De-Tox in the Dail - they need it

It was the last night of the juice detox. The 25 year old sporty teacher in my class was morbidly inquisitive about bowel movement, nudging me nightly for detail. I lied. Anyway, I was going to have real food next day, my neighbor and I had arranged a scrambled egg breakfast to bolster our rehab.

My next challenge was to meet a couple after college in a restaurant, so that’s 8.30pm and my resolve was no problem, I ordered hot water and lemon and chatted, perhaps tapping my feet a bit manically as their food arrived. My phone was going a bit ballistic, I checked it. Lots of missed calls and an urgent text to call a senator. Oh holy f**k, I bumbled, slight oversight, a long planned dinner in Leinster House had been forgotten, you see it really does affect your concentration. I was wearing jeans (just to prove I could get back into them), a tee shirt and Uggs. I think I'd slept in the tee shirt, I have six wardrobes of cocktail dresses, and two of shoes, for once I’d have had an excuse to get dressed up this year.

My girlfriend was wearing a very fetching dress and offered to do a swap in the loo, the Uggs wouldn't have gone with it and her dainty feet didn't match mine. Hell, it was only Leinster House, I muttered bravely.  But I was already an hour late, that's bad no matter where you're going for dinner.

I zoomed up to the gates and asked the garda if I could come in, there were loads of spaces, I love when guards aren't checking your tax or breath. I got profuse apologies instead, they would let me in but those indoors wouldn't have it. Legging it back from several streets distant, the usher was very decent about me keeping him waiting and escorted me through.

My host was beyond understanding, he’d been late too, but I doubt if I'll be asked again, he and the other guest had already tucked into wine, no way could I heap bad manners on to the already bad mix up, and tell them about the detox. I couldn't even remember why I was there, to discuss senate reform or something, activism of some sort, but why waste time on that when there was gossip to be exchanged.  So I had the delicious seafood platter, it would have been rude not to have just the one glass of wine. Flip anyway, I nearly did the full 72 hours.

With the exception of my very healthy host, the Dail diners looked like they could do with a good de-tox. James O'Reilly came over to our table, all curious, and then Richard Bruton, and nice, charming rural TDs, wondering why the eminent senator had such a ruffian at his table. Well Chatham House rules about the gossip, but whatever you suspected about a certain high office, it is true. Only Worse.

Pest Control

There just had to be a drama between the time the Dail *rose* and the Supreme Court *sits* otherwise what else would I have to write about? The #royalbabyboy ‘GAL’ is so over. Collapse of trial for corruption in rezoning is so soul destroying and worst of all the Revenue trousering several hundred in property tax out of my bank account is sending me into a melancholic spiral, so much so, I’m doing two weeks Bean an Ti duty with an Italian student to cover it. I can’t remember the last time I served dinner seven nights in a row, never mind FOURTEEN.

Before the Rat Attack

When Cost Centre #2 sauntered in from his internship last night starving (they send him home in a taxi, but he doesn’t get time to eat all day, bless) he threw a withering look at the war zone that is now the garden.

‘Did you catch him?’

‘Not, yet.’

‘Everybody knows rats are the most evolved species, they’re smarter than humans, they outlived dinosaurs,' he proclaims.

At that moment the creature appears and struts around the garden sniffing for food, starting to climb up a table. It’s jaw-droppingly arrogant, to think I’ve been sitting out there for the last few weeks, thinking it was a leaf falling every time I heard a swoosh sound, it was the bastard scuttering down the wall.

‘He’s outsmarted you,’ CC#2 guffaws, ‘Rat 1 Mom Nil.’

Thanks David Attenborough.

He looks up the internet, most hits are for peanut butter, all the experts say that’s the thing they can’t resist. Cost Centre #1 is out, but at least he has set the traps with bacon so now it only fairly befalls the other one to improve the strategy. Fairness is something my sons have no concept of. Nor do I think they ever will have. Perhaps some wife along the way will beat it into them.

I donate my rubber gloves to the operation and we sacrifice a knife that will have to be thrown out. Attenborough ventures out with the bowl of peanut butter and complains bitterly about the placing of the traps. Everything anybody else does in landladyhouse is *shit* according to him. Indeed there was a book published a few years ago, just for boys like him I'm sure, called ‘Is Everything Shit, or is it just me?’ Sorry, I digress, this is painful to write.

The War Zone

Attenborough says he refuses to deal with any deck-kill as he expertly smears the peanut butter over the raw bacon.

McGyver (CC#1) returns and checks his traps, commenting Attenborough is a wimp and anyway he saw the rat first and did all the work, you get the picture.

We turn out the lights and wait for action. A Random Cat arrives to balance nature, this is when I’d normally bang the window to get rid of unwelcome feline. Oh, for my sheepdog now (she’s on her annual slimming holiday in Glandore with my neighbours).

Attenborough and I stand on seats inside and crane out the window, as if it's going to run up our legs. He points out the cats ears curving and turning as its sonar stealthily detects the position of the rat beneath the deck. The rat's sonar being more advanced it must be deflecting or disguising itself. Note I am trying to convince myself it’s in the singular, contrary to hardware man who says ‘if you see one, there’s more’.

The varmint seems to have outwitted the cat as well, the floor show ends without incident and Attenborough decamps to Playstation.

‘I told you they were smarter than humans, only them and sharks have outlived dinosaurs, you don't expect to win do you?’

It's always his parting shot.

So, this morning I survey the battlefield after the deluge, the apocalyptic thunder and lightning of last night. The rain set off one trap, the magpies and pigeons have been cheekily nipping at the others. No casualties yet. Would that they were just drowned in a sewer somewhere far away. In the meantime I’m trapped indoors.

And this should be a lovely morning when I’m sending two chapters of my novel to a charming-sounding agent. Only, guess what, the printer ink ran out on last two pages. It’s not the end of the world obviously, but I can’t print the cover letter either. This has never happened in the entire time I’ve worked at writing voluminous reports. Never did I run out of ink before. Well, Copy Graphics in Clonskeagh to the rescue.

Maybe it's a sign.

I'm fed up with signs. This life is full of them and we all know Ireland is the worst small country in the world in which to follow road signs (as opposed to the TBSCITWIWTDB*).

I'm not good on garage maps, too awkward to hold while driving, but I’m great on googlemaps. There should be a Destiny App, a Fate App, you could just go to their list of FAQs as every effing service *provider* suggests you do when there's a lack of er, service, and not just get the favourite options but the preferred answer based on your Facebook/Linkedin Family Album/horoscope menstrual cycle data.

Now there's a thought, anyone know a neighbourhood nerd I could call?

At least Pest control arrive tomorrow, they'll be taking the kids away first.

Speaking of whom, they both fell over when I told them the Italian student was 44, can't wait till I hear them try and pronounce her name, Tiziana. Tee hee.

*You'll just have to Google it, clue: Enda

The Dail Dawn Chorus

Could've been in the back garden with a good book

I drove back to Dublin from the midlands on Wednesday thinking I’d never been as hot at mid-day in Italy. Having *filed my copy* to the Indo (so love saying that) I made my way into the Dail for what was to be the night of #lapgate and the #Daildawnchorus. 

When I arrived in Kildare Street the sitting was adjourned for two hours and, damn, I had nobody to meet, it was way too sunny to go inside so I found myself engrossed in watching the protesters from a safe distance. It wasn’t very comfortable to be honest, seeing these two factions being kept in line by the Gardai, shouting Father Ted slogans at each other. This is supposed to be about dignity for women, not a side show. A crowd gathered around my side of the street, the army was mobilising from the well-funded, expensively t-shirted campaign group. It was time to retreat to the dark depths of Buswells and have a *healthy* salad and chips. What on earth was I doing in the city centre on a sunny Wednesday evening alone in Buswells? There is a back garden and a good book as an option, Mad Ted. I realised I was in deep; and deeply committed to changing something if I can. Changing a man-made law that would ease the trauma on women and men of a double tragedy.

The vote on the Protection of Life during Pregnancy Bill was supposed to be decided by 10pm, it was extended until 2am and while I sat in the gallery, I heard a furore from the benches and a bluster from Gerry Adams. The doors opened, all and sundry piled in, most interesting was the press gallery, the narrow overhang filled to the brim, 21 journo’s jammed in a row. The doyenne, Miriam Lord, took her seat, delightful Lise Hand beside her. The silver glint of David McCullagh’s hair flashed in the harsh light. David Davin Power nestled between the smart glossy locked girls from the other papers.

The majority decided to extend the vote until 5am. There was a quick exodus, I checked my Dublin Bus App and went home. I assumed they were all having late committee meetings elsewhere, perhaps a nap on a trolley in the corridor, provided by Minister Reilly. They could hardly be drinking in the bar with such a serious issue going on? Drinking at work?

Back home, with the magic of Twitter I discovered the live link to the chamber, much to my amazement I actually watched until 5am. I looked outside, shocked, I haven’t been up ‘til that hour without revellers in my house trying to find the stash of duty free sambuca or whatever remained from the old days, me hoping they wouldn’t wake the sleeping children, who by now were revelling somewhere themselves. Plus ca change.

Well, at least I’d enough to write about for the Irish Times next day and, surprisingly, a radio interview with the lovely Matt Cooper. On Friday evening, I sat in FM104 with an ice bucket of cool beers and baskets of tortilla chips in view, times have changed since I worked in a *real office*. As I waited to go into studio I stuck my tongue in my broken tooth, chipped during the Dail Chorus by a diversionary caramel, for once, I wished I was in a dentist’s waiting room. It’s awful having to recall a very unhappy time, again and again. 

In between Druids and Dail Debates, I'm interviewing new tenants for landladyhouse. Stalwart gentleman lodger #1 is still with me, just trying to find someone to match him.

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.