People in Glass Houses shouldn't Blow Loans

Dead in the water

Dublinlandlady, since becoming an accidental activist, made her first foray into Dublin demi-beau-monde on Friday. What with a gathering at CHQ to exhibit our three pieces from the 2012 Venice Biennale and Sotheby’s Irish art preview, two birds were flown with one kite. 

Brevity prevails and I won’t attempt to review, as you’ll find a plethora of words somewhere online. Though, I was particularly struck by Grafton Architects, silver lion winner, with contextualised images of Sceilig Michael and models expressing the development of their design for the University of Lima.  I know those 598 steps intimately; I had to descend each one by the seat of my pants.

Friday was my first time crossing the wondrous, sinuous harp bridge in a taxi (Samuel Beckett doesn’t really describe it), allowing me the pleasure of 360 degree observation. A strange, intense sunburst pierced the surface of the Liffey and animated the relentless rectilinear quayside corporate edifices, injecting an energy they normally lack in our predominantly grey climate.

There are glaring mistakes in the planning, or lack of, along that riverside, not least its complete inertia. Along the entire length of these quays there is nothing going on at ground level except a security man in a lobby. Though the DDDA Board travelled far and wide to look at best practice examples, in St Petersburg, New York at a very minimum, they only needed to go as far as Lisbon to observe a hugely successful marriage of working docklands, restaurants, office and residential, where even John Malkevich owns a restaurant. When design giant, Terence Conran came to look at CHQ to open a restaurant, he went back to the UK uninspired by the area and, no doubt, the rent.

What DDDA produced for Dublin is testimony to a cosy, unchecked, uncreative, coterie, a cabal of stagnant, sterile thinking, predicated on quick returns and self-promotion, culminating in the mind-blowing bid for the Irish Glass Bottle site. You would think somebody put an actual gun to the syndicate heads to arrive at the figure they spent on a plot of land that could never in any economic pipedream, yield a return in residential, retail and office sales, in a country with a population of 4 million, where the only growth is in Laois, made up of immigrants.

What is even more breathtaking is that DDDA board members have ended up as advisers to NAMA and An Bord Pleanala and one obvious one is awaiting trial on his banks wrong doings.

Ironically, it is the much pilloried Johnny Ronan who persevered with planning objections for his convention centre that has produced the most arresting architecture on the quays; architect Kevin Roche's tilted can breaks the vertical repetition and plays with monumental form.

My interest is in the former Stack A, now CHQ, well known as a tobacco warehouse and venue for the banquet to honour soldiers returned from the Crimean War, and latterly, well known as a very expensive white elephant and now up for a Jumbo sale.

There’s a chance to do something wonderful there, jettison (and recycle) the expensive but boring mall fit-out so lazily designed to accommodate high street retail in a place where nobody shops; and create a real, living market place for Ireland’s talented and inventive food and craft artisans, a sustainable showcase for international buyers and a living, breathing hub for city dwellers.

Back over the river, Sotheby’s has a brace of wonderful Orpens and O’Conors on view and no doubt, they’ll have a successful Irish sale. There is always money about, even in a recession, just badly distributed. Parting with the family heirlooms was traditionally about diluting assets to pay for a leaking roof or death taxes. But as the Irish art market got more fuelled on tribunal and developer money, killings were made in the Tiger era and those prices won’t be seen again. The upside is that great works of art come into the public demesne, providing more appreciation, research, scholarship and publications.

I was grateful to the many elderly people who approached me on Friday evening and spoke with incredible sympathy about the D v Ireland case. Art, architecture and attitude, we must remain hopeful.

Midland Drumlins and Doldrums

I found love...

Took a break from Landlady house over the weekend and headed midland to rolling drumlin country. I hadn’t seen my friend Major Morris for quite a while; last time was when he’d flown his 2-seater to a country wedding in France and told me he’d give me flying lessons. Can’t wait.  But this weekend I just needed some time to write that pesky submission to the Oireachtas review committee on the Protection of Life During Pregnancy Bill. Not something I do every day, you understand.

Major Morris has never knowingly been in the army, but he does have a real tank in his woodland, the deer rub themselves on it. I’ve named him after one of his cars. I sat in it and found the key in the ignition, what a joy to play with that gearstick and clutch, like learning to drive all over again. I want it, I just want it so much, the sky blue leather interior, the little grab handles, the perfect chrome mirrors. I might have to move in for a few weeks and get a go in all his motors, there’s tractors, quads, range rovers, obviously, as it’s a working farm, not suburban Dublin where the ‘Ailesbury Tractor’ is de rigeur. In fact, the boot of the range rover converts quite handily into a bar banquette, as Racquel and I found when Major brought us to his local on the sunny bank holiday Monday and we sat dangling our legs from the boot, protected from the wind, basking in the setting sun, with a vodka and tonic, nary a slice of lemon or lime to be had, and one cube of ice if we were lucky.

The local pub is like a stage set, only better as it’s real. There’s the display stand of Jacobs biscuits, with packets of stuff not seen for twenty years. Yellowing packets of cornflakes, tins of mushy peas. In essence, essentials, especially creamy Guinness as Major attested.

He’d put the lamb of leg (Racquel's contribution to our vocab) in the Aga that afternoon, and went foraging with her in the walled garden, while I chewed my pen. All we had to do was return to the cosy kitchen and tuck in. Four V and T’s later we thought we’d better get back to check the animal. Alpha Romeo was on his way down from Dublin and timed his visit as the cornucopia was set on the table with everything from the garden, except the wine was from Lidl.

Major Morris is another petrol head, like Baron Von Richterscale and Ironman II and indeed my Alpha Romeo, they all fly planes, drive fast and push life’s edges, whether that’s foolhardy or using the gift of life to the max is their business. I’m more of a wimp, with a wonky knee, from my last speedy excursion, that’s put a halt to my gallop for the next three months. Literally, I’ve got three horse-riding Groupon deals and they’ll be out of date soon.

It was the first meeting of Major Morris and Alpha Romeo, once they got onto motor racing, they were away, leaving Racquel and me to play DJ. 

Quite a contrast to the night before, when Major and I were alone reviewing how life had changed immeasurably in the last five years and the paralysis that comes with the stagnating financial regime imposed on this country’s citizens. The paralysis is one thing, but there’s another dark, hidden side, one we all know about, but when it stares you in the face, the bewildering facts of suicide are very different to hearing it on the radio. Two of MM’s very close friends, one man, one young woman, have taken their own lives recently. We will never know why they decided they couldn’t take any more. Could not take ANY more of this life. If our society is getting more broken, and it is, because the number of suicides is massively increasing, not coincidentally with the mountain of financial misery that abounds, how is it going to be repaired? Because nobody seems to know how to fix it. And reports of banks assisting mortgage borrowers are not quite as altruistic as they sound, sure, interest-only is great for a few years, but the principle piles up, and a whacking great bill awaits you, while, of course, there are expensive charges for the favour. But enough.

Lady in Waiting

By Tuesday I had my submission beaten into submission and went to have a look at the two mares in foal, they don’t have to worry about the Health in Pregnancy Bill, though all the men on the farm were worried about them. There are the three wwoof-ers (guys from France, Spain and Vietnam getting farming experience through the World Wide Opportunities in Organic Farms) who were going to take it in turns to get up during the night to keep an eye on the leading lady. And there was Major Morris’s friend, Peter Porsche who wandered into the kitchen on Tuesday morning to find Racquel dressed for work.

He’d only wandered in for tea and toast, a break from the crop spraying or something like that. And there she was at the Aga sipping her cappuccino, in full special green kit, hair and make-up in splendid condition, the navy heel highs and security tag dangling, as if she’d dropped from the sky. As he picked his jaw up from the floor, she said, ‘Yes, I am the Major’s new cabin crew.’

I hope MM gets a laugh, he deserves it.

May the Fourth be With You

(Sorry, just couldn't resist it)

Cost Center # 1 and # 2

It's one thing having the nom de plume, Dublinlandlady, and taking the naive step of writing about domestic idiosyncrasies and our recession-busting solutions, quite another to have an alter ego who wrote of a sad and emotive event and then sued the State. That alter ego, Deirdre de Barra has ditched her anonymity and Deirdre Conroy's first tentative steps into the light have been gratifyingly received with great support and warm praise. I can't thank those enough who have written to me, like pouring oil on my writing engine.

It feels like two parts coming together after a long time and is a surprising relief. I have resisted telling my private story and it is very strange to see my name and photo in print but I've just got old enough not to care about the personal and angry enough at the hysterical debates, none of which will restore the life of Savita Hallapanaver.

So, now, entering the labyrinthine Engine of State to grapple with the Heads of Bill, I am wondering where this road will turn next. To a decent, compassionate place, one hopes.

Dublinlandlady does Radio

It's been a long road to here

Gentleman lodger #2, whom we call Tristan Davenport, has been a reader of this blog prior to his arrival. He tells me he sometimes checks it to see who he is, but yesterday he asked what had happened to dublinlandlady, what with hospital visits, newspaper interviews and radio talks, she no longer looked, never mind sounded, like the mother of two who'd gone all boarding housekeeper in January. Give me time, I say, I'll be back.

I was nervous at the thought of a live interview, what if I stuttered or couldn't remember a word? Which happens quite frequently at home when I can't remember the name of the dishwasher or microwave,  'put it in the w-w-w white thing or turn off the b-b-brown thing'  I stammer, you would think the cost centres would have me worked out by now.

Worse again, the researcher said there would be photographers, and I still look like a car crash, bandaged nose and black eyes. I hoped the surgeon would remove the dressing yesterday, he looked at me in horror when I told him I was doing a radio interview, 'can't you do it on the phone?' he gasped, apparently I'm supposed to have been in bed the last five days recuperating.

Luckily a friend got the brilliant idea of coming into Radio Centre with me, I'd completely overlooked what it might feel like, pouring out a rather painful and tragic event on the air and its consequences. So the girl I've known for nearly thirty years, with whom I've shared a house and gone on grown up holidays without our kids, came and held my hand. Her name is Friend in Time.

CC # 2 has been rising early seeing as his finals are imminent and we have breakfast together these days, or rather he piles lashings of food into him and checks his phone incessantly while I ask him seeming irrelevant things. Like what do you think about this interview, you being a philosophy student, like?
'I think it should be up to women to do whatever they want, I told you that already, mom.'
End of.

I drove the short distance to Montrose, what a lovely place to work, all Miesian long low glass and steel, classic Scott Tallon Walker, and hasn't dated. I distract myself analysing the architecture and admiring the cherry blossom. I'd made notes on things I needed to remember, Friend in Time reminded me I  just had to tell my story, that was the only thing people wanted to hear, and to speak to the person at home or wherever they were listening to their radio. That had a spontaneous lachrymose effect, when I think of the personal, I feel the weight of injustice come crashing towards me and the waste of effort to save other Irish women from the same fate. I now feared having a similar tearful episode on air and in front His Patness.

Interestingly and very helpfully, no notes are allowed in studio. We were both taken down to the sound room in which three women worked at complicated looking monitors and we watched until Pat Kenny was ready to call me in. Whoosh, it went in a blink. I now know why he is such a successful broadcaster, very kind, very good. I was even able to tackle the 'Mick' question without notice.

There was a lady from the Irish Independent in the foyer, I was by then in a bit of a blur, I checked with FiT and we agreed it would be ok to extend the interview. There were an awful lot of women in RTE, busy women doing great work, a side of the radio I hadn't appreciated. It's just the ads I don't like, and the news. And, no, I'm not going to say I think I'll apply for a job in there too.

The woman from the Independent has three children, I believe she well understood why I am doing this.

And now, I am relieved.

Broken Dolls

Landlady house and the nation must be weary of the debate, the one that suggests Irish women can't be trusted, are going to lie en masse and pretend they are suicidal.

Doll Birthday courtesy of Victoria Grayson

I bore eleven years of silence and secrecy, haunted by the intolerance of the State and its imposition on a physician’s right to treat their patient with compassion. Having heard the evidence given at the Savita inquest, I could no longer keep quiet and spoke out in my own name about my experience of foetal incompatibility with life, and taking a case against the State at the European Court of Human Rights. 

Believe it or not, there are organisations outside this jurisdiction, even over the border, that actually care for women in bereavement of a wanted pregnancy, called ARC (Antenatal Results and Choices). They deal with the shock, grief, anxiety, isolation and confusion arising from the news that your baby is not going to live outside the womb and offer you a choice. Here in the great Republic of Ireland you are simply told to go home and carry on.

Thankfully I've had nothing but support since my public interview and praise for bravery where in fact I feel I could have done more had I not been in fear of vilification and retribution and had two healthy sons to rear.

Amidst all this, Racquel arrived with a fragrant nosegay, a heady scent of fresh crocus, which was a wonderful sight except she fell about the driveway way laughing as I greeted her, one strapped leg, one strapped thumb, a bandaged nose and black eyes.

'You're like a broken doll,' she laughed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Eleven years ago, it was through the support of friends that I was able to endure some very sad moments, not least the law designating that I should leave the country. It’s wonderful now that I have friends with whom I can laugh and who care deeply, as I do, for other women in this country.

The interview has given me the opportunity to discuss the matter with my two cost centres, who were at the core of my concern at the time, the born as opposed to the baby not going to be born at all.

Now, as young men in their early twenties, they have a bit of a black and white view of things, philosopher child quotes statistics on miscarriages and neo natal deaths - 'every child isn't supposed to live' he says, ‘that's not what it's about, of course nature takes its course,' I tell him, 'it's the wilful ending of a healthy foetal life that's in contention..... that is the statistic that has to be reduced,’ I say.

Which means quite simply, outside rape and incest, young adults should have contraception foisted on them, thrown at them, stuffed in their schoolbags, whether they like it or not, why aren't we making it freely available? It's way cheaper and the accidental alternative. As well as pictures of damaged lungs on cigarette packets, why not a campaign of screaming babies, dirty nappies, sleepless nights? Something has to be done to bring down the annual 4,000 plus figure of women who travel to the UK for an abortion.

He says, 'accidents happen, mum.’ 

‘I know they do, son, but I've never had a car accident (with someone else, ok scrapes with pillars don't count) because I make damn sure that I don't want to end up in a collision, being self-employed without sick leave, I couldn't survive without a car, stuck in hospital, insurance hike, costs I can't afford, and I drive a fast car. OK, it’s not a great analogy, but something has to be done to bring down that figure.

So tomorrow morning I will do my first radio interview in studio and hope I can add the minority cases of incompatibility with life as a matter to be comprehended in the legislation. Though something tells me there will be a technicality that can't be got around. Just to ensure that mothers are turned away, sent abroad in distress, in grief for a wanted child and sent back with a coffin in their hand luggage or the ashes forwarded in the post.

Only a broken society would do that to their mothers.