There is a Neil Young/Crazy House song called Wonderin’ and it has a great line in it – “I’ve been working all day to keep my heart from sadness”. I have it written on a post-it over my desk in work. I keep it there to remind me every so often, in those moments when I’m looking around and pondering, that I should keep my nose to the grindstone to keep my head from getting flooded with other thoughts.

Today was one of those days. My brother Liam would have been 42 today…

I was at my cousin Joseph’s 21st birthday party on Saturday night. He is the youngest cousin out of thirty odd first cousins. My brother was the oldest. They share today as their birthday.

At the party on Saturday night there was a slide show with loads of photos of Joseph and heaps of family photos from when we were all growing up. Part of me was overjoyed to see Liam feature in the revolving slide show. But a part of me was sad too to think of the missed opportunites. The missed chances of laughing with him, of fighting with him, of celebrating birthdays.

It was a tough day today. I may have been working all day long but I dont think that there was much that would keep my heart from sadness today.

I’m feeling stressed by proxy.

Himself has been a bit stressed of late. Well, maybe a bit more than stressed.  And maybe a bit longer than just ‘of late’. His patience has been about as short as that of a wasp for about a month now…

I’ve been trying to play my currently alloted role in life of ‘the supportive girlfriend’. I listen and advise as best I can, I apply soothing words to the latest boo-boo, I do the cleaning and make the dinners without (much) complaint. But I fell pretty useless. I cant go into his office and tell the other kids to F-off. I’m not his mother and this is not a school playground. I just cant make a difference enough for him to fell not stressed. He emailed me a while back with a rant about the day, and all I wanted to do was hug him and hold his hand. I felt horrible that I couldnt take away all the frustration and crappiness.

So I just contine to apply as much empathy as I can muster and apply it liberally to his wounds. And do the washing and ironing so he doesnt have to worry about the trivial things. I suppose I get to work out my proxy stress by scrubbing the bathroom at least.

Did you ever hear a song and you were instantly transported to a different time and place, where emotions you thought were in the past come flooding back and a smile breaks out on you face or tears roll down you cheeks?

I was sitting at my desk yesterday when shuffle on the iPod gave me an old Eagles song I hadn’t heard in years. Take It To The Limit. Flashback to singing along to that song in my sisters old Starlet as we drove from Fishguard to Oxford when I was about 11. And then another flash to my first real concert, seeing the Eagles play the RDS on the Hell Freezes Over tour, and getting back to my uncle’s house to sleep on his floor and not being able to figure what that ringing noise in my ears was.  The memories made me smile at first, but then a teary moment, missing simplier times I suppose….

I get these moments all the time. Almost all songs that I know well come with memories attached. Some memories are simple, remembering a place or a face. Some can lift my mood instantly and some can take me the other way. A few years ago I was standing at the sink washing the ware on a dark winters evening. A song by Crowded House called Silent House came on. It was written by the Neil Finn about his mother who had passed away. I suppose I had never really listened to the lyrics before, but in quiet of the kitchen that night they struck me, memories of my grandmother and my brother, goosebumps prick up on my arms and the tear ducts kicked in.

You might think I’m a complete weeper altogether, but it’s not all sad. I hear Leaving On A Jet Plane and I remember being in Singapore, and Jason sending me an email with a link to the song on Youtube. His little way of saying that he was on his way and to hold tight.

I here Close To You by The Carpenters and I’m whisked back to a square somewhere in New Zealand on a drizzly night. I relive the memory of giving some money to a busker with a flute and asking for something we could dance to, and the flute starting up with the tune and I start singing along….’why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near…’.

That is why I love music so much. Music is not just notes and words. It’s memories.



I bought a raffle ticket from my sister a while back. It’s for a local event that’s held every June bank holiday at home, the Innishannon Steam and Vintage Rally. Usually when you buy a ticket for a raffle or something, it’s not really about the winning or the prizes, it’s more about the proceeds going to a deserving charity (the Irish Cancer Society in this case). It wasn’t until after I had bought the ticket that I noticed what the prises were.

2nd Prize     2 Alpacas or €1000

Now, I wouldn’t say no to €1000, but what the hell would I do with two alpacas? And why two? Would one not be enough? Would one get lonely? Presumably its a breeding pair or some such, but man, where would I put them? They would hardly fit on the patio, and I’m not sure the neighbours would approve.

My mother has been threatening for years to get two donkeys for the garden. Its a big garden. We could have alpaca woolly jumpers for Christmas. Although, based on the history of our last garden dwellers, pigs aptly named Rasher and Sausage, we may be more likely to have alpaca on the menu.

An alpaca is for life, not just for Christmas.

You know the way you are supposed to be able to read the future from tea leaves? Well, I’m a bit of the other way round, I can see tea in my future.

I’m having a slow week in work. Actually, it’s turning into a slow couple of weeks. My project is on hiatus, but I have work to keep me ticking along, 9 to 5, or 8.30 to 4.45 as it is in my world, but nothing really meaty to do. Nothing to get my teeth stuck into. Nothing to get passionate about…

We were supposed to have a part of my project starting works on site in February, but with the way things are going we’ll be lucky to have contractors on site by the middle of June. So the result is that I am bored. Bored, bored, bored.

I don’t really like to mention work here. Its not that they would mind that much I think, but its more of a case of if I mention it then I’m admitting that its part of me. As much as I don’t like to admit it, my work makes me fell like I have value and worth. Without work I’m only part of a person. I need it to get me up in the morning, to put food on the table and to give me something to complain about. It gives me a daily sense of achievement, a feeling like I’m doing something worthwhile with my life. I’m a very tiny cog in an enormous wheel, but my job makes me feel like I have an effect on the world.

Without a function, I am valueless.

Did you know that so far this year (up to today, Monday April 19th), thirteen people have been fatally injured at work. It’s not something that people generally like to think about, but the statistics are there for all to see on the Health & Safety Authority website. Of those 13 people who died, 6 were in the agriculture/hunting/forestry sector.

I was born into a farming family. Farming goes all the way back for generations on both sides. It’s been bred into us. My eldest brother Liam took over the family farm from my parents in 1990. In 2006 he died in an accident on the farm. He was 37. And we were devastated…

I’m an engineer, and I work in the construction sector. I am not out on site every day, but I have done stints on sites and in operational plants. From the first day I started work the importance of my own personal safety and the safety of the people around me was instilled in me. There is a real culture of safety where I work; there is a real concern that at the end of each work day everyone goes home with all their bits still attached.

I’m not sure the same can be said on most farms. My other brother had his thumb crushed when we were kids. I fell over a bailer twine while chasing cattle when I was 12 and chiped a bone in my toe. I’ve lost count of the stories of kicks from a cow, cuts and scrapes, and near misses.  Everyone who has lived or worked on a farm has them. There is no such thing as a culture of safety in farming, as much as the HSA and the Minister for Agriculture Brendan Smith might like one.

Its the big things like machinery that do the real damage. And the statistics bear this out. Between 200o and 2009, there were 80 farm deaths involvong macinery, tractors or vehicles. That’s 49%  of farm deaths from one source. My brother was one of these. Now he is a statistic.

It wasn’t until my brother died that I realised what a workplace accident can do, and what it means. Its means that a family is left without a brother, father, son, sister, mother, daughter, neighbour, friend. It means sorrow, loss, and utter heartbreak. It means tears and funerals and shaking hands with so many people that you end up with bruised knuckles. It means economic hard times and though questions which need even tougher answers. It means guilt and pain. It means so much more than bloody statistics.

Why are our farming and rural organisations not out there going around to schools, youth groups, farmers groups, womens groups, even masses, and spelling out the consequences of not taking safety seriously? I’ve sat through a safety induction for every site I’ve been on, but there is no safety induction when I go out on the farm at home, or before I sit up on a tractor. You need to do a test to prove you can drive a forklift, or a teleporter, or a loading shover, but every 16 year old I knew when I was 16 got their tractor licence the day the came of age with no test and no rules of the road to learn. Why is there no dedicated safety section on the Irish Farmers Association (IFA) website?

In work, after every reportable accident (a lost time injury of three working days, reportable to the HSA) the details of the accident are published for all within the company to see. The idea is that everyone can learn from accidents and near misses. Why cant the HSA or the IFA send every farmer the investigation report on each farm fatality this year and see how that affects the statistics next year? Grusome you might say, but Irish farmers need a wake up call.

In 2006 my youngest brother took over the farm. He continues to toil away there today. Its in the blood. I live in the hope that I can pass on the safety culture that is now in my blood to the generations after me so they dont become statistics too.

Last weekend I was very privaleged to attend the Irish Blog Awards in Galway. When I was invited along by himself, but didnt really know what to expect. As someone at the awards put it, I was off to meet ‘the people from the internet’. I’d heard alot of the names from himself, but had no idea what I was letting myself in for….

The weekend started with the train journey down to Galway on Friday evening. Low and behold, we bumped into a fellow blog-awarder on the platform, and the journey down was significantly shortened by philosphical discussions on the art of photography, splinter blogging groups and the judging of the awards.

Saturday brought a stroll around town, some lazy reading of papers in Eyre Square, and then it was almost time. I’m told the kick-off of the whole thing is the Ladies Tea Party. Any excuse for a tea/coffee/wine in the afternoon, and some lady-free time for the boys to have warm up pints.

The venue was the presidential suite at the g hotel. I was a little creeped out by the black reception and the dark moody corridors; I felt like I had entered some kind of bizarre Gothic slasher movie, not to mind the fact I was about to enter a den filled with women, most of whom I had never met before. Thankfully the opulence of the presidential suite soothed my worried soul, and I was welcomed into the bosom of the female blogging community.

Following lots of mini sandwiches with the crusts cut off, some coffee, and some tasty mouth-fulls of chocolate desserts, I hit the DIY nail bar (courtesy of L’Onglex nail polish remover) located in the main bathroom of the suite. I say main bathroom, for there were two.  After painting the nails and bonding with a few more ladies, it was off to the Radisson for the main event.

The showmanship of the event was perfectly stage manged, the host well versed, and the entertainment factor turned up to 11. My heart was warmed by the genuine thanks in the few words from each of the humble winners. I can see now why some many people travelled from all corners of the country to attend; this is the community event of the year. Its like the local town festival or parish bake sale of the blogosphere. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone is there jsut to share in the fun.It was great to meet so many really friendly people, to put faces to names and pseudonyms, and to feel part it all.

Highlights of the weekend have to be the warm welcome from all the ladies at the tea parties, chatting to Fran from Made in Hollywood about hot wire cutting of polystyrene, and peeling stars off my face before going to bed. Thanks J.

When himself said he had signed us up for a 1-day gardening course I was intrigued. We had just moved  house and I was still a little homesick for my old garden, ‘the garden of possibilities’. I call it that because if I had had the money, the time and the inspiration (not to mind the landlord’s permission) I would have loved to show that garden what it could become. But alas, all I could give it was a regular cut of the grass, a spray to the weeds, a few herbs in one corner, and a few spring bulbs in another.

So now instead I (or should that be ‘we’) have a ‘patio of possibilities’. If I was being posh I would call it a terrace. Its the roof of the floor below us, and our bit is a paved area out onto a bigger stoned communal area. Up this week, it had a succulent that my sister gave me (see photo on Gotta keep movin post) and a pot of compost that contains the potential of some summer colour from a packet of bulbs from the Euro2 shop. Oh, and how could I forget the Lidl chives that Jason bought but didn’t water very much. As I said, possibilities.

But then came Peter Donegan, now a gardening god in my eyes. My guru on all things growing. Between cups of strong coffee and warm oaty biscuits straight from the oven, Peter laid out the plan for the day and doled out his philosophy for life and gardening. A smidgen of compost here, a pinch of seed there, and a drop or two of water, and we were all giggling and gardening.

First up was sowing seed. What kind of container? Seed tray, old beer mug, Chinese takeaway containers, anything. What compost? Any multipurpose compost will do just fine, nothing fancy. Seeds? Whatever you fancy: parsley, mixed lettuce, radishes, sorrel, coriander, chives, more lettuce. Watering? A gentle touch and a soak in a bath of water. What could be easier?

Next up were seed potatoes. Ample drainage. Big pot of compost, compacted only by shoving in your fingers until under your fingernails were jammed with compost. One or two seed potatoes planted twice their thickness below the surface of the compost. And Bob’s you uncle.

Then onions. In a window box. Easy. Thyme and lavender, and some freshly dug and divided chives from Peter’s own garden went into the next window box. Again, some drainage and some fun mixed in. Finally it was the turn of the bay laurel. And out come the secateurs! A quick prune above a leaf node to encourage outward growth, and a re-pot to allow room to develop. And the best bit of all, we got to take all our work home with us.

Thanks a million to Peter for a great day. There is nothing like a day in the fresh air, a few laughs with friends, dirt under your fingernails and the felling that you have achieved something. My enthusiasm has been rekindled and I am inspired.

It was one of those morning afters that you know are coming, but you just dont want to ackowledge in advance, because you know if you do, then it might not be such a good night in the first place. I had a great St Patricks Day this year. Great view for the parade, great people around me, and great atmosphere. And I managed to have such a fantastic day with only one alcoholic beverage passing my lips. Not so for alot of people in Dublin. Its not the drink passing their lips that was the problem, its was the time it passed by those self same lips on the way back up that irks me…

Since himself and myself have moved into the heart of the city, I’ve noticed the odd spalsh pool of suspicious liquid on the pavements. But the morning after St Patricks Day was a whole new experience. From the moment I stepped outside the front door, every turn of the corner brought new horrors. I had to side step 9 assorted puke puddles on my way to the office. Admittedly its a 20 min walk, which traverses the city centre, including a close shave with Temple Bar, but this was a new record for me. I just dont understand it. What is it that makes it socially acceptable to drink to such a point that you vomit in the street?

At this point I have to confess that I, in my youth, have had 2 public cases of throwing up. No 1 was behind a bus shelter at 10am in the morning. I had been drinking the night before, but there was also the remnants of a tummy bug involved. No 2 was at a hen party in the corner of a pub. My first (and last) shot of tequila was involved, and I cleaned it up myself rather than suffer the embarrassment of having to tell the bar staff. I would venture to guess that not everyone’s record is so short.

On my way to work this morning, Dublin City Council were out with the power hose giving the place a good rinse. Dame Lane was looking particularily clean; good job lads. I think I might have cried if I had to look at those stains on the foot paths for a second day, after they had dried in and collect dust dirt and cigerrette butts to add to the bile. It would turn your stomach, honestly. Food for thought.

Yesterday, for the second time in as many years, a close male colleague of mine confined in me that his wife was pregnant. Last time the guy’s wife had only just confirmed she was pregnant the day before. This time, a different guy and his wife had just had their first scan at 9 weeks. Dear God lads, do ye not realise that you’re not really supposed to tell anyone until after 12 weeks! But somehow it’s okay to tell me?

Why?  Because I’m just another worker monkey? Or is it because you think I’ll understand your excitement somehow? Or is it because if ye told anyone that knows your wife, and she found out that you had told anyone before 3 months, that she would risk leaving her child fatherless and just kill you?

It’s wonderful news when you hear about a new life being brought into the world (don’t get me started on when life actually begins, I don’t do such arguments), but you need to keep it to yourself for a little while. God forbid anything happens in the next few weeks, and you have to tell me, your colleague who you see every day and talk to 5 times an hour, that she had lost the baby or there has been some problem. Maybe I’m just superstitious, but I don’t want to be a secret keeper for others, it’s enough that I’m my own secret keeper most days.

Do like like yerman who knew that the king had donkey ears; tell it to a tree!