November 6, 2018

“Ahahaha, here comes hopalong.”

“With her hopalong dog.”

“Howerya hopalong!”

I don’t remember exactly what age I was, early teens anyway. I loved taking our dog out walking, except when I encountered the charming bunch of local lads who found my limp a great source of hilarity. The fact that the dog walked on three legs, having been hit by a car a few years earlier, only amplified the joke. My mother advised me to ignore them, said they would get bored and stop, but if anything the opposite happened. They were emboldened by my lack of reaction.

As a teenage girl, I wanted attention from boys, to be thought of as cool and attractive. This wasn’t really panning out the way I’d hoped.

One day the ringleader began doing an exaggerated version of my gait as they approached me. I stopped in front of them, explained coldly that I had had several operations on my legs and, oddly enough, didn’t find their banter amusing. Surprisingly, they were silenced by this and shuffled off looking slightly shamefaced. To my great astonishment, the next time we met one of them delivered a little speech about how sorry they all were, how they ‘didn’t realise’ (didn’t realise what?) and that they hadn’t meant to hurt my feelings. I nodded imperiously and limped on by.

Hip dysplasia (malformed hip socket at birth) runs in my family. It affected my mother, me, two of my sisters and my daughter. If detected at birth it can be corrected successfully and permanently without the need for surgery. If not, it can cause lifelong problems. Routine screening seemingly wasn’t a thing in 1965, so I had surgical interventions as a toddler and again at age nine. Hence the slight limp. It really was only slight back then and most people didn’t even notice it. But some people did, and I hated it.



Trying to stand in a hip spica cast



Eight weeks in bed – boring!

I joined the Civil Defence rescue service in my later teens. Don’t ask me why. This involved learning how to tie people to stretchers and lower them out of windows, a lot of sitting around with fake injuries in mock-disaster scenarios waiting to be ‘rescued’, going on training weekends where I mainly learned how to drink Guinness, and marching. Square bashing was considered a vital part of the skill set. And therein lay a problem. As a big competition approached, my team became the subject of ever closer scrutiny by the trainers. Hushed conversations were had as we marched up and down. There was much pointing and writing of notes. I knew why. Eventually the gurus of marching announced publicly that I was being dropped because I was affecting the ‘uniform look’ of the team. Humiliation. I didn’t stay in the Civil Defence for long after that. I gravitated towards activities where I looked the same as everyone else. You don’t limp in the water, on a horse or on a bike.

But really, having a slight limp is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, particularly as I was pain free up until my mid twenties. It was just a source of self consciousness, but everyone is self conscious about something. I disliked walking in front of a large group of people, or even having someone walk behind me. Once when walking along a corridor at work in London I happened to turn around, and caught a senior colleague impersonating my walk for the amusement of others further down the corridor. I couldn’t believe this was happening in a professional environment, but I shouldn’t have been too surprised. The guy was also the office racist, so at least he was an equal opportunities bully. ‘

I’m afraid I was not very receptive to well meaning people trying to help. Once when I was catching a train at Euston, a staff member asked if I needed help to board as he could see I had a disability. A disability?? I was fuming, and replied in my best Lady Bracknell voice that I most certainly did not require any assistance thank you VERY much. Many years after that, as the pain increased and mobility decreased, my poor husband bought me a present of a foldable walking stick. Let’s just say this well intentioned present was not graciously received. Six months later, I was using it.

The body you inhabit feels normal to you. So even as arthritis gradually wore away my hip joints and the pain and stiffness worsened over the years, I remained largely unaware of how bad my walking had become. Then I watched the official school video of my son’s communion. A cameraman was outside the church to film the families arriving. I inwardly cringed when we watched the footage and I realised how badly I was listing to the left.

I had that left hip replaced in 2011 and almost instantly felt straighter and taller. For a few years afterwards my walk was wonderfully less bockety than it had been in years. Then gradually, as the other hip worsened, I began listing to the right instead. Never mind.

Someone on Twitter asked recently, what’s the question you least like to get asked? For a long time mine was any version of ‘what happened to your leg?’ usually asked by someone who already knew me but had only just spotted the limp and thought I had had a mishap. I hated that they had noticed. But as you get older, you care less about what people think. A lot less.

Last month I had the second hip replaced, so I can look forward to a more symmetrical gait for a while. One or other of the prostheses will begin to wear out or loosen eventually. But by that time I reckon I won’t care at all about the aesthetics of my walk, just its function. I’ll be happy as long as a good surgeon can get me mobile again: “The bionic woman – they can rebuild her”.

The limp is just part of who I am. But to be able to walk on the beach, wade into the sea for a swim and climb on my bike for a spin? That’s happiness.

In Praise of Strictly

October 15, 2014

In an avalanche of spray tan, sequins, and glitter (and that’s just the men), Strictly Come Dancing has returned to Saturday nights. Another bunch of minor celebs are led from the training rooms into the ballroom, planking it.

strictlyFrom now until Christmas they will Paso, Cha Cha, Charleston and Waltz their way through the competition. Some will have no sense of rhythm and the suppleness of the Tin Man, others with a stage school or similar background will shine from the beginning. But they’re not the interesting ones. No, the ones I love to watch are those who, through the course of the show, overcome their nerves, inhibitions or general lack of fitness to become genuinely great dance performers.

People like the shy and reserved cricketer Mark Ramprakash, who midway through the 2006 series suddenly discovered his inner sex god and performed a showstopping Salsa, going on to win the series. Or Pamela Stephenson, who in 2010 at the age of 61 made it all the way to the final through hard work, determination and a winning personality.

The technical skill, athleticism and artistry of the professional dancers is great to watch, as are their amazingly fit bodies. They choreograph the dances as well, and these can be comedic, dramatic, romantic or even genuinely moving at times. The glamour is off the scale. The considerable resources and attention to detail of the BBC costume and make-up departments are deployed to ensure that everyone, regardless of their size, age or shape, looks incredible.

The judges and presenters seem to love what they’re doing. Old school ballroom stickler Len Goodman, elegant former prima ballerina Darcy Bussell, pantomime villain Craig Revel Horwood and Bruno “I’ll flirt with anyone” Tonioli are all motivated by wanting the contestants to be the best dancers they can be. The newest full time addition to the show, replacing the superannuated Brucie, is the effortlessly hilarious Claudia Winkleman, who is clearly having a ball (see what I did there?)

Yes, it’s the campest, cheesiest show on TV, but what shines through is a genuine love of dance. A far cry from the cynical, gladiatorial tone of its Saturday night rival the X-Factor, which excels at nothing except reducing music to its lowest common denominator.

The YouTube clip below is of Frankie Bridge from the Saturdays performing a Paso Doble to ‘America’ from West Side Story with her pro partner Kevin. Best dance of this series so far. If you’re not a fan of the show, just watch this and tell me it’s not entertaining.

All Change

August 15, 2014

“Oh for fuck’s sake, why can’t they design kitchen equipment that does what it’s supposed to do? This is FUCKING RIDICULOUS!”

Other family members looked on nervously as I flung things round the kitchen. The trigger event for this Gordon Ramsay style kitchen meltdown? While draining pasta, a few strands of spaghetti had slipped through the colander into the sink. I know, terrible isn’t it? I blame my hormones for the extreme reaction.

Until about two years ago I had only a vague notion of what the menopause entailed. I knew about the night sweats and hot flushes, but that was about it. Menopause is deemed to have happened when you have gone 12 months without a period. What I now know is that when you reach this milestone, all the drama is over. Perimenopause is where it’s really at. Perimenopause is the term for the fun-filled years leading up to the menopause, and it lasts on average for four or five years.  It’s been quite an adventure so far…….

It all started innocently enough with irregular but otherwise normal periods. This is grand, I thought to myself. Then last summer, the famous hot flushes and night sweats kicked in, but that stage didn’t last very long. Still grand. Though given the unpredictable nature of perimenopause, I suppose they might be back (great!). In the last 8 months or so I’ve experienced a range of other, more annoying symptoms.

Menopause brain

This my term for the brain fog, lack of concentration and mental confusion which can mark perimenopause and which at times has caused me to question my sanity. I’ve always been absent minded but this is on a whole new level. Stress exacerbates these symptoms hugely. During a recent family crisis I found myself making really stupid mistakes at work. I remember being horrified on seeing a cash reconciliation sheet which was clearly the work of an innumerate idiot, only to realise the idiot was me – I’d been handling payments that day.

Long hunts for the car in car parks are a regular occurrence, as I have nofainting lady recollection whatsoever of parking the thing. Worst of all was a two month long ‘reader’s block’ where I found myself incapable of concentrating enough to read a book. Tragic. I made my excuses at the book club.

Menopause narcolepsy

In the last few months I’ve learned that if I want to achieve anything after about 4pm on any given day, I need to keep away from soft furniture. If my ass lands on a sofa or bed, however briefly, I WILL fall asleep. Instantly and deeply. The fatique is extreme and overwhelming. There are also occasional spells of dizziness and lightheadness where, like a posh Victorian lady, I’ve had an attack of the vapours necessitating a little sit down because I feel weak. Smelling salts please!

Rivers of blood (You have been warned)

The periods have got heavier. And heavier. And longer. And more painful. The last one carried on for over three weeks for pity’s sake. Industrial strength sanitary protection is deployed, but fails to hold back the tide. As emergency back-up, tampons and towels are worn simultaneously, sometimes even two tampons at once. White trousers are not my friend. Underwear has been destroyed. I’m fairly aghast at this latest development and find myself equating all this blood loss with the very essence of youth draining away. Will I be a shrivelled old prune by the time it stops?

Anyway, last week I finally copped that there’s probably a cause and effect connection between the rivers of blood, the tiredness and the brain fog. I dragged myself off to the GP. Sure enough, blood tests showed that I’m anaemic so a course of iron and B12 injections should sort that out. As for the periods from hell? “You can’t put up with that” declared the doctor, making me want to kiss her (I didn’t). She’s packing me off to a gynaecologist to see what can be done to resolve matters.

Every woman will experience perimenopause differently of course. My own mother says that her periods just stopped in her 50s and she had no symptoms in the lead-up (my mother is what’s known as a trooper). I decided to write this blog post to share my experience as I’ve found that it’s still a fairly taboo subject here in prudish Ireland. Although I’ve recently discovered a website called “My Second Spring” which is a good outlet for women going through *adopts Les Dawson mother-in-law expression* ‘The Change’.

Anyone care to comment? Ah go on.

Approaching the checkout I can almost feel my heart rate begin to increase. I take off my coat and drape it over the end of the trolley. Overheating would only add to the stress. I unfold my shopping bags and brace myself.

Yes it’s time for the Great Aldi/Lidl High Speed Trolley Filling Face-Off. A weekly event. It’s me against the German Discounters and their relentless drive to reduce queuing times while keeping staff levels just one notch above skeleton.


I don't buy this much wine or cake, honest

For the uninitiated, those who remain touchingly fond of branded groceries and have yet to embrace the unattractively packaged but keenly priced bargains on offer, the checkout set-up at Aldi/Lidl looks a little unusual. It’s Not Like Other Supermarkets.

For a start, the checkout conveyor belt is about three times longer than normal. This means you can, indeed must, deposit an entire trolley load of shopping on the belt before any of it is scanned through. Conversely, the trolley reloading end of the checkout is approximately the size of an A4 page. Before they’ll start scanning, the checkout staff politely but firmly insist that you adopt ‘the position’; narrow end of trolley flush with the end of the checkout, ready to receive.

At this point, the dream scenario for the Aldi/Lidl Project Team With Special Responsibility For Maximising Checkout Throughput Rates would be to dispense with the customer altogether. Ideally, remove him or her to a special holding pen while trolley loading takes place with maximum efficiency. This would leave the task-driven and scarily focused checkout staff free to concentrate on scanning through the maximum number of items per minute. Once scanned, items could be shoved willy nilly along the checkout, allowing them to simply slide off the end and tumble into the waiting trolley.

Instead, annoying customers get in the way, fussing pettily about not wanting their eggs smashed. Feverishly trying to prevent their pillow packed rocket salad from turning into rocket pesto under the crushing weight of the juice cartons. And, worst crime of all, PACKING BAGS AT THE CHECKOUT.

This practice is frowned upon by the German Discounters. Instead, we are invited to ‘take it to the shelf’. Behind the checkouts, a wide shelf has been installed where we are encouraged to park our trollies and bagpack at our leisure once the latest scan-and-load landspeed record breaking attempt has been completed.

Well they can think again, because my time is valuable too. I have stubbornly refused to take it to the shelf. I’m never taking it to the shelf. But I appreciate that speed helps Aldi/Lidl maintain their rock-bottom prices. So I find myself approaching the checkout as if it’s a competitive event. I’m pumped. Psyched. In the zone. Those bags are getting packed without recourse to the shelf.

I’m primed for the first bleep of the scanner. And we’re off. I focus on keeping pace with the furiously scanning checkout person while simultaneously:

  • keeping fragile items intact
  • bagging frozen items together
  • placing heaviest items in my sturdiest bags for life
  • maintaining stress levels at no higher than mild panic
  • resisting the urge to bellow “SLOW DOWN WILL YOU” at the hapless checkout person.

I emerge from this process wild eyed, red faced, yet triumphant. I didn’t take it to the shelf. A tiny victory.


Photo by Ruben Swieringa, Flickr Creative Commons

Remembering Rory

November 3, 2011

There is a framed black and white photo hanging in my parents’ living room. It’s of me at my third birthday party, posed on the sunny garden wall while most of the other partygoers are playing in the background. Sitting beside me and holding my chubby hand in his, is my first playmate Rory. He was from just over the road, close to me in age and the eldest child in his family. Less than a year after the photo was taken, Rory died of leukaemia.

I only have snatched memories of Rory. I remember him calling to the door to see if I wanted to come out to play (it was the sixties, and our suburban cul de sac was a safe playground even for three and four year olds). I remember his little toy horse on wheels, which he called ‘Jossie’. Most of all I remember my mother gently explaining to me one day that Rory had gone to heaven. I cried and cried, though I must have had only a minimal understanding of death and its finality.

I’ve looked at that old photo many times over the years and wondered how my friend would have turned out had he survived. Rory’s parents somehow got through their unspeakable loss, have stayed together to this day and have raised two daughters. They still live on my old street and I often wonder how they coped with the devastation of losing their precious little boy, every parent’s worst dread.

Recently I ran into Rory’s mum Mary. She was very keen to know if I still remembered him. We began to talk about him, and for the first time I heard the story of the lead-up to his death. It was even more heartbreaking than I had imagined.

A few months beforehand, Rory had been admitted to hospital with complications following a bout of mumps. He recovered and was sent home but, to Mary, he was ‘never the same child’. She knew there was something wrong.

He was generally unwell and suffered repeated episodes of tonsillitis. She wore a path to the GP’s surgery to try to discover what was wrong, but time after time was dismissed as an over-anxious mother. The attitude she got was very much ‘there there dear, calm down it’s just tonsillitis’. But she knew.

Rory was given an appointment to see an ENT specialist, but it was months away. Eventually, in desperation, Mary took it upon herself to phone the consultant at home at the weekend. He wouldn’t hear a word of apology for calling him at home, and agreed to see Rory the following week. When Mary brought her son to the outpatient appointment, she also brought an overnight bag for him. Because she knew.

Sure enough, the consultant felt that there was something a lot more serious than tonsillitis going on, and admitted Rory immediately for tests. Mary says that leaving her son behind at the hospital that day was the hardest thing she has ever done.

When the results came through, her deepest fears were confirmed. Rory had leukaemia. It was at an advanced stage and he passed away just four days later. She told me that she still cries for her lost boy, more than forty years on. After she left, I cried too.

Before we parted, I asked Mary what her GP had said to her after Rory died. He apparently said he would always regret not listening to her and that in future he would pay much greater attention to mothers. Because they know.


September 8, 2011

I’m standing outside the door of my daughter’s school half an hour after classes have commenced for the day. The school secretary’s face falls as she approaches and she sees who it is, but she forces a smile as she opens the door. I know what she’s thinking; ‘Not you again’. I regularly interrupt this unfortunate woman’s work, turning up with whatever item my child has forgotten that day, be it lunch, homework or a vital book.

When I get home, I spot my son’s recorder on his desk. He was supposed to bring that in with him today for his music class. I’m not chasing after him, his school is too far away and in any case he’s older and needs to learn that forgetfulness has consequences. Yesterday I received a note from a teacher in his new school asking me to buy a hardback notebook for him. What she doesn’t know is that the notebook was purchased two weeks ago but has been languishing in his locker ever since. He forgets to bring it to class.

Between them my kids have lost two fairly new jackets and a water bottle in recent weeks. I get annoyed with them about this, but really I don’t have a leg to stand on. It’s all in the genes; they get their absent mindedness from me.

This week I totally forgot to watch or record the second part of a drama I had really enjoyed last week on TV, despite the fact that it featured David Morrissey (I have blogged before about my embarrassing crush on him). I greeted a man with whom I had arranged a meeting with a blank stare when he arrived at my workplace at the appointed time. I got distracted when processing an online payment from my bank and by the time I remembered again the cut-off time for payments had passed.

One wallet found its way home thanks to these guys

I could blame early senility, but my life has always been like this. I have left keys in hall doors and on shop counters, a wallet on a park bench and another wallet on the London Underground. I once went on holiday with no knickers because they weren’t on my list. I’ve had to call out the fire brigade because the grill went up in flames while I was upstairs reading poetry, toast long forgotten. I don’t even like poetry.

To my shame, I can be relied upon to forget birthdays and anniversaries of close friends and family. A friend once phoned me to know why I hadn’t turned up for a lunch date at her house. I rushed over, but she never really forgave me and I didn’t blame her. Why don’t I write things down in a diary or put them in my phone? Well I do, but then I forget to look at it.

What’s to be done? Are my kids to doomed to lead lives of mild chaos, constantly accompanied by that uneasy feeling that something has been forgotten?

Photo by Ian Mansfield, Flickr Creative Commons.

Good Weekend?

September 8, 2011

What did I do last weekend? Let’s see…… 

  • Had a back and shoulder massage
  • Watched a comedy acrobat show
  • Met up with some old friends in a wine bar for a couple of drinks
  • Saw two Booker prize winning writers read from their new books
  • Tasted some wild mushrooms, and some amazing Bacon Jam made by butcher Ed Hick
  • Heard from two hopefuls in the forthcoming Presidential election

    Bob in a tent

  • Saw an interview with the charming, witty, erudite, ferociously intelligent and still snake-hipped Bob Geldof. The best President Ireland will never have.  He would miss his girls too much, he sweetly said. And he wouldn’t be allowed to swear
  • Picked up a secondhand Georgette Heyer book, a writer I’ve been meaning to read for ages
  • Was given two other books – brand new Penguin classics this time – completely free
  • Chatted with eternal boy, journalist, publisher, actor and man behind Broadsheet.ie, John Ryan
  • Saw director and writer Nick Kelly present a screening of his short films, including ‘Shoe’, which was shortlisted for Oscar nomination last year
  • Ate some delicious dinners – crab linguine from Rathmullen House, a ‘Shamrock’ pie from Pieminister and a gorgeous Thai red chicken curry from Wok ‘n’Roll.

Oh, and heard loads of great live music as well. I loved Jimmy Cliff, I Am Kloot, DJ Shadow, M Ward and the Lost Brothers. But OMD were my personal highlight, taking me straight back to the early eighties and even being the cause of some unseemly, creaky, middle-aged dancing. Electric Picnic is a music festival after all.

My message is; if you are middle aged or older, do not fear the Electric Picnic. I’ve been attending with my beloved for a few years now. Given our advanced ages, (we are both in the 45-55 age bracket, that’s all I’ll say) we don’t do the nasty camping business. It’s a cosy off-site B&B for us, with a proper bed, a proper sleep, a proper bathroom and limitless supplies of tea and toast with the full Irish in the morning.

With sturdy walking boots donned, wet wipes, toilet roll and folding seats packed, we’re good to go. On site, the atmosphere is super-chilled and a little bit magical. Even the nocturnal drunks just stagger around benignly, apologising for bumping into you and attempting clumsy high fives. Everyone chats, and I’ve never seen any aggro apart from occasional moments of discord between over-refreshed couples.

Each year when we tell people we’re going to the Picnic it provokes a mixture of pity and bewilderment amongst many of our contemporaries. They just don’t know what they’re missing. I defy anyone not to enjoy it. If you like music, art, literature, food and culture, just go.

No Chips in the Bar

October 6, 2010

Last weekend I got away with my sisters to beautiful Donegal. We stayed in a small seaside village, in a guesthouse that I first visited as a six year old. In the last few years it has had a makeover and is now styled as a ‘luxury beachhouse’. The décor is tasteful, understated and chic; white walls and bed linen, white painted floorboards, navy blinds and pale blue cushions. It is situated next to one of the most spectacular beaches in Donegal. The entire front of the ground floor is glass, to take in the stunning view of the beach and the small island just offshore.

Preparing to tackle the Donegal waves

 Arlene, a pastry chef, runs the guesthouse and does all the cooking. Her mission in life is to make every guest feel as welcome as possible. Croissants were put in the oven as we set off for a quick walk on the beach before breakfast, we were welcome to traipse through the house in damp, sandy wetsuits, tea and coffee was made on demand.

Best of all was the restaurant. We had a memorable dinner there on the second night and all the food was beautifully prepared and presented. The place was packed – it’s open to non-residents – so much so they even had two sittings. All this in a remote village that all-but shuts down at the end of August (I won’t even mention the ‘R’ word here). Two nights B&B with one dinner cost a princely €120 per person.

After a late breakfast of eggs Benedict on the second morning we reluctantly departed, but not before two of us had booked to return with our families.

On our way home we stopped off for food at the Slieve Russell. This hulking monster of a hotel is plonked incongruously outside the village of Ballyconnell in Cavan. With its ‘big-is-beautiful’ ethos it looks like it was designed by a committee of Tiger-era developers. It probably was, it’s owned by Sean Quinn after all. Inside, you could be in any bland hotel anywhere in the country with the usual vomit-inducing patterned carpets, marble pillars and overstuffed striped velvet sofas.

It was about five o’clock. We had not eaten since our late breakfast and were after a quick dinner in the bar, of the fish and chips or bowl of pasta variety. Alas, this proved impossible. The bar menu was limited to sandwiches and soup. If we wanted anything more substantial we were told our only option was to take a seat in the formal restaurant. A quick glance at the menu soon ruled this out. All main courses were around the €20 mark and if we wanted chips with our beer-battered fish that would be an extra €3.50 thanks.

Undaunted, we decided to order sandwiches in the bar with a couple of side orders of chips. Sometimes you just really, really want to have chips, and this was one of those occasions. Imagine our disappointment when we were emphatically informed by the bar staff that they operate a firm ‘No Chips in the Bar’ policy at the Slieve Russell. This rule proved non-negotiable. Chips in the bar was an absolute no-no, a no-can-do, a more-than-my-job’s-worth request. We ordered the sandwiches and quietly fumed at the thought of other people’s chips being prepared in the same kitchen as our sandwiches.

What a contrast with Carnaween House, our wonderful Donegal bolt-hole. We weren’t expecting the same nothing-is-too-much-trouble, personal service from the Slieve Russell, but a bit more flexibility wouldn’t have killed them.

Ireland is overrun with big, characterless hotels with golf courses and spas attached. If we want to attract tourists back here we need more stylish, genuinely welcoming, value for money destinations with great food, run with care and a spark of imagination.

Consumer champion and money-saving guru from the Irish Times, Conor Pope was a guest on George Hook’s Newstalk show the other week. The topic was the cost to middle class parents of bringing up a child.

Conor pointed out that before the child is even born, most middle class parents pay between €3500 and €7000 to secure the services of an obstetric consultant – private health insurance does not cover this cost. Apparently you need to get straight on the blower the moment you see the little blue line appear in the pregnancy test window if you want to get the obstetrician of your choice.

Now this topic is a bit of a personal bugbear of mine. Why are women with straightforward, healthy pregnancies attending obstetric consultants for routine antenatal care and normal deliveries? Do they really need to shell out thousands of euros to have a highly trained consultant tell them that their blood pressure is fine, the baby’s heartbeat and growth are normal and that their blood sugar levels are no cause for concern? That is a midwife’s job.

The Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists in the UK lists the following definitions on its website:

  • Obstetrics deals with problems that arise in maternity care, treating any complications of pregnancy and childbirth and any that arise after the birth.
  •  Obstetricians work alongside midwives, whose speciality is usually normal pregnancy and delivery.

 In other words, during a straightforward, healthy pregnancy and delivery, there is no need for a woman to see hide nor hair of an obstetrician.

My first child was born in London 11 years ago. Private health insurance is relatively uncommon in the UK and I, like the vast majority of women, relied on the NHS for my antenatal care. Most of my antenatal visits were to the midwives clinic at my local health centre, with a couple of GP visits in between. I usually saw a midwife called Mandy, a reassuring and warm Welsh woman.

Everyone is assigned a consultant obstetrician, but only sees him or her if problems arise during the pregnancy. Because I had a history of hip problems, I was referred once to the hospital so that the obstetrician could confirm I was capable of having a normal delivery.

On the day of delivery, I was delighted when Mandy arrived on shift towards the end of the labour, and welcomed my son into the world. There was no doctor in the room. A breezy registrar had appeared shortly beforehand to check in on us, announcing that “if baby hasn’t appeared in the next 10-15 minutes I’ll be back to ventouse”. That did the trick. Ten minutes later Mandy was handing us our first child and it was wonderful to be attended by someone I knew and trusted.

Back in Ireland a few years later and expecting my second child, it seemed I had committed a terrible middle class faux pas by failing to take out private health insurance. A lot of people’s first response to my news included the question “Who is your consultant?” They seemed almost embarrassed to hear that I had thrown myself at the mercy of the public system, and I was given grim warnings about the endless queues I would face at the ante-natal clinics.

They were right, the queues literally stretched up and down the length of the hospital corridors. However, I never had to join those queues. At the end of my initial booking visit I was offered, almost as an afterthought, the option to attend a midwives clinic, as I was in a low risk category. This was apparently not a very popular option as I wouldn’t be seeing a doctor for routine care, but I jumped at the chance. At every subsequent visit I walked past the seemingly unending lines of women waiting patiently for a doctor, till I reached the door marked ‘Midwives Clinic’. Here, I never waited more than 10 minutes to be seen and was soon on my way home, passing the same women still queuing on my way out.

That was in 2002. Since then, a handful of midwife-led clinics have opened and a few hospitals are offering ‘domino care’, where midwives visit mothers before and after the birth in their own homes. These services are still very limited however, and are only available to public patients.

This seems to send out a clear signal that midwife care is somehow a second-best option. Of course there are many reasons why women need to see an obstetrician during pregnancy and childbirth. Older mothers, multiple pregnancies, high blood pressure and many other risk factors  require specialist care. Many women probably feel that they are not prepared to take any chance with the wellbeing of their precious child, and they want the reassurance of a familiar face at the birth. But if they were offered the chance to be cared for by a small team of midwives in their local area, one of these midwives would be there for them on the day. And of course at the first sign of a problem at any stage during pregnancy or labour, the midwife can call in an obstetrician.

I don’t know how this system of over-dependence on obstetric consultants and under-valuing of midwives has arisen here in Ireland. It seems an awful shame, not to mention a waste of money. After all, for most women, pregnancy is not an illness. If and when we get the long promised universal health insurance, perhaps everyone will be offered high quality community midwife care, with obstetric consultants available for those who need them, regardless of ability to pay.


September 6, 2010


How old is too old to have a crush? At the fairly advanced age of 45, I’m still waiting to find out.

My first crushes were the usual neighbourhood boys who seemed not to realise that I existed (fools). I then moved on to a female science teacher, various cool, unattainable older college students, unavailable work colleagues (one of whom featured in a recurring fantasy involving us both getting carried away on a conference room table) and a selection of famous men. For many years my number one crush was Daniel Day Lewis but, alas, he has not aged well.

Once my infatuation with Daniel faded, I was crush-free for a good number of years.

That all changed in 2008 when, thanks to a friend, I attended the Grand National at Aintree as a guest of the sponsors (cheers Nigel). I spotted my future crushee standing at the far side of the crowded hospitality area, gazing slightly moodily into the middle distance. The quintessential tall, dark and handsome stranger. But there was something familiar about him. Where had I seen him before? I slowly realised he was a talented and versatile actor I’d seen in several TV dramas and films. Dredging my memory, I came up with a name – David Morrissey.

David Morrissey, crush victim

I wasn’t 100% sure I had got the name right but, undaunted, I joined his queue next time he went to the betting window. As he turned to leave, I stepped up and asked if his name was indeed David Morrissey. It was (phew) and he politely agreed to sign my racecard.

And that was it. From the moment he directed that intense gaze down at me (he is very tall, and I cannot resist a tall man) I found myself once more in the grip of a ridiculous adolescent crush. He attempted some friendly small talk, enquiring if I’d had any successful bets so far. My response? An inane fixed grin and a muttered, inarticulate answer, delivered while backing away in awe. Impressive.

Since that day I have indulged in the following behaviour:

  • Regularly Googling David Morrissey, with a special emphasis on Google images
  • Once Googling his wife, the writer Esther Freud
  • Making a point of watching any TV programme in which David Morrissey appears
  • Rewatching various clips of David Morrisey several times over (as he emerged from a swimming pool, asked a colleague for casual sex in a police drama, and solicitously enquired whether his red carpet interviewer was cold in her flimsy frock – so thoughtful!)
  • Searching fruitlessly for David Morrissey on Twitter
  • Instantly following David Morrissey as soon as I heard he had joined Twitter
  • Reading David Morrissey’s blog, which has only added fuel to the flames of my crush by demonstrating his self-deprecating wit and charitable nature
  • Engaging in mildly attention seeking behaviour on Twitter in a pathetic attempt to get a response from @davemorrissey64
  • Being stupidly excited on the two occasions that I actually did get a response from @davemorrissey64.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t live alone with an assortment of cats and a shrine to David Morrissey in my house. I haven’t obsessively tracked down every drama or film he has ever appeared in – I have never watched ‘Blackpool’ or ‘State of Play’, apparently two of his best performances from the pre-crush era. I refrained from using my son as an excuse to watch my hero running around in manly armour in ‘Centurion’ after @davemorrissey64 told me it was “a bit violent” for an eleven year old (the poor man is doing his best to discourage me).

Nonetheless, this is quite unseemly behaviour for a middle aged woman. What do I think is going to happen? That ‘Big Dave’, as a fellow-sufferer on Twitter has dubbed him, will read one of my tweets about him and promptly dash for the next plane to Dublin in order to come and ravish me? Hmm, perhaps not.

What is the matter with me? I have a tall man of my own – my husband is six foot four for goodness sake – and we have been happily married for fourteen years. I suppose that is the key to understanding the middle aged crush. The youthful thrills of fancying boys and anticipating first dates are now so many years in the past and as they say, I’m married, not dead.

I don’t know if David Morrissey will be my last crush before I give it up for good. But as he has starring roles in two upcoming drama series (‘South Riding’ and ‘Thorne’) I reckon I’m destined to continue rewinding his best bits and benevolently stalking him on Twitter for another while yet.

 Sorry Dave.

(Photo courtesy Paul Cantrell)