Debate Deadline before Dail Rises

Slick and Colourful

I could win a pub trivia quiz on Oireachtas members by now, especially the courageous rural representatives.

Enda and Michéal were sparring over the #anglotapes and blaming each other like the cost centres do when the TV doesn’t work because they’ve unplugged scarts, hdmls/whatever cables for playstation or xBox. There’s no den now with gentlemen lodgers in residence. I had quite a rant when I found a blank screen and couldn’t catch up with Vincent Browne and his hissy fits.

I arrived at Dail Question Time yesterday morning, invited by the Termination for Medical Reasons (TFMR) group. John Halligan, Waterford TD was requesting the Taoiseach to add an amendment to the Bill to include Fatal Foetal Abnormality.

The chamber hushed as he spoke. It’s a subject on which the members daren’t scream or throw abuse at each other. Deputy Halligan indicated the group of women in the gallery, as a latecomer I was seated amongst a group of strangers. He spoke of the crisis of conscience some members were having on the Bill and reiterated that 1,500 women endure the traumatic news that their baby won’t live, each year in Ireland. 80% of those women travel abroad rather than prolong the agony. They too have a crisis of conscience. Every day four devastated couples receive this terrible news.

He spoke of one woman who could not attend, her story was so traumatic I would not repeat it here.

I was very, very disappointed with the Taoiseach’s response. His tone had all the gravitas of someone who gave a damn, but it was nothing but clotted cream going sour. He spoke of a woman he knew who chose to carry the baby with fatal foetal abnormality to term, to hold it as it died, and the comfort that it gave her. She is lucky she had the choice to do that. Why didn’t he care enough to talk to a woman who had to make the other choice? And listen. If I hear the word compassion again from a naysayer… *breathe* 

Hmmm. Excuse the twitter creep into these latter posts, it’s a cross pollination, please bear with me, while I adjust from the 140 character space into the rambling blog arena.

Afterwards, at a press conference chaired by Richard Boyd Barrett over in Buswells, the speakers included Sarah and James from TFMR who have both experienced separate traumatic experiences, including having the ashes of their babies couriered home to them in an envelope *deep breathe*.

I noticed Fiach Mac Conghail sitting at the front and wondered what the director of the Abbey Theatre was doing there. When he spoke, I realised, of course he is a senator and, significantly, the Taoiseach’s nominee. He said he was there to bear witness and decried the ‘debasement of women’ through the present legislation.

Joe Higgins pointed out that the Ceann Chomhairle cannot block the proposal of an amendment at debate stage, so it will be raised.

Senator Averil Power quoted my case, D v Ireland 2006, and on the basis of the State’s defence, she anticipated the legislation will go to the Supreme Court.

Roisin Shortall was at pains to tell me that what the Attorney General says, goes. I thought it was just the pope who was infallible. I know that every point can be argued several ways, which is what happened in D v Ireland and Miss D v HSE argued by the same barrister, Gerard Hogan, now a judge.

I asked John Halligan what was the realistic chance of getting the amendment added, at least he and his cross party colleagues were unanimous in stating that they would not stop until it was legislated for.

Outside in the sunshine, I noticed some pretty young girls and a young man holding placards outside the Dáil, nothing strange about that these days. Except it is usually the aged and disenfranchised who do their best to seek attention on that stretch of footpath. They were tall, healthy, slim women with touches of natural make-up; two wore a striking Chanel rouge lipstick. A woman with her back turned was walking up and down the line as if she was a choir mistress, getting them to repeat their lines.

I thought, ‘this is the time to talk, to ask some questions,’ I crossed the road and approached the young woman with the placard ‘Doesn’t Save Lives’ on it and tried to ask her what it meant, as we know a woman died because she was denied a termination last October in Galway. I was whisked away by the choir mistress, ‘I’ll talk to you,’ she urged.

‘But I want to ask that girl what she thinks’, I protested.

There was absolutely no way I could be allowed talk to the fembots holding the actual placards. I use that term because they were being treated like that by their leader. I had a reasonable conversation with her until she said ‘research shows women who terminate in the case of FFA suffer more trauma’ in calm tones I responded,

(1)  There is no research in Ireland on that subject.

(2)  The trauma is because they are told to leave the hospital and the country

(3)  You don’t need the rest repeated.

This woman was well trained in obfuscation, interruption and deployment of questions; I’m not convinced the women holding the placards could speak English.

At the funeral this morning of a very special old lady who died suddenly on Sunday, I was taken aback to hear the priest preach on the same subject from the altar, seeking guidance for the legislators on this Bill. This was the final farewell opportunity of her family and friends, a time to contemplate her life and show respect, but the *church* saw fit to use the opportunity for a campaign manifesto.

R.I.P.

Up, Up and Away (with Anglo)

Praia de Garrao - could be Brittas Bay really

I sat in my garden recently; remember that week of endless #sunshine? A friend came to visit. That's worth mentioning as it’s so rare these days. Some people communicate on Facebook, Skype apparently, viber, text of course and email too. But actual visits are rare. It was a brief interlude between picking up her young son from a playdate and on to a barbecue. Oh how lonely I sound. Don't underestimate it, there's a lot of it about.

Next thing, friend whom we'll call Jade, because it’s nearly her name, asked 'why don't you come away with us in two weeks time?'

‘Gulp, away, away? Actually off the island, like?’

A third woman couldn't go, so there was room. It was just a matter of sorting the ticket. Groan #Ryanair.

And that's how I found myself in 'The Algarve' for the first time last Thursday. I think I’d been deterred for years by the whole Quinta golf holiday and newness and Foxrock-in-the-Sun brand. But it’s never too late to be disabused of prejudice, I say. Yes, I heard a lot of Irish accents, and we saw some strange Irish women, like retired nuns, lunching most days in easter bonnets, maybe they were nuns, The Little Sisters of the Rich?

Kate's 5 kilo seed loaf

The girls had a quiet apartment with a wondrous little garden, no shops or clubs, only a fabulous beach nearby. Intrepid baker Kate, aka scriptwriter, even baked a wholemeal seed loaf and brought it on the flight. The garden breakfasts were a revelation, as was the room sharing, all the things you think you need on a hotel holiday - you don't. The essentials are good coffee, good company, home-made bread and marmalade, #sunshine and bikinis.

It was all too good to be true, four nights of condensed female camaraderie. Away from divisive and contentious Oireachtas Bills, away from Landladyhouse, supermarkets, traffic, em, financial worries. Away from Boys!

As Jade tells it, I slept soundly on the first night while she kept vigil for mosquitos and whacked my pillow to kill an offender; then turned over, relieved we were safe. Next morning I had seven bites on my face, four on my eye with a purple golf ball nicely puffing up. There was a lurker.

Drat, if it isn't a ski fall, it's a vampire. That put an end to the eyelash extensions. On Day two it had got even worse and couldn't open the eye, I found a doctor who put me on steroids, super antibiotics and eventually got to the beach and lunch with a lovely Irish woman (I'm running out of alias's), Delilah.

The two game gals are called Kate and Jade because it felt like being in a gorgeous villa in Ibiza, with the whole Daft Punk soundtrack to our boho sojourn, I was just me.And I'd brought one of four books that I'm reviewing. You see, reading on holiday is not the same with the weight restriction. Kindle and Amazon are not the enemy, it's em, No Frills O'Leary.

Down at the ocean, there was a strong rip curl/undertow depending on what hemisphere you're in. But water-baby Kate did dolphin dives all day, more than enough to compensate for my cowardice. Standing at the frilly edge of the surf was sufficient cooling off for me. Lunch in one of the shabby or chic restaurants along the beach front met our recession budgets; we were convinced they were doing us a favour by charging for bread, as we’d lose pounds if we declined. The rosé managed to cancel out that plan.

Ahh, the purple sunsets

Between trying to figure out what mindfulness is all about, stumbling over writer's block, getting a really bad coffee  machine to work and morning forays for pain au chocolat, not to mention the patient endurance of snoring and mozzie attacks, it was one helluva peaceful break. I was blown away by the stunning villa architecture, there was the usual hacienda style and then there were the pristine, crisp lines of breathtaking form, pale limestone, gleaming glass and shimmering sun-drenched pools. Ah, yes, it was a nice walk to the beach.

The only thorn, surprise, surprise was #Ryanair and having to wear my winter wardrobe travelling to tropical sun, for its capacious pockets in the cargo pants and a jacket long enough to conceal the ipad on my back. There was no food on board on the return flight - just when you needed to buy a plastic sandwich for the first time.

So, with data roaming off and no newspapers, we were blissfully unaware of the abject arrogance of #AngloTapes until we got to the airport on Monday.

Hang your heads in shame guys. And then donate your pensions to homeless and suicide charities.

Seaweed Gods

That Herculean effort to get the ‘garden’ all pristine and chic for #Summer, as it will be the location of my summer holidays for the most part, had me right back in bed with this mysterious virus. Apparently ‘it’s doing the rounds’ as people helpfully say, well that’s good news as I’d hate to think I’ve picked up some new strain of Avian flu cleaning the bird sh*t off the deck.

At least I’ve only got the shivers and a cough. I get a text on Sunday morning with the news that an utterly wonderful, inspiring and special man has died of cancer. The text is from a lovely, brave woman I met through him who is in treatment for breast cancer. There are now four wonderful men in my phone that I will never see or speak to again. Men that were so full of life and learning that I looked forward to growing old with them, visiting them often when my children grew up and  now that the cost centres are grown up, those friends are not there.

I only met Gordon three years ago, but such was his infamy, I’d heard of him many years before and such was the reach of his influence that he had already touched many people I knew. I stayed at his beautiful house in  Dunmore East at the invitation of a mutual friend, he gave up his bedroom for us, we were the lucky ones, camping with an en-suite, many others who came to watch the Tall Ships pass, set up a mini Glastonbury camp in his orchard. It was a gloriously sunny weekend of communal cooking and garden partying. This was the man who founded The Academy of Everything is Possible.

 

Seaweed Haven

My favourite part was walking down the hill to his little cove and wading in for a swim, or maybe it was the tour of his organic vegetable garden, it’s all indelibly etched on my memory, I was mid-novel writing at the time and I soaked up the experience like a sponge, like learning how to incubate shii-take from his capo maestro, Jim. But it was a walk on the shore with Gordon that inspired one of my favourite episodes in my book, the tide was ebbing and it was impossible to get out far enough without coming a cropper on the banks of seaweed and barnacle covered rocks. I wanted to memorise the diverse species of seaweed, describe it in all its shapely slipperiness, glossy and snaky in the sunshine. Gordon began to demonstrate different qualities and properties of it that held me in thrall.

The episode is about three months after my heroine, Alice from New York arrives in rural Limerick and is taken on a trip to the seaside (Kilkee and Loop Head - I even knew that was special before it won the all Ireland prize!) by a local engineer, called Tom. It was the first piece I read aloud to two friends to gauge whether I could even write prose. One of them told me it was so luscious it was pornographic, and I assure you it is only about seaweed. Next time I was back in Dunmore East visiting Gordon, helping out as a conservation planning adviser, I organised a boat so I could photograph his land from the sea, it is the copper coast and a sublime piece of Ireland, though slightly marred by cheekily erected houses masquerading as ‘farm buildings’. Later on I told him my friend’s response to the seaweed episode, his face lit up, ‘I’m a porn star at last’ he laughed.

Here is an extract:

Tom reached and helped her stand, all around her feet, barnacles and star shaped limpets clung to the rocks. She had to grab his sleeve to avoid slipping on the slime. The salty sea spray awakened every pore. The fine grains got behind her eyes and jabbed her further awake. Waves crashed and spilled over rocks, the sea rolled back and forth, endlessly moving. Restlessly rolling back to America and down to North Africa, never still.

In the deeper pools, glossy swathes of copper coloured weed furled and unfurled like long flat tentacles searching for prey.

‘I’d hate to get caught up in that,’ she called to him.

‘Ah, but it’s good for you, the iodine does wonders for the blood and, look here,’ he stooped and pointed, 'this is brilliant for your skin,’ he plunged his fist and rummaged inside a watery shrub.

‘You need to go close to the water’s edge and feel underneath’ he called as he produced a handful of bright green bulbous weed, offering her a large blister.

‘Burst that open and gently squeeze the juice,’ he rubbed the clear liquid into his face, ‘this will get rid of the wrinkles,’ he mumbled into his hands.

Do I look that wrinkly? she thought.

‘Oh great, let’s take home bundles of it in that case,’ she laughed.

‘Can you feel your skin tightening now?’ he glanced towards her.

Her skin felt cool and soft. It was strange standing beside this man she hardly knew rubbing seaweed juice into her face.

‘If you’d some cream you'd put it on over the gel and lock it in.’

‘I’m very impressed with your knowledge of skin care.’

‘Oh there’s more to seaweed than that’ he paused, looking around.

‘Do you see that brilliant green stuff over there,’ he said, pointing to a vivid mossy carpet.

‘If you give it a good wash, leave it in the sun to dry, then zap it in your coffee grinder, store the dried flakes in a jar and use it in soup or salad, it’s full of iron.’ He was still rubbing the gel into his forehead and sighing said, ‘that’s great.’

‘Let’s do that then, I love collecting food in the wild, and I even have a coffee grinder.'

She wove her way towards the sea grass, in and around periwinkles and clams, crunching bulbous black weed under foot and knelt on the rocks where she could reach the watery shrub. She prised little slimy lumps until her palm was full.

‘You don’t need too much; two handfuls will make loads,’ he called over to her as he wandered away.

The haze was lifting and the sun began to beat down on Alice's back, a good time to have a swim, she thought.

‘Is it deep over there? I want to get it over with,’ she called to where he stood absorbed in something out at sea.

His lone steadfast figure silhouetted against the sky was like a statue hewn from rock.  

And so when the time came to bid farewell, on Wednesday at Mount Jerome, I gathered with all his friends from Waterford, Dublin, Wicklow and afar. I heard this familiar voice singing as I entered the chapel, but only saw a small young lad in a hoodie, shaven head and dark glasses beside what looked like an iPod. The voice was Sinead O’Connor’s haunting tones. His friend Johnny Rhys Myers recited a beautiful poem in his thundering Tudor voice. Then the little boy was escorted to the lectern and when left alone, began to sing, it was Sinead O’Connor. Should have gone to Specsavers…

Gordon Campbell R.I.P.