracted me and meant that the labour intensive risotto alla Milanese burnt. It was the final straw. There was only one thing for it. I went for a screwdriver and the internet box. Silently I attacked the plug. The internet went off. The effect was instantaneous. All five came running into the kitchen. They shot past their dinner, past me, past the ruined risotto and to the internet box where they landed on top of one other in a heap. Then the fighting. "WHY DID YOU SWITCH IT OFF?" they shouted, blaming each other. There was no chance of any of them turning it back on either. I had taken the fuse out.

The teenagers have bedrooms that look more like FBI headquarters than a place of study. I stepped into one last week. A book was open in front of her but beside it, the house phone, her own mobile phone, an ITouch, her fathers IPad and a PC. That's FIVE gadgets. "I need the house phone" was my simple request. "Well you can't have it." She was waiting for a friend to call who was on a train and bored. Suddenly, a buzz and vibrating noise as her mobile phone shimmied across the desk and on to the floor. She picked it up, read the message, laughed and tapped back a reply without even looking at the buttons once. This is an incredible skill (rather like brail when you think about it) and most teenagers today can do it. I can't text without reading glasses, always spell things wrong and I’m aware that in my children's eyes that classifies me as an old fogey. "Who are you texting?" I asked, "A friend." She was texting the friend who was on a train. 

 Next I went in to retrieve the Ipad. "DON'T TAKE IT!" she shouted like I was about to cut off her leg. "My friend's going to Facetime me". Let's reflect on this for a moment. This is not an emergency situation; the train has not derailed.  Neither has she accidentally got on a train to Peru. She is on a train from Dublin to Newbridge. This friend on the train was going to be alone for a maximum of forty-five minutes. She did use Facetime. Then she sent a text, they came through every five minutes or so.  She finally phoned the land line which I always answer. These teenage friends are always very polite and we could talk for hours if only my daughter didn't wrestle me to the ground and fight to get the phone from my hand when they do. I am never quite sure what I say wrong, but apparently every time I speak, it's cripplingly embarrassing. 

 This addiction to technology worries me. This need to communicate every waking minute of the day. What's wrong with a bit of old fashioned boredom? It's an important part of growing up. That hedge and hill kept me and my siblings occupied for years. Out of boredom came all sorts of creativity. In today's world, gadgets mean everyone is now contactable twenty-four hours a day. We are all 'on call'. Like my daughter who at that moment was supposed to be studying. The internet stayed off for the rest of the night. 

 The result? We sat around the dinner table, ate burnt risotto and talked. Just like the old days. We talked about why the internet wasn't working. About switching providers. About upgrading the software on the computer and Spotify. The teenager was the only quiet one. She looked like she was listening but I knew by her eyes and one hand in her pocket that she was tapping away at her phone. "Who are you texting?" I asked. "My friend". "Why?" "Telling her that I am eating my dinner." Riveting stuff. I turned round and saw her sister taking a photo of the burnt risotto. "Don't worry Mum. I'm not going to put this on Facebook or anything". She was too late. I had already uploaded it on to Twitter.  

Remember to put the glass down......

Saved by Slash

Kelly Hadfield-Hyde was fined £80 last month for causing a disturbance at Manchester airport. She was on her way to Malaga and going through security. The fifty year old woman had already removed her coat but when the security guard said “Off, off. All off” she took it literally. She removed most of her clothes leaving her topless. Having just returned from a trip to the UK, I understand her frustration.

Whilst away, I went on a guided tour of a Sussex cemetery, went to the flicks (Philomena – what a film) and caught up with family. I travelled light and took just with a small suitcase with me. Returning home to Ireland, inside there was a Yankee candle (a gift from my sister), a framed picture of the fictional serial killer Dexter Morgan (a gift from my nephew) and the usual mix of clothing in need of a wash.

“NO LIQUIDS, GELS, CREAMS” the security guard called down to us from the security conveyor belt. I took out my liquids and put them into the tray.  Ahead of me, a few people took off their shoes and outer clothes. I was wearing boots, a coat, a scarf, a belt, a chunky metal bangle, earrings and a watch. Not to mention the fact that I had three tops on me. It would take me ten minutes at least to get down to the bottom layer, I would need at least three plastic trays to put it all in AND I was wearing an under wired bra (that never fails to set the machine off).

An elderly woman in front of me lent over, about to take off her boots. The official on security called over to her kindly, “It’s all right love, you can leave them on”. She shuffled past him and the scanner wearing her ankle boots, a watch, glasses and a heavy jumper. The only thing on her tray was her handbag.

The security official looked at me sternly. “Take off your boots”. The left one came off easily and went into the tray. The right boot wasn’t so easy. The zip had got stuck in my winter socks. I looked at the security guard with pleading eyes but he was having none of it. “The boot has to come off”.

The pressure was mounting. The queue was a mile long and I was hopping around in circles on one leg, tugging at my heel. Then a voice from behind, “Need a hand?” A young rocker dude in leather, with a tall black hat and long black curly hair stood in front of me and with one tug, had the darn thing off. I thanked him for his help with a “Nice hat”. “I’m wearing it through security. It’s too big for my bag”. He was going to a fancy dress party in Dublin as Slash from Gun’s ‘n’ Roses.

I threw my boot in the tray and prepared to go through the scanning machine. “Earrings?” the guard reminded me. I took them off. “Scarf?” I took it off. “Coat?” I removed it calmly and put it in the tray. “Belt?” I removed the belt that was holding up my jeans.  Any minute now he’d say “Off, off. All off” and I’d be in the same boat as Kelly Hadfield-Hyde. 

I went through the machine and the alarm sounded. “Come here please,” a woman rubbed me all over with her hands, then a paddle that went off every few seconds. “Have you any coins in your pockets?” “No”. “Why did you keep this on?” She pointed at the bangle on my arm. It was the only thing that her colleague had not told me to take off.  “BEEP BEEP” the alarm went off around my middle. She looked at me with suspicion. “Mirena Coil?” I offered, convinced that the device was to blame. She gave up on me. “Ok. You can go”. I went over to collect my clothes and bags.

“Is this your suitcase?”  Another official. The X-ray machine had found something suspicious in my hand luggage. “Come with me”. I stood and watched as he stood over my bag. “Did you pack this?” I’m still not sure if it was a security question or disgust at the state of my packing. “Yes”.

He pulled out the framed picture of Dexter Morgan and eyed me with suspicion. “I am not a serial killer” I joked. He didn’t laugh. He pulled out the booklet that the Worthing Historical society cemetery tour guide had given me titled ‘Unusual Deaths’. “I am not a serial killer” I joked again. Then he pulled out the candle. He turned it in his hands and looked at me. “It’s a candle,” I said. “I swear on my life it’s a candle.” I even sounded guilty. My voice sounded different and for no reason, I had put on an American accent.

He looked at me sternly. I was beginning to doubt my own mind. Was it a candle or had my sister accidentally given me a jar of Semtex? Without taking his eyes of me, he put the candle back in the bag, laid my Dexter picture and leaflet on top and gave me back the bag. I walked away and looked over my shoulder. Behind me, Slash was getting a thorough examination too.

I looked ahead of me for the elderly woman. She was nowhere to be seen. She was probably sitting in the departure lounge sipping on a glass of sherry with half a pound of cannabis in her boot heels and a thousand cigarettes sewn into her jumper.

Something about my current state causes security guards concern. Next time I fly, I am going to get myself a grey wig, some knitting needles and a walking stick. I’ll hand out aniseed balls to the security guards and sail through departures with plenty of time to spare for a gin and tonic on the other side. Maybe as Granny Annie I’ll look less suspicious.

Sky Dive Galway

“Oh MY GOD ANNIE! CAN YOU BELIEVE WE’RE ABOUT TO THROW OURSELVES OUT OF A PLANE?” my excited friend, local florist Dave Clancy, shouted into my ear. I could not believe it, not one bit. Not even when we were climbing into a plane so small that it looked like a toy.  Last week, after three attempts, I finally found myself at Galway Airport, wearing an all in one jump suit, about to climb into a tiny plane.

Six of us were squashed into the plane as we made our out ascent. When we were almost level with the clouds, “Are we there yet?” I asked my expert Dean. I was straddling him and tightly strapped to his torso. We had only just met too. Three of us were doing the tandem Skydive that day and each of us had an expert strapped to our back. 

“No. This is 2,000 ft. We’re jumping at 10,000ft”. “How are you feeling Annie?” “TERRIFIED” I replied. “Good. That’s what we like.” This wasn’t the place for sarcasm and it didn’t end there. “It’s not the jump that you have to worry about. It’s the hard landing you’re going to get when the parachute doesn’t open”.  I gulped and looked out of the window certain that even prisoners on death row don’t get this kind of torture.

“OH ANNIE! LOOK DOWN! LOOK HOW HIGH WE ARE!” Dave  shouted from the back. “OH ANNIE! I’M GETTING NERVOUS NOW!”  Beside him, the third skydiver in our group, Dave’s handsome young Polish boyfriend Slawek was starting to look anxious too. “MY HANDS ARE GETTING SWEATY! LOOK!” It was all getting too tense.

I sat, looking out of the window, dreading the fall. Dave tapped me on the shoulder for the hundredth time in half an hour. “OH GOD ANNIE. ARE YOU SCARED NOW?” Scared? That was an understatement. I was doing it cold turkey too. No hip flask, no sedation, no Rescue Remedy. Nothing. Just me and the skydive from 10,000 ft. We were so far above the clouds that it may as well have been outer space.

Dave was whipping us into a frenzy, “OH ANNIEEE!” he screamed from the back of the plane, waving his hands in the air. Dean’s patience was wearing thin. “Oi! This is serious. You are about to jump out of a plane. Calm down”, "Oh you're a barrel of laughs" Dave responded. The alpha male parachutists were not exactly the most jovial bunch. But our lives were literally in their hands. Let’s face it; if Graham Norton was a skydive expert nobody would every want to leave the plane. It would be too much fun. Dave was now hysterical, Slawek was even sweatier and Dean was in a sulk. He shoved ear-plugs into each ear.

At that moment I made up my mind that I would not jump. There was no way. We were too high and it was too dangerous. To add to it all, my daughter was on the ground filming it all. If it all went wrong, she’d have the whole thing recorded and I’d be the main story on Sky News. With my mind made up, I looked out of the window and decided that when we reached 10,000 ft., I’d politely let the others jump out first and then ask Dean to instruct the pilot to take me back to the airport.

Slawek, Dave and I sat silenced by terror. There was no thrill seeking adrenaline rushing through my veins, just the sense that we were all about to die. We climbed another 8,000 feet in the toy plane, its engine sounding just a little louder than a hairdryer. I waited patiently for an announcement from the pilot telling us that we were at 10,000 ft. But of course that only happens on Ryanair and Aer Lingus. Planes where you actually take off - and land.

Without any warning, a freezing cold blast of air and the whole side of our plane disappeared. “AGGHH! I’M SCARED!” was the last thing that Slawek said before he was sucked out the plane.  I turned to tell Dean that I wasn’t going to jump. I didn’t get the chance. “Annie, put your head on my shoulder and look up?” ”Whaaaaaaaaaaat?” Just as I was about to tell him that I had no intention of jumping, with one almighty pelvic thrust, he had me out of the plane.

I don’t remember much about the fall. We were so high and travelling at 200 mph. All I remember was concentrating on breathing. I opened one eye briefly and looked around. It was like a Google Earth image. I clamped my eyes shut again. After thirty seconds Dean released the parachute. “Well? What did you think?” for him the thrilling bit was over. I looked down from 8000ft over Galway. “I’ll tell you in a weeks time” I replied.

The float down should have been easy but we were off course.

To get us back to the airport, Dean had to send the parachute into a series of turns. “We’ve got to pick up enough speed to get us back to base” he said, sending us whirling and spinning 5000ft up over Galway. It was like being on a ride at the funfair. “Keep your eye on the horizon and you won’t be sick” Dean told me.

“OH MY GOD! THAT WAS AMAZING” Dave landed after me, feet firmly on the ground but as high as a kite. “THAT WAS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE” Slawek, was buzzing. “DID YOU LOOK UP AND SEE THE PARACHUTE ON YOUR WAY DOWN? WASN’T IT BEAUTIFUL?” I didn’t because for the entire decent I was focusing on not puking over Galway.

A big thank you goes to everyone who supported our jump. We raised €3,000 for Animal Heaven Animal Rescue in Kerry. Dave and Slawek have caught the bug and are considering a career as Sky Dive instructors. As for me, I have crossed it off the Bucket List. If I’m asked to support a charity again, I’ll do a sponsored silence. Now that will be an impossible challenge.

Stuck in a queue? Here's what you do....

Having spent the morning in a long and boring queue I was inspired by this picture. This is how people queue in Thailand. No need for ticket machines, I am going to try this next time I am in the motor tax office in Naas. 

The Ultimate Chocolate Pudding

A Warm and Oozy Chocolate Pudding for Cold Winter Months

Baby, it's cold outside. I lit the fire last weekend and went through a load of old magazines. There I found this old favourite. Now it the perfect time to bake this seriously pleasing chocolate pudding. This oozy pudding is clever. Not only will it take just ten minutes to make, is it made from store cupboard ingredients and you don't need to make a chocolate sauce to go with it. Follow this recipe and you will have a truly divine pudding that is glossy sponge on top and silky sauce underneath. The genius here is in the boiling water that you pour on top.....weird but magic! Serve with crème fraîche or cream. Serves six. 

Ingredients:

85g melted butter 

125g plain flour

3 tsp baking powder

8 tbsp cocoa powder

120g caster sugar

250 mls whole milk

2 beaten eggs

1tsp vanilla essence

185g light brown sugar

250 mls boiling water

Preheat oven to 180 oc and grease a 2 pint (1.25 litre) pudding basin.

Method:

1. Sift flour, baking powder, CASTER sugar and 6 tablespoons of cocoa powder into a bowl. 

2. In a separate bowl, mix the cooled melted butter, milk, eggs and vanilla extract. 

3. Add the wet mixture to the dry and whisk thoroughly, (it will be runny).

4. Pour the batter into the greased pudding basin and place on a baking tray. 

5. Mix the BROWN sugar and remaining 2 tablespoons of cocoa powder together. Sprinkle this over the batter evenly. Very gently, pour 250mls boiling water over the pudding. 

6. Bake for 55 mins until risen and firm to touch.