Interesting chat with my daughter about how, in ‘the old days’, you weren’t able to set your alarm clock for over 12 hours. Trying to explain that, no matter how exhausted you were, you’d have to wait up to set the clock made no sense to her. It’s on par with trying to explain that, before the internet, you had to ask people for their address and phone number if you wanted to make contact again…
*****
Hallowe’en always brings back memories of when my daughter was a tiny tot. Her first outing was when we were living in the wilds of west Kerry. Off she went into the darkness with all the neighbours’ children and returned home stunned/shocked with all the sweets she had been given on her travels around the village. And then, she took something out of her swag bag, extended her small arm with an apple held in her hand – bewildered, disgusted, confused – as if it might poison her. She looked up at me with sad, tear-filled eyes, and said ‘But Mrs X gave me…’ and she stuttered out the dreaded word ‘f-r-u-i-t.’
I don’t think she ever darkened that lady’s door (ever, ever) again!
…that the man in Lidl buying the two dozen tins of lager, bongo drum set *and* harmonica does not live next door to me!
I can put on my make-up – including liquid eyeliner *and* mascara – on a fast-moving, violently rocking, train but if I try to put on my coat, I flap around like an octopus on steroids, hitting every other commuter in the vicinity…
“You’re so lucky not to wear a uniform.”
“I know!”
“I hate this uniform.”
“When you come home from school, do you change?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you change into?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“My mother.”
“Why?”
“If she’s made soup, I change into my onesie.”
“Oh!”
“If she’s made me a sandwich, I change into pyjamas.”
“Oh…”
“Love dem crisps!”
“Which ones?”
“Keogh’s chore-eat-zO and cherry tomatoes.”
“Why so?”
“Can really taste the chore-eat-zO in dem. And love da pack.”
“What’s with the pack?”
“Look! See dat. It’s such a happy, smiley, pig. Lovely.”
“Bet the other side isn’t as ‘lovely’.”
“Huh?”
“Bet if you flip it over, there’s a pic of a very unhappy pig with half his arse gnawed off to make those crisps!”
“Dat’s awful!”
She looks at me through the glass. This sultry young one with her long, dark, hair. Her gaze turns to a stare that bores straight through me. Getting unnerved, I still hold firm. I think ‘Ya can stare all you like but I’m not being ousted from my comfy seat!’
And yet, she continues to stare, her eyes widening as each moment passes. I look back, totally resolved not to give up my seat.
Then her demeanour changes to a more seductive pose. Still looking straight at me, her tongue begins to stroke the side of her lips. Slowly, very slowly, she raises a finger to her mouth and gently, very gently, begins sucking on it.
I’m looking at the girl at the glass and she’s looking directly back at me. She’s still sucking the tip of her finger and I’m thinking to myself ‘WTF is this young wan on?!?’ And yet, I can’t look away.
As she slowly turns to the corner, between the glass and the wall of the train, her long hair falls back and I see the wires from her headphones. Her eyes now closed, her mouth gently moving, I realise she’s on the phone and I’m left in no doubt what the person at the other end is ‘discussing!’
In October 2013, we Quinns gathered in a manner that would make Leo Varadkar and his “Gathering” project proud. Huddled in a basement room in The Gresham hotel, we were each given a name card with our parent/grandparent’s name on it. My dad’s preferred name was ‘Bill’ but the family still call him ‘Willie’. We delighted on how many times they could get ‘Willie’ on the same card. My daughter particularly liked the two side panels of ‘Willie’.
We mingled with our fellow Quinn folk, reading names off each other’s chests. When an elderly lady asked me if my father ‘was the big or the small Willie?’ I really didn’t know what to answer. I politely nodded agreement with this elderly cousin who informed me that ‘Our family certainly has an awful lot of Willies…’ Not smirking was made even more difficult while trying to ignore other family members emitting tipsy giggles. After all those ‘Willie’ comments, however, I can only surmise that the only way is up…!
“…because I’m afraid, in ten years’ time, I will have grown an extra arm…”
Well, that was a fun trip. Some a**holes set fire to the tracks which delayed the train. Fine. Had enough time to get home, pick up my car and drive to the dentist. Nope. Because of the delay, Irish Rail decide to terminate the train at Howth Junction. Instead of waiting for the next train, I decide to walk as I’ll miss my appointment otherwise. So I traipse down the steps and out on to road – in heels – followed by three young fellas comparing notes on techniques used by their girlfriends in giving…eh…hand relief. I arrive at my destination with aching feet, a sweat drenched face and none the wiser about the three lads’ experiences as I couldn’t keep up the pace to glean any tips (asking for a friend).
Thoughts of a Middle Aged Teen 