People over here, are amongst other things, house proud and price conscious. Honourable attributes, some would say. I witnessed a lady hoovering her garage; life is too short for such futile endeavours. In my humble opinion the bare minimum is all that’s needed and if the clothes don’t get taken in off the line for two weeks, I’ll get to them...eventually. There are far too many other things to do like jogging your muscle memory.
My leg muscles had a trip down memory lane recently on a jaunt to the local roller disco. Awful craic and both hips intact after the escapade. The last time I donned a pair of roller skates was over 25 years ago when my legs were much skinnier, my arse smaller, my eyeshadow bluer. Those of us of an age will remember it well...The Savoy on Eglinton Street! Drainpipe denims (bet into them ), leg warmers, batwing jumpers, stuffed bras, large belts, big plastic bangles, roller skates, disco tunes, Lilt, Space Invaders and pool, all the eighties boxes ticked. A great spot if you were meeting friends or ‘goin with’ anyone.
This time around I needed assistance closing the ‘quads’, erstwhile known as bootskates. ‘They used to have laces in my day’ I said to the young fella as I grappled with the straps. ‘Mum are you sure you want to do this, we’ll be all right on our own. You can just have a cup of coffee and watch!’ my two women afraid of their lives I would make a donkey of meself. ‘I’ll have you know I won the roller disco, twice’, they were proudly informed. My legs never forgot and I took to the floor like a duck to water. Had they belted out a bit of Boney M, ABBA, Big Country or Kajagoogoo I was there, back in time. The two eventually got the hang of it but later that evening getting up and down from the couch proved difficult, their little derrieres got a beaten. ‘Mum’s a dinger on the skates Dad,’ I have gained kudos in the cool mum category. We’re going back for more next week.
English may be the order of the day all round but with accents certain things are lost in translation. ‘If yer talkin in class you get towed off [told off]. Does the teacher not just give out to ya?’ the Youngest says. Their peers hear 33 as ‘turty tree’ no matter what way they contort their little tongues between their teeth.
One lad in the Small Man’s class thinks his English is really good considering we have only been in the country for over a month. Bless his cotton socks. My crew can’t understand why our salt is their solt and morning is moaning. The philology of English suggests influences from many different idioms. However, Irish people speak English with different syntax, at times. I was told by someone that our accent is more lyrical and kinder to the ear than theirs, although Brian Cowen didn’t sound too musical in his interview last week. Every now and then I miss the Irish accent and even though never fluent at Gaeilge the kids weren’t bad at the cúpla focal. I miss hearing that too but that’s easily sorted with a few Irish books. Perhaps it is the beginning of a strengthening of identity, it’s inevitable. Having said that, two hours of Christy and Luke Kelly in peak Friday afternoon traffic to Birmingham threatened to rattle my love of the ballad. I’m old school.
I don’t have a gadget for the iPhone in the car and they were the only passengers in the car door. It was either that or white noise on the radio. Still can’t tune it in right but I did find two new buttons on the dash after four years of owning the car. I’m such a mná.
Anne Joyce McCarthy is chief bottle-washer, wife of one, mother of three (eleven year old boy, eight-year-old twin girls ), student, newbie blogger and occasional jogger. Originally from Corrib Park, Galway, she moved last month from Galway to Oxfordshire with her family. www.macsonthemove1.blogspot.com
