Isn't the weather great?

A bit of sunshine and all of female Ireland goes absolutely manic, like an anthill that got an unexpected kicking.

Lawnmowers are being beaten, screeching into life and bellowing to each other across back walls. There are multi-coloured looters in the garden centres. There are runs on Ladyshaves and strange wear on Hisself's good electric razor. Aul wans and young wans are digging through the wardrobes to find last year's skimpy teeshirts and slathering the Bisto onto milk white thighs. Old hounds that haven't stirred from contented kennels since last autumn are being hauled up roads and across parks by the neck. Sleepy aul lads and dopey young lads are gawking through bus windows at the strange Meccano set structures now visible through the clinging clothes of marching hoards of winter crazed stubbly womenfolk. The heat is savage. The air electric.

I'm staying out of it. Sure you'd be trampled!

Snug as a bug II

Attic insulation is possible medicine for our disease of upper house coldness. So, when the mighty B&Q (all bow) announced a 50% off sale, Herself and I trundled up to them this morning with plans for laying itch-free high-tech, half-price lagging in the attic.

Too late.

A mound of rolls of insulation that met us in an aisle -- the very type we were willing to spend money on -- turned out to be already on wheels. Some baldy conscience speaking on a mobile phone was heading off with it towards the checkout, bemoaning to whoever was on the line that the good stuff was gone and the other stuff too dear.

At least he had stuff.

We looked at the blank space once occupied by the rolls of recycled plastic bottles.

"Jumpers and coats again, then?"

"Oh, yes."

"You sound just like Churchill the bulldog in the TV advertisement."

"Feck off."

So we did.

Snug as a bug

It's unseasonably cold this evening. I don't mean Antarctic winter cold, or even American High in the Rockies cold. Just cold for us on our Gulf-Stream warmed little green island. The temperature is a balmy 0 C, or 32 F, for our other visitors. The car roofs are dusted in pale waves of frost and I'm sure the potted geraniums in the back garden may be done for by morning. If they survive, I may move them into a tumbledown shed that's had a reprieve and has a sunny window.

Billy Connolly has some funny stories of growing up in Glasgow and the efforts to look more affluent when the parish priest came around, spoiled by the brother shouting from the bedroom:

"Mammy! Billy has his leg down the arm of the duvet!"

Herself and I both survived frosty nights in unheated bedrooms as children with blankets of adult coats on us for protection. I remember my father's large tweedy coat, the smell of tobacco from it, it's rough outer texture and smooth inner lining. We also had some furs, remnants of the family's few years in Canada, and these tartan-lined bearskins had long, soft brown hairs to keep the cold out of the unlucky bear. The furs are long gone, of course. But I found a small bear-fur hat from my mother's 1950s collection. It's sitting on a shelf by the door of my cluttered study. I'll give it a pat for old-time's sake on the way to sliding in under the many togged modern duvet in our centrally heated 21st Century house.

Times move on. On Monday, our visiting 3 year old grandson stopped in his tracks in front of the living room fire.

"What's that?" he asked, staring at the naked flames.

Good night.

The 9th of July....

...and I've just seen a truck going by the window delivering bags of coal.

Wasn't there supposed to be a summer here around now???

Under the weather

"I don't remember a Summer being this gloomy," Herself says. She is speaking about the weather, which showed definite promise in April when we got sunburn and optimism, but which, ever since, it seems, has dissolved into incessent rain and grey, grey cloud.

I was surveying at work yesterday and ducked under a tree that was laden down with winged seeds. Where the hell has autumn come from? We haven't had a summer yet!

None can compare with the cliffs of.... Tallaght?

Tallaght Town Centre and two large gulls appear to have made a home recently on top of one of the pitched rooftops. I can see one of them from my office window, on the north face of the clock tower of County Hall, one sitting in the niche of a louvred ventilator. When its mate appears, the two greet each other with many "Shree! Shree! Shree!" calls that remind one of being at the seaside.

Someone speculates that perhaps the sitter is one of this year's young, still being fed by a dutiful parent.

I don't know enough about them to judge, but it looks to me like they're considering nesting on the rooftop. It is sheltered from the prevailing wind. It overlooks a courtyard that isn't accessible to the public. There are several fast-food restaurants in the area from which an enterprising gull might, conceivably, glean enough discarded food to raise a chick.

The nesting theory gained a little ground yesterday when the sitting gull maintained its position even during the worst of a number of thunderstorms that swept the area.

We are quite a way from the sea, though, and I wonder if nesting is a viable option. I shall bring my binoculars tomorrow. If nothing else, it should worry my colleagues in the opposite side of the building as I peer out the window and focus in one something unseen over their heads.

[Pic by User:Dschwen at Wikipedia Commons. Republished under terms of GNU Free Documentation Licence]

Does a brownie point outweigh a "You're-Dead" point?

"There is something," I say to myself, as I hear the first hailstones start to pound off the windows, "That I should have done a few minutes back. Now what was it?"

I peer through the slats of the vertical blinds at the darkened back garden. A tabby cat, stung by the first hail, rushes out from under the hedge and after a false start finds in a panic the cat flap in the shed and jumps inside.

I grin.

Then I see the washing hanging on the line.

"Okay. I'm dead."

Then I realise that it is mostly made up of a wash that *I* put into the machine yesterday evening. Yes, I actually turned a dial and pushed a button. Must have earned at least one brownie point for that, eh?

Nope. I'm only fooling myself. I'm still dead.

Good year for hover flies

Don't know if it's because of the warmer weather, or because I haven't cut back hedging too early this year, or perhaps a combination of both, but we have been observing many more hover flies in the garden on the sunny days than we've noticed before.

Today, as I sat out enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, I saw one of them, looking like a bee, hovering over a patch of warm concrete near the shed where we lodge the cats at night. Hover flies are harmless insects who bluff predators by looking like a more aggressive insect like a wasp, or a bee, in the case of my new-found pal.

After a few passes in my direction, he (I'm fairly sure it was a male, as these are the ones which defend territories and try to attract females) got used to my moving about with the camera and would rest from time to time on a sunlit leaf. For my part I practised getting used to the macro focus on the camera. It had trouble locating a particular spider on a web that I tried to photograph unsuccessfully.

Took the above pic among about 70 or so others today. You can view a larger version of this pic and also one of a red-eyed fly I saw today on the Flickr item to the right of the screen.

Pass me back the gazebo, missus

Ding dong!

My father and I are discussing the plan for meeting my second cousin from Canada when my neighbour pokes the doorbell this Saturday morning.

"Hello," I say.

"Hello. Your canopy is...." She motions with a finger in a spiral, up-in-the-air kind of shape. "It's gone over."

"Has it?" I say. And idiotically go to the back window to confirm its absense from the back garden. There is definitely a gazebo shaped hole in the scenery.

The neighbour heads out in her car and my father and I trudge next door where the gazebo is in a comical, four-legs-in-the-air kind of position.

"Good job I tied it down, eh?"

"You did?"

"Well, with one rope anyway."

We dismantle and toss tubular bits back over the wall. The one rope and next door's washing line saved it from becoming a Wizard of Oz event. Only just.

Note to self: Tie the buggering thing down PROPERLY next time.

I have a picture in my head of my father and I sitting under the gazebo drinking tea when it takes off. Would have enjoyed that.

Related Post: B&Q Gazebo instructions

Pass me the Gazebo, missus

A little bit of sunshine has ensued and it hasn't rained much to speak of on the east coast for the past week or so. The Home section of Dunnes Stores is playing a blinder selling garden furniture, barbeques and gazebos. I could see burly husbands marching boxes of them out to parked cars in The Square yesterday. The wives were following up with shopping trolleys laden with bedding plants.

Our B&Q gazebo was unpacked from winter hibernation this morning. My father, who had called to show me his shiny new seven-year-old car, watched as I poked lightweight metal tubes together and made the magic of the summertime appear amidst bags of recycling drinks tins and plastic bottles which is our back garden.

The black cat put in an astonished appearance only briefly. Although he is becoming less wary of visitors if they are in the back garden (more room for him to escape if they should turn on him) he is still unhappy to see old men. The old man next door has had reason enough to chase our cats out of his shed in the past which I think is the source of Black Cat's phobia.

A note left on the counter this morning reads:

"If you have time, could you clean the litter trays?"

My work is cut out for me. At least I shall have a gazabo to relax in later today. I also have a new gas-fired barbeque, so if you hear sirens and see flashing blue lights this afternoon, you'll know what's happened.

No work til Monday.

Related Post: B&Q Gazebo instructions

Ozone layer gone

"It's global warming now, boys!"
"But what about the ozone layer and its great big hole?"
"Old news."
"CFCs?"
"Yesterday."
"Aerosols?"
"Spray 'em to heck! We've a new scare."
"Bandwagon?"
"Definitely."
"What about the water rising?"
"Ever hear of Noah?"
"I see his ark every night on a beer ad."
"Says it all then really, doesn't it?"
"Fear?"
"Yep."
"Shame?"
"Yep."
"Best two subjects for advertisements?"
"Only next to the 'Stupid Man' ads."
"Rock on."

Frost

Pearls

Winter Morning

Thump and Groan

Noises from outdoors this afternoon:

Thump!

"Groan!"

Thump-thump!

"Groan!"

The sounds of people walking into trees in the fog.

It's creeping down from the mountain like a timid, grey tide. You look around and it's on the far side of the field. Look away for a moment and it has crept a few more yards closer. I'd swear it's trying to look innocent each time I peer back, as if it isn't shuffling nearer as soon as my head is turned.

The weather forecast says there will be no breeze to shift it until later tomorrow afternoon, or so. It's a thick 'un. So I'm not going out in it unless I have a white stick and a halogen lamp with a very long lead. Perhaps a red light for the back of my head to avoid Thump and Groan from rear-enders.

Days like this I'm glad I don't drive.

If I could only combine George Best with pants peeing I'd be on a winner

It's the gloomiest of glum days here today. I fetched myself out into the drizzle to go pick up some items I'd reserved online in the local Argos store, missed the bus by a long spit, and stood like a clam at the bus stop for 45 fruitless minutes before giving up and going home again to dry off.

About 3.00pm, it was as dark as full night, so I turned on all the Christmas lights and room lamps as well as the electric, flame-effect fire, to try and cheer up the general ambience of lonliness, with some measure of success.

Now I've just had the doorbell rung by the local pre-teen oiks, whose original invention of ringing or knocking at doors and running away is giving them no end of fun. Hope the newspaper they bring home from the shop for upstanding citizen Dad is properly soaked.

My other visitors today -- the ones to this Blog -- are making for interesting statistics. The majority are responding to the "George Best €5 Notes, only €10" post from way back when. It seems to be in the top 3 Google results for those seeking a footballer souvenir. I am intrigued to find the "Peed my pants. Again" post is attracting a steady stream (pun intended) of occasional visitors. It appears I have inadvertantly hit on a fetish subject. Fair play to ye, lads (and presumably lassies). I'm just glad I don't have your cleaning bills.

Ah! The doorbell again. They must be on the way back from the shop. What fun!

Peed my pants. Again.

To add to my recent catalogue of minor mishaps, I was walking into The Square shopping centre in Tallaght this evening when I stood on a loose paving slab. It didn't tip me over, but it had a void underneath filled with rainwater and whatever way it sank into the space beneath on my footfall, it made the perfect substitute for someone throwing a bucketful of water at me. The right leg of my (naturally, they would be) pale coloured trousers got the full brunt. So I now had one dry, light-coloured trouserleg, and one obviously dark and wet trouserleg. Grinning and bearing it, I fixed my glance steelily ahead and marched into the Square. The people coming towards me didn't betray any emotion, so perhaps looking like someone who'd peed his pants is now de rigeur, I simply missed the announcement. So I then looked down and there's a huge flapping bootlace draggling along from beneath the hem of my dry leg. As I bent over to tie it, I would not have been in the least bit surprised if my evening concluded with a huge big kick in the arse from a total stranger.

The wet leg dried in the half hour waiting in the wind for the bus.

Picture courtesy http://www.clown-ministry.com

Penguins

Yes we finally turned into a whole flock standing last night at the bus stop in The Square with the wind howling down from Tallaght onto us. We just kind of shuffled forlornly sticking a beak out from time to time into the gale to see if *anything* was happening at the place where the double-deckers pull in to park. A woman waddled up to me and squaked:

"Are you waiting on the 311 to Rathcoole?"

"No," I croaked back. "A 49 or a 75 will do me."

"I think I see people over there who might live in Rathcoole. One was due at 17.05 and it's now 17.20," she said, shuffling off and flapping her arms slightly. I heard her say:

"Are you waiting for the 311?"

Another woman's voice said:

"I'm not sure if I am or not."

It was that kind of night. Fifty of us on an ice-flow showing no signs of melting. Everybody wearing thinsulating hats and scarves and trousers stuck to us with wind and rain coming over the mountain. A lady with a bottle of blonde hair on her head cradled a crafty cigarette behind the end of the bus-shelter, but it sent off little sparks in the night every time she pulled on it.

At last a 75 pulled in and we waddled up the steps asking for tickets through gritted teeth.

At Belgard Square West -- ten minutes later (it lies 100 yards away from the bus-stop but traffic was heavy) -- a man and woman got on, her pulling a small, two-wheeled grocery trolley behind her. They stumbled up the stairs together as the bus lurched forward and sat down somewhere behind me. I couldn't see them as my neck was frozen and wouldn't turn.

"Hello!" he shouted suddenly down a mobile phone. "I was given your number about trying to find accomodation for the night."

A few titters erupted from the youngsters near the front of the bus.

"My partner and I had gone to bed. We were going to watch Crime Scene Investigators upstairs because the reception is no good downstairs. Anyway, she was asleep and after a while I smelled smoke. I opened the bedroom door and the whole house was on fire. I got out in the clothes I was wearing. She was in pyjamas. I'm badly burned.

"We had the fire inspector out. They think it might have been electrical, but the heat had destroyed everything so they're not sure. They think it might have started in the kitchen.

"We were in the Council all morning and they've stamped our forms and everything. No, it doesn't matter..."

Aside, to her: "She says we might be separated, but it doesn't matter, does it?"

She said: "No."

He went on: "We got on a 75 bus just to get out of the cold. I'm on a mobile, so I'm not too sure of the cost. Oh! It's a Freephone number. Well, I'm not too sure how long the battery will last."

To her: "Give me a pen."

She said: "Do I look like I have a pen?"

He goes on: "Yes, I know it. 17-18 **** Street. Yes, we can go there. We should be there before 8.00pm. No, there's no drink involved or anything. I'm a bit unshaven, like, because I was burned..."

A few more arrangements were made, and he repeated the address until he knew it by heart. At the end of the call he said to his partner:

"Right. We need to get off this bus."

They hobbled downstairs, having a small argument about who was going to get the trolley out of the luggage compartment. Then they went off into the night, looking to catch a bus for town.

I suppose there are worse things than waiting 40 minutes for a bus to bring you home to your comfortable life.

And the livin' is easy

I've finally made it to my annual leave, which starts tomorrow for two weeks. No more... well, no more doing so many undesirable things that I just don't want to recall any of them to mind, really.

I've been in holiday mode for about a week in my mind, so the transition won't be as abrupt as, say two years ago, when Herself and I sat looking at each other for about one week of our two weeks holiday wondering what you do on leave. Nor like last year, when, improving as we were, the crossover from work mode to holiday took three of four days. This year I'm ready to rock.

Don't know what's wrong with the head, though. Depression being a fine companion these past decades, one usually is aware of what's bringing one's mood down. At worst, it tends to affect in a way I can cope with by using a step-by-step solution. Some days that can be as bad as "Okay. You've reached the bathroom. Now turn on the tap. You've washed the face. Now apply the shaving foam...." and so on. This time, I have the same feeling one gets with writers block. A kind of frustration. An inability to do anything constructive.

I suspect it is the unrelenting good weather, which we Irish are unaccustomed to dealing with! Balmy nights of broken sleep due to heat and poor air circulation have continued for several weeks now. This past week, things have cooled down and some semblance of normality is returning to sleep patterns.

I note too that Herself and I were both like the people in those old Golden Pages television adverts, where disaster was averted at the last minute by the services available in the phone book, and whose sighed hugely with relief when the problem was averted. High pressure work being removed (even with my mental preparedness this year) has resulted in the two of us doing passable impersonations of rag dolls these past couple of days. Tomorrow, when Monday rolls around and neither of us walk into a busy office, will hopefully see us getting into true holiday mode. I'll keep you posted.

Surf's up

This image sums up the events of my homecoming today, when, dragging my tongue behind me in the stifling heat, I threw my briefcase to the floor, hurled the office shirt off, and reached for the freezer to get an ice-cream treat.

In two seconds I was swimming for my life.

Who was cooking yesterday and rummaged in the freezer? Who put one of the drawers back in improperly? Who didn't notice the door wasn't closed properly?

Who do you think...?

Pic from Ocearia Information Network.